Sumertime

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Memoirs of a Baby Voluptuary

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Memoirs of a Baby Voluptuary:

Derrière et Devant

He crawled to the first step

Of that seemingly endless

Twisting staircase,

Which,

 Curved up and out of sight,

To chase the colored light

Filtered through the windows,

Breathless in wonder,

And

Kept,

To emit

In his old days

The joy of it.

*

That first taste of ‘real food’

Blew the baby mind,

Still soft, mind you,

But

Warm,

A delicious culinary mood

Ensued

And

His busy spoon

Wouldn’t pause.

Because,

As he later thought

3/4 of a century later:

“Fabulous!”

Chocolate pudding!

*

A warm spring breeze

Had held him

Blanket-like,

But,

Crawling away from its embrace

He felt the cool green

Brush his face

And

BAMM

The heavens opened up!

His baby body thrilled.

The grass was ALIVE !

Years later

In the dying days

He considered all the ways

That it might have been….

Just possibly,

A touch of God

And

Just as easily

Let it go.

*

In memory:

His father held his boy hand

Standing in the lobby of the Pierre Hotel

Waiting for his mother to descend

Like Violet Venerable

Suddenly Last Summer

In her gilded cage of an elevator.

At the twilight peak of cocktail hour

A band was playing C’est Magnifque.

When the doors slide open

A beautiful woman stepped forward.

Pausing, she

Tilted her head just so,

Her long gloves

Adjusting a black net veil,

As she

Pulled close her silver fox wrap

And

 Swept past.

A lingering scent of Joy,

Same as his mother’s enveloped him,

But it wasn’t she.

He noticed her black and white oxford heels

Softly gliding over the thick carpet

And

That elegant black stripe of her silk hose down the back of her calf.

His mother was late.

*

An anodyne devant could lay before him

In latter times,

Gracing with that bundle of baby years

Choices, struggles and tears to fore

But,

Did not diminish the sensate thrills

That still brought chills down his spine

Ever as wonderful as chocolate pudding

Or

Streams of rainbows from the Chartres interiors

Of his mind.

He found in the shadows of ecstasy,

Freedom from

The shame of bourgeois fantasy

In the pure delights of a demimonde world

Of dance

Of touch

Of love

And

The hard play of men

When

Walking from the meatpacking district of NYC

To the Village at Waverly and Gay

Given a native’s tour view

Of

Brilliantly colored trompe-l’oiel

Graffiti fantasies on grimy back alley walls

On the way home before dawn

And

The delight of a leather jacket clad arm around him

As they stumbled home

For an early morning of love.

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SETTING in the EAST

Setting In the East

The sun is setting in the East these days

Oblivious to the ways

Of catastrophic change

And

The range of depravity

Or

The gravity of evil

Which

Demands the sacredness of beauty

Be led into darkness

As the blind would truly see

And

The deluded sightful plea

For more spectacle.

*

A pale moon is lost

Its cool soothing radiance

Cannot comfort

Infants, toddlers, children

Or

Their terrified parents

And

family’s confined in cages

Rages mixed with fear

While all could hear the tears

Of

Innocents

Sleeping on concrete floors.

*

We dare not say:

America and Nazi in the same breath

These days

It’s so activist to test

The patience of compromise

Laying to rest

The notion

That democracy is no longer freedom.

 

baby..

river

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Singing for our Lives

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Green Eyes

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PRIDE: Past and Present

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Past:

DANCING

Oh, the dancing!

That incredible lost world of dancing.

The moving magic freedom

With

The kinetic ghosts of yesterday.

*

Where,

Where have all those yesterdays gone?

The impassioned crowds,

Shirtless

Wet with sweaty frenzied male motion

Tank top tucked

In the ready,

Keys and kerchiefs left and right

Colored for personal delights,

Boots tapping with urgency

And

We

Captured by the beats, syncopation

And

Voices sung in abandon,

 Undulating, rising and falling

 As if keeping beat to the swell of tides,

Everything made beautiful

By

Ecstasy

Capturing our souls by the passion

Of

Dithrambic ancient joys

Deep in the hearts of we

 ‘others,’

As if preparing for the plague to come

Its cortege

Drums beating for the last of we pagan angels,

One summer’s night at the Saint,

The Big Apple’s glorious ecstatic haven.

It has passed.

 Long gone

Many years ago,

 But

In this fade and closing days of stillness

An old man remembers

A DJ creating a Stairway to Heaven.

 

Present:

Birthday

There was no way

To anticipate the swells of the heart

On that day,

On that particular birthday

Where came the swift rise

Of streams

Of rivers

Of surging tides

In tears.

No way to stir the art

Of grief

And

Its passion

Which in the final

Came as a tiny sigh

Of

Emptiness.

Filled only with the notion,

That if one were to ask about it,

I would say

In the spirit of a beautiful requiem:

I’d rather have died in the past.

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Happy Birthday Trace 6/7/1952–7/10/2014

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