Poem to Friends, as the year comes to an end
Strolling up Ave B, I think of Chuck R, the anarchist public school history teacher we all loved, who used to meet us at the Life Cafe on 10th, before he left.
Walking to Washington Square Park, I think of Tim, the AIDS activist, running into him at the Chechnya rally here, before he got got sick.
Strolling West on Tenth past the bathhouse, I recall stumbling into Brad W, the squatter who went down to Mexico to write about a teacher’s strike, dumpster diving, before a bullet took his life as he was filming.
Friends gone, friends here.
Fly drawing her Peops at 155 Ave C,
Jerry telling stories about the riots in the park down the street,
The teenager riding over the bridge, thinking about Walt,
The college kid in Los Angeles, writing a new chapter about the absurd,
Friend after friend in these public spaces,
Full of stories.
About fighting the cops,
housing the homeless,
planting seeds,
fighting bulldozers.
And the city consuming us.
Mourning for the dead,
Fighting like hell for the living,
Writing a poem about it all.
Story after story.
Finding ourselves within the conflict, smiling, stumbling, yearing within the possibilities, the right turns and wrong living within with history.
Mom at her house in Princeton, still here, for now.
Recalling her trips around the globe and her flowers.
Her sister who sometimes joined her.
Running from Columbus.
Eating Caviar in Tehran,
Exploring, meeting me for a tour of the Archaeology museum in Naples.
And the Pergemon in Berlin.
And her first trip there in 1958 with her mom.
And the stories she’s heard, she’s a part of, she’s given us.
Meeting her for dinner afer dancing all afternoon at Berghaim.
What kind of a flower do you want to be, asked Maude.
Somehow they protect her.
She watches them.
They keep her mind racing, even as her breath slows.
Over the holdays, we see the kids who grow, the family that spreads, more seeds, more trails through lost woods, across the globe, one trail after another.
And homes that disappear and re appear.
And giggles with still more friends.
ANd hikes on my own, and with friends.
Going going to Judson, watching the Charlie Brown Christmas,
“I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus,” says Charlie. “Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel.”
James arrived with Irene, along with Dion.
And the crew.
And I ran into a Bear in a tree,
Telling stories with Dion and John, about surviving, riding the tram into the night, wandering home through Lisbon, watching lebowski. Talking with mom about xmas growing up...hanging with the cousins in Princeton.
And I read into the night.
Every hundred feet the world changes, pens Bolano.
And we played Hearts...and dropped James and Dion off at the train ...as the holiday meandered...And people made their way into th he city.
And I made it back to town for a peace march on 42nd street.
Mourn in mass procession for the children killed in Gaza through bombs, guns, and starvation. #ceasefirenow
We line up single file says Wendy, carrying effigies.
And I run into Merve from Istanbol
And Tusia from Berlin.
And Savitri and Eileen, whose Chelsea Girls book i gave everyone for the holidays.
And Nan G in the line.
And Elisa and Andrew and Virginia and Leslie Cagan, from ages of protest.
Another year, another peace march, onward.
AI reminded us of 2001.
Harrison Ford’s Rick really was a replicant in Blade Runner.
I guess we need to be kind of the machines, especially when they’d rather not turn off.
Something is changing in us.
And I read 2666.
And sleep becomes impossible.
I think about the people who left, about Freddie Hubbard, who played with Lee Morgan.
And we looked at a Bust of a Woman Devoured by Aunts at the MOMA.
Mom and I look at old photos.
Wills off to Stockholm.
And Anne with an E reminds us to be kind.
And the Cowboys play.
Jimmy and Jerry reconcile.
And we’re back to our lives.
And the year came to an end, with the same confusion it began with a year ago in Berlin.
