A STEP IN STEP WITH HIM
(being an inclusive elegy for Mr David Ross
in the manner of Mr Frank O’Hara’s
“A Step Away From Them”)
It’s lunch-time so I wander down
to Grinders to see what soup’s up.
If it’s one of Dave’s
creamed specials (broccoli, asparagus,
mushroom) or potato-based,
I’ll stay and tune in vaguely
to what the mailpeople do in their lives
when they’re not delivering bills and fliers,
or visit with California Chuck and get
the lowdown on the Regional District
versus his house at the Shuswap, or
sit with Ric the Vet (of Vietnam-
not animal-healing) and find out how
the money’s coming in or the plans
are going for the next trip out there
with hand-operated trikes for the
American-War amputees of the South.
I skip Second-Glance Books –
the shelf-life of poetry is Methuselan,
the turn-over paltry – and catch Gene
singing himself inside-out in front
of the Imperial Commerce.
Bank
tellers flit and lawyers ghost
past in the noon bouncing-off-concrete
heat.
The cars at Third and Victoria
are growing restless but the light
prevails, with the local agreement,
two cars through on amber-to-red.
The methadone line-up at Kipps
is short and the gals’ inhibitions
as invisible as ever.
Live and Let
has some currency here.
The ground
floor of First Bank is empty.
It would make a grand night-club
or funeral home – elevators and vaults
being already in situ and the parking fair.
A blues band from elsewhere
will stir the dust and animate
feet tonight at Pete’s Grotto.
Only every third passer-by is on
a cell phone and that old magus,
the Sun, has drawn breasts and legs,
chests and smiles, from his red
silk hankie.
Three days away
from the Christian-Jewish-
Native American-Buddhist-secular
celebration of the life of David Ross
and a spirit of magnanimity holds,
although at Arnica Artist-Run Centre
the artists have run off early
for Easter and no-one’s gotten back
yet.
I reach in my pocket
for my conscience, it is Ernestine Shuswap
Gets Her Trout by Tomson Highway.
Copyright © Pete Smith 2009
(being an inclusive elegy for Mr David Ross
in the manner of Mr Frank O’Hara’s
“A Step Away From Them”)
It’s lunch-time so I wander down
to Grinders to see what soup’s up.
If it’s one of Dave’s
creamed specials (broccoli, asparagus,
mushroom) or potato-based,
I’ll stay and tune in vaguely
to what the mailpeople do in their lives
when they’re not delivering bills and fliers,
or visit with California Chuck and get
the lowdown on the Regional District
versus his house at the Shuswap, or
sit with Ric the Vet (of Vietnam-
not animal-healing) and find out how
the money’s coming in or the plans
are going for the next trip out there
with hand-operated trikes for the
American-War amputees of the South.
I skip Second-Glance Books –
the shelf-life of poetry is Methuselan,
the turn-over paltry – and catch Gene
singing himself inside-out in front
of the Imperial Commerce.
Bank
tellers flit and lawyers ghost
past in the noon bouncing-off-concrete
heat.
The cars at Third and Victoria
are growing restless but the light
prevails, with the local agreement,
two cars through on amber-to-red.
The methadone line-up at Kipps
is short and the gals’ inhibitions
as invisible as ever.
Live and Let
has some currency here.
The ground
floor of First Bank is empty.
It would make a grand night-club
or funeral home – elevators and vaults
being already in situ and the parking fair.
A blues band from elsewhere
will stir the dust and animate
feet tonight at Pete’s Grotto.
Only every third passer-by is on
a cell phone and that old magus,
the Sun, has drawn breasts and legs,
chests and smiles, from his red
silk hankie.
Three days away
from the Christian-Jewish-
Native American-Buddhist-secular
celebration of the life of David Ross
and a spirit of magnanimity holds,
although at Arnica Artist-Run Centre
the artists have run off early
for Easter and no-one’s gotten back
yet.
I reach in my pocket
for my conscience, it is Ernestine Shuswap
Gets Her Trout by Tomson Highway.
Copyright © Pete Smith 2009
A STEP AWAY FROM THEM
It's my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.
Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S
CORNER. Giulietta Maina, wife of
Federico Fellini, é bell' attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full of life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhatten Storage Warehouse,
which they'll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.
A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.
Frank O'Hara
It's my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.
Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S
CORNER. Giulietta Maina, wife of
Federico Fellini, é bell' attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full of life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhatten Storage Warehouse,
which they'll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.
A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.
Frank O'Hara
