Three Poems by Eve Packer

in the realm of

i was heading west
from ave b between 1st & 2nd,
a storefront opposite
the Gas Station, to do the errand
i had been asked, i was
heading to e. 3rd between
1st & 2nd, to a building
where dave burrell had lived
til he & the piano
got tossed, and opposite
the stoops where jackie mac
& sunny (sun ra) had been,
and noah and his then lady,
now, over 20 years later,
i’m heading to what
once was called the garden apt.,
down a few steps, to the semi-
basement, and its night.
cold, real cold, and real dark.
and real late. which is why i’m
sent on the errand, but also
cause i’m the one w/20 bucks–
just like in the langston hughes
story, and i ring the buzzer, is there
a code? probably, or maybe i say
the name of the person who sent me.
buzzed in–cold as the street is, colder,
fluorescent morgue freezer cold
down here–noone about til a guy, back of
plexiglass, long red hair, opens the slot,
i pass the 20 he hands me
the glassine envelope, this is blow
not heroin or pot, cut no doubt w/
masses of speed. not a word, maybe one,
i head out. noone follows me.
–after what they did back then
to dave’s piano, noah torched
their bikes. and was gone. –noone
folllows me, noone hits me on
the head, no cop stops me. noone is in
the street. its that cold.
Yellow walls in the realm of Hells Angels, no footsteps but mine.
i make it back to ave b. i sit in a chair. out comes
the glass table.

jungle

bob quatrone, posted on fb:
‘the rise of trump means the death of democracy in the west’–
anonymous poet

i was walking up the hill
from the ENA dorm, thru
the jungle, to class, dance class,
this is habana, summer of ’93,
and i feel a light some-
thing brush on my butt,
then not so light, i turn–
scream , a kid, abt 16,
rubs against my ass, naked
dick limp, i scream,
he runs–when i get to the
paved courtyard up top,
the teachers see my face,
what happened evita,
they ask, you look
asustada, i try to explain–
dont know the word for
dick, but we figure it out,
and they say:
no te mueres de eso,
si te mueres de eso, evita,
como te puedes luchar?

if you die of this
how can you live
to fight?

my favorite stoop

is the second red brick town-
house west of 8th ave
on jane, down from the
community garden, catty-
corner from bonsignour,
tho i get my coffee
at spyros the deli
at the corner of w. 12th,
and jimmy tells stories
of the blind guy who
is not blind, and the guy
w/the walker and tin cup
who can ambulate fine,
and zapata makes
the coffee; my favorite
stoop has a breeze
under the enormous
trees, and holds
no memories,
no
‘covfefe’

–eve packer


Poetry Writing

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