Friday Prose: The Brooklyn I Knew

dear friends, i thought i might use Friday to revive some of the stories i wrote in prose, before embarking on this poetic journey of mine. my eyes have difficulty reading prose these days, my own included and i find myself curiously detached from these stories i once felt so invested in. (i’m not sure why that is )

i wrote these to to be read concurrently, each story informs the next, and the events seem unrelated until the end. it’s how it unfolded, as i lived it back in the 60′ and 70′ in Bushwick, Brooklyn. two of these are very early reposts, the last story was never posted and is quite long so it will be posted in two parts.

please don’t feel compelled to read these on your busy Friday morning, feel free to if you want to read them at all to take them into the weekend. thank you and i hope you enjoy them.
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I Was a Poor, Pimpled, Uncool Sulker.
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My new neighborhood bore no resemblance to the manicured fenceless grassed yards, single family house 2 cars in every driveway, ethnicity free Long Island town where I spent the first 12 years of my life. There were languages here and English spoken thick with Italian and German accents by old, crabby grey haired woman in black mourning dresses and rolled down black stockings who promptly at 7am bent at the hip, were scrubbing their stoops and sidewalks in front of their buildings.

Everyday and all day delivery trucks roared down the narrow one way, steamy asphalt streets blaring their big horns, belching exhaust and rustling litter along the curbs, barely missing kids darting between parked cars chasing balls and playing tag. Young mothers pushed big wheeled baby carriages and old ladies lugged shopping carts, choking the already narrow sidewalks. Heavy doors slammed behind people slithering past other people bunched on stairways listening to songs scratched out on small transistor radios.

Like a gargoyle I watched all the comings and goings, the backwards and forwards of incessant car and human traffic, scared of everything that moved. Unfortunately for me, absolutely nothing stood still on this unfamiliar Brooklyn street, this continuous canyon wall of four story buildings that swallowed whatever thankful breeze there might have been, choking everything but the noise, the noise that never stopped.

This was not a particularly human friendly environment, there were no trees along the straight line of streets that you could view for miles.

Not a single one.

The small concrete ‘yards’ that fronted the four story, continously connected buildings on either side of the stoop were just wide enough for four steel garbage cans, the other side was empty. That empty space was handy when it snowed but not for much else except wind blown leaves and garbage, it was walled off from the sidewalk by thick, foreboding wrought iron black painted fencing. Each building had their own scrolled designs, each topped by tri corner spears that if you accidently rubbed the palm of your hand against a tip you’d get a nasty scrape for your stupidity, as intended. The stoops were lined on either side by wrought iron railings, uncomfortably wide for a kids hand.
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My tomboy sister found this out the hard way, slipping off one the railings monkey climbing, losing her balance she was impaled on one of the spears. Folded and in shocked silence she lay there motionless as adults came to help but the aid proved difficult, the fences were over four feet high and it was impossible to remove her without causing further damage. Some wooden milk crates were found, placed front and back to gain leverage and she was eventually lifted off.

She was lucky, she needed only a few stitches to repair the three inch tear in her belly.

I was a poor pimpled uncool sulker at 13, an emotionally mixed up mess of a kid spending the first weeks after school ended that year in ’68, sitting alone on the top step of the 10 foot high stoop to my building at 232 Jefferson Street scrunched in the shadowed corner of the doorway, day after airless day. I sat in the same spot and in the same position, long arms looped around my legs, acned face resting between my knees just hoping that no one would notice and praying hard to be ignored.

I sat, shaken to the core scared; yeah, divorce does that to a kid.

From my perspective the best place to take all this in was from my third floor window. It felt safe there hidden behind the flimsy white curtains and the view from that vantage point allowed me to eventually recognize daily patterns, things people did each day. I was thankful perched there, thankful that at least something began to make some sense because so much had changed so quickly for this kid.

Divorce is a tragically shared family trauma and my mom, desperate for some privacy of her own in our cramped railroad style apartment filled with cheap mismatched Salvation Army furniture, decided that I needed to be outside, you know to soak up some sun and meet some other nice kids my age.

So of course I sat there on the stoop alone for weeks.
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Written April 2012, edited March 2013

our brave Linda

dear friends this is a writing departure
but i hope by the end you will understand
why it had to be written…ty.
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so what ever
happened to trust?

so what ever
happened to honesty?

so what ever
happened

to caring at all that
a little skin on skin
with someone else isn’t
really gonna’ fill that void?

darlin’
in these past ten years
just how many of your friends
have come to you crying?
yet another marriage up in flames

and now your bestie girlfriend Linda
and my own sympatico soul sister
her heart is now ripped inside out too
found he was cheating 4 of their 16 years

so what ever
happened to everlasting?

so what ever
happened to committment?

so what ever
happened

to caring at all that
a little skin on skin
with someone else just
causes such unbearable pain?

and we thought she was safe
their marriage passed the test of time
and we felt so shocked and helpless
you just listened…letting her cry and cry

and darlin’
you know i don’t get this mad very often
but this news just sucked out my breath
so i just had to put this upset somewhere
and writing poems…it’s how i show i care

look in her eyes

for you Linda
from me

from what souless depths does it begin
or can your smooth deceptions justify
breaking her, piece by piece?

and mouthing your nonchalant swift lies
as if her world was still everything she knew,
spinning on it’s easy axis.

did you really think a day would never come,
that day you could not look in her eyes
and tell her what you’ve done?

crying eyes photo: Crying Eye eye-26.jpg

so yeah,
it was touch and go there for a while
with you coming home late after later nights
being that best friend forever that i know so well

and sometimes it just all works out the way it should

so darlin’,
our brave Linda she slowly found her footing
maybe even sooner than she believed she could
and nailing a framed copy of her poem to the wall
nonchalantly showing that now ex husband to the door
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both Linda and Scout, my partner are singers and this song
speaks about the power of music. if you feel like a second read,
please play the song and pick up the tempo the poem was written to.
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