April 23, 2021 - Dinner at the top of the steps / along west Fifty-eighth Street: by Jordan Myers
Dinner at the top of the steps
along West Fifty-eighth Street:
a street on an incline, that dips
toward the Hudson, two blocks
west of the highway. Dinner,
just past dusk on an April night,
just outside the display windows,
where BMW motorcycles rest / /
beneath the yellow & white light.
April 20, 2021 - Rest in peace George Floyd. Hennepin County Government Center, 300 South 6th St, Minneapolis, MN 55487. by Jordan Myers
If you were there in the courthouse when the verdict was read, then you would have heard echoes of the chants from the protests that sprang up all over the country at the end of last May. Guilty means a reckoning, and also a step forward ––– a break in the chain. Momentum means the impetus gained by a moving object. Impetus means a driving force, an impulse. An impulse means an urge to act –––– one that arrives out of nowhere. Yet the impulse for justice and equality is one with a source that’s easy to trace: humanity –––– what it means to be a person; and life ––– what it feels like to have a soul.
April 19, 2021 - Loop. Swoop. Pull. by Jordan Myers
On West Forty-Sixth Street at dusk, a man in white pants and white boat shoes with white shoelaces walks west, alongside another man and a woman. As he stops and bends down on one knee to tie his shoe –––– Loop. Swoop. Pull. –––– the other two keep walking. They do not notice that he has fallen behind. After tending to his shoelace for a few beats; he stands up again; jogs for a few feet; then walks in stride with the other two once more.
April 18, 2021 - “Anvil” - Robin Romeo
Anvil
An open mike is our beacon of compulsion.
It’s early days—us reading
poems from a stage, to get the real
critique live from peers and those at it for decades.
There are lines that don’t clear the lips, and lines
someone recites to you later in the evening.
These are days of heavy traffic between East
Village and West. The Nuyorican is New Mecca—
our word-lab—its load-bearing pillars reticent;
Lois Griffith serene as a ballast in trance.
It’s obvious. Can’t spell Loisaida without Lois.
Holman MC-ing the slam, injecting wit and next-
world poetics, Keith catalyzing new talent.
Sirowitz reads from the Mother Said series.
Dr Tracie is fresh/oblique—glissando/arpeggio-poetics.
Patron Saint Cannon, of the irascible persona,
intolerant of introductions (read the goddam poem!),
the writer-professor first-name with glaucoma,
with Reed and Troupe and Parks. He gets
invited to every art gallery opening worth attending.
Last part of the night, Ozzie delivers the latest
installment of Dr Lockjaw and Nurse Thorazine
written at the short end of the bar—the little alcove near
the door—twenty minutes before. The very best
part is the rare tiebreaker, the sudden-death haiku seeded by
a single obscure word. The howls can carry an entire evening.
We mastered osmosis when we learned to breathe.
We head out bulging, pressure barely contained.
Venues blossom all over Loisaida—rooms that would
have flooded had ambition been more palpable
too large for our audiences. We are the unlikely;
silently-declared ushers of new poetry in the years
certain to come, eager to be patient, taking turns to
tilt at headwinds, kindred spirits damned
to burdens of audacity. The plan is to engrave
the substrate of new history with our hammers,
the hammers that always end up shaping
us against that anvil too-often mistaken for a saddle.
- Robin Romeo
April 16, 2021 - Everything is gradual; everything is right now. by Jordan Myers
I fell into a timelapse tunnel of light and sound at the corner of West Fifty-fifth Street and Sixth Avenue this morning. It didn’t hurt at all. I watched buses drive north on Sixth Avenue for a while and listened to the sound of birds chirping, and flying into, and flying out of the bushes and plants that were growing from the marble base of soil and dirt, which was just beside me. A fountain with twelve faucets facing upwards sprayed water toward the sky; I watched the water rise and listened to the waves fall back down again: a gentle crash ––– a splash. The sun appeared in the sky but only for a few moments. A woman sat on the other side of the fountain with a baby stroller that was carrying an infant. She spoke with the child as though she were speaking with a close friend. “Are you ready to go home now,” she said, “are you ready?” Just before they left, a man and a woman in their thirties and dressed in casual Friday business attire sat down across the way; they began taking sips of their coffees while seated farther apart than they would be during non-pandemic times. Non-pandemic times = normal times = times = time. What I’m saying is that the timelapse tunnel of light and sound at the corner of West Fifty-fifth Street and Sixth Avenue that I fell into this morning brought me back to this: everything is gradual; everything is right now.
April 14, 2021 - Central Park West. by Jordan Myers
I ran by Tavern on the Green this morning and saw the view of Midtown Manhattan from Central Park all over again for the first time. The sun was high and bright and Spring was everywhere. A few students in navy and gold York Prep Panthers crewneck sweaters walked by. They were entering the park; I was leaving –––– absorbing the new season, and drifting toward Central Park West.
April 12, 2021 - Outside of the Bombay Grill House leaning against the scaffolding and watching the rain at night. by Jordan Myers
Outside of the Bombay Grill House leaning against the scaffolding and watching the rain at night.
April 11, 2021 - All rain sleepy Sunday. by Jordan Myers
All rain sleepy Sunday. Quiet and still,
no sunshine. Spring arrives in waves.
In waves: falling upon the shore / &
washing back out to sea once more.
April 9, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 - “Bill and the Pandemic Sports Drought” - Karlton Miko Tyack.
George Bernard Shaw referred to Great Britain and the US as two countries separated by common language. This is also true of rugby and American football. In football and rugby, scoring touchdowns and tries are more important than kicking goals. And in football and rugby, downs and tackles are limited. Yet this similar exchange only makes spectator fans of one sport more confused about the other.
When the pandemic hit New York and sports were cancelled, my friends and I eventually turned to English Premiership Rugby ––– re-watching old Super Bowls got stale. My friend Bill, who lived in England for four years, explained that I shouldn’t expect watching rugby to be at all like watching NFL games.
First of all, there are no individual superstars, just teams. Premiership Rugby doesn’t have an equivalent to Cam Newton or Peyton Manning. American football fans enjoy the human stories played out on the field (it’s why Disney makes so many feel-good sports movies). As a Patriots fan, each Pats game I watched was a chapter in Tom Brady’s journey, a legend that started with him as a mere sixth round draftee.
The irony of this is that NFL players, once armored up, are nigh identical to each other. Rugby players only wear mouth guards, so you can visually distinguish the individual characters on the stage. Is this difference in ecological focus due to American individualism? Maybe it’s because of smaller salary caps in Premiership Rugby?
From a game-play perspective, the ball is easy to lose track of when you don’t know who’s who. Learning to watch rugby was like learning to hear a new dialogue for me, which is sometimes more difficult than learning a brand new language. At least with a new language you have no expectation of what a word should sound like.
After a few games, I started to recognize individual players, but only in context with the other team members. That’s when I started to understand. No, there aren’t single superstars the way we have them in American football. Rugby features an ensemble cast, like Friends.
Today, I very much love rugby as much as football. One thing they, and all sports, have in common is the ability to bring people together. There’s also less pressure when you aren’t relying on just a few heroes on the team. After all, Brady left me for the Buccaneers this year.
_______
Bill wondered if it would be creepy to watch the same game at the same time as his neighbor. Bill’s hypothesis: I can recall what certain aspects of Rugby mean, based on my neighbor’s un-Englishly big gesticulated reactions. Also, maybe he’s Irish?
Joe Marchant, center, scored for Harlequins. Neighbor violently threw his left arm in the air, clearly in frustration. Saracens fan.
Alright, Bill thought, I’ll root for Harlequins. Friendly pub rivalry, like when I watch Pats versus Eagles with Ken at Dorrian’s. Bill found the same Premiership Saracens versus Harlequins game from 2018 and fast-forwarded to the same point that his neighbor was on. The Harlequins lost.
______
The next afternoon, Saracens got pounded by the Exeter Chiefs. Sorry Neighbor, but they didn’t deserve it this time, Bill thought. Chiefs turned down two kickable penalties in favor of touch; as David Flatman commentated, “fortune favors the brave.” Bill liked the eloquent British commentators and that the audience members held beer cups with teacup-like handles.
In the following days, Bill watched a few more Harlequin games and started following them on Instagram. He also liked that Harlequins had thirty-something flanker Chris Robshaw on the team among younger bucks. Bill had already turned thirty-six.
Towards the end of a Facetime happy hour with me and Ken, Bill signed out by jokingly saying he had a rugby date with Neighbor, “Harlequins versus Bath, guys.”
“Bro,” Ken said. “I don’t have bail money FYI.”
One afternoon, Bill noticed his neighbor watching Saracens versus Harlequins again. This time from Round 17 of the same season as their first game together. Rematch! Bill poured himself a Glen Garioch. This was a special occasion.
After the kick, Bill’s neighbor started cooking something in his kitchen. Dude, Bill thought, just grab some crisps and get back here. Bill’s neighbor started fanning his kitchen stove with a pillow and ran over to open his window.
Bill’s neighbor grabbed his stepladder from his closet and placed it beneath the smoke alarm. And as he took the first step however, the stepladder slipped beneath him. Gravity then choke-slammed him onto the floor, pass the bottom of the window below Bill’s sightline. Five minutes later, Bill hadn’t seen him get back up yet. Bill refreshed his drink in the kitchen. When he got back to his seat, he could see smoke wafting from Neighbor’s window.
He found the phone number of Neighbor’s building online and tried calling. No answer. Surely one of the neighbors will hear his alarm and come knocking on his door? Then he noticed on the browser that the building was described as, “exclusive with only one unit per floor.”
Bill left his apartment and crossed an unusually empty Seventy-first Street toward his neighbor’s building.
“Do you live here, sir?” the doorman asked.
“No,” Bill said. “I actually live across the street and noticed smoke coming out of the fourth floor.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “I’ll call up to Mr. Grey,” first name Earl perhaps, Bill thought. He was drunk. “You can go now, sir.” “Just want to make sure he’s okay,” Bill said.
“Oh, you know him!”
“No, but-”
“No answer,” the doorman said.
“So when his alarm went off, he fell off a stepladder. He might not be okay.”
“You saw all of that?”
“Big windows. Go up and knock on his door or something.”
“I can’t leave my post”
“I can do it.”
“You can’t come in without a mask, sir. And you can’t come in unless you’re someone’s guest. Do you know Mr. Grey by chance?”
“I said no, man.”
Black smoke was now visible from the first floor.
“Okay,” the doorman said. “I’ll run up.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bill was smoking a cigarette outside the building when he saw Mr. Grey, arm around the doorman’s shoulder for support, emerge from the hallway.
“Hey you okay, man?” Bill said to Mr. Grey.
“Fine. Who are you?” Definitely English.
“He saw smoke coming from your apartment from across the way,” the doorman said.
“Samaritan over here,” Mr. Grey chuckled. “I appreciate you, mate. I actually hit my head badly earlier, so I’m going to the hospital now.” “Oh man, good idea. I’m Bill, by the way.”
“James. Usually I’d shake your hand.”
“Different times.”
The doorman helped James into a taxi. After he shut the door, however, Bill put his hand on the vehicle and asked, “you’re not coming with him?” “I can’t leave my post, sir.”
“If it’s a concussion, he needs to stay awake. Someone needs to come with him.”
Bill knocked on the cab door prompting James to roll his window down.
“Hey bud, you got any friends nearby that can come with you? Friends with any of your neighbors maybe?” “Please. This is Manhattan. I’m just going to Lenox Hill. It’s not far.”
“True,” Bill shrugged. “I’ll go with you then. No big deal.”
“You sure?”
“If it isn’t weird for you bro. I’m a pilot, actually. I have a medical certificate. You have to stay conscious.”
“Yeah mate, that’s fine. Thanks! Again.”
“I’ve got time anyway. Furlough.”
“Me too.”
“As soon as we get to the hospital, you can head home,” James said, as the cab drove off. “So what have you been doing during furlough?” Bill asked.
“Drinking whiskey,” James laughed.
“Yeah! same.”
“Watching old sports.” “Yeah man, same.”
April 7, 2021 - “Melvin Goes to Dinner.” by Jordan Myers
There’s a movie on Netflix that’s adapted from a play: Melvin Goes to Dinner (2003). It’s all dialogue and timing. Two friends bring two more friends to dinner and for an hour and a half they talk about their lives. And through conversation paired within wine, they begin revealing parts of themselves more intimate than they would have expected. Joey. Alex. Sarah. And Melvin. They’re relatively young; and save Joey, relatively single.
In the style of a video and photo essay, clips and images illustrate and accompany the stories they tell. The conceit works. And due to the fact that almost the entire film takes place in the restaurant, the echoes of the play reveal themselves throughout. Simplicity is the ticket. It’s easy to like the film; as it’s not overly ambitious. It’s a writing exercise; it’s an acting exercise; and it will not overwhelm.
April 5, 2021 - The view from the Williamsburg Bridge: One Vanderbilt. by Jordan Myers
I knew it was one of those buildings, a facade tall enough and wide enough to contribute a new verse to the Manhattan Skyline sonata. Yet it wasn’t until tonight ––– a few hours ago, as I was crossing from Brooklyn into Manhattan by way of the Williamsburg Bridge that I noticed One Vanderbilt’s presence in the island’s night sky. I wasn’t looking for it; it just appeared. In the same way that 432 Park must have just appeared one day when I was on a train or a bicycle and crossing the Manhattan or Williamsburg Bridge and glancing over at Manhattan years ago, One Vanderbilt just appeared in the same way this evening. It’s so close to the Chrysler building. The Twentieth and Twenty-first centuries nestled and perched above the city together side-by-side.
April 4, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 - “April 21, 2020” by Jordan Myers
The first time we read Spring and All we were on the ferry that takes you from Manhattan to Staten Island and back at dusk and thinking of running across the Queensboro Bridge the next morning. The city felt infinite, inexhaustible –––– as though at any moment we’d either reach just beyond the zenith or our lives might collapse and break –––– so we’d leave the city for a few weeks, six months, or a year, but then we’d always find a way to come back. I just remember that one spring morning when we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge in April and decided ––– this time, we’d be better at Manhattan. No more waiting for the light to cross, or only taking Seventh Avenue north and Sixth Avenue south. It wasn’t that we needed the city. We would have made due without it. But we were only young once, and if we wanted to go all out, or go all in, or even both, where else would we go.