Bleecker Street

Greasy slurry seeps out and onto this spit and ****** asphalt.

Asphalt - that hides ancient cobblestones.

Cobblestones, worn with fish juice, puke, spoilt milk, blood, rat ******, dog ******, human ****** and envy; that heavy rains can never wash clean; those stains of its solemn purgatory.

Oh, but when it does rain, how sweet those counterfeit images appear. Wet bricks of rich reds, brown, pinks, beiges, ruby red, blood red, dragon red, fire red; all created in order to frame the black high gloss stretch that is, Bleecker.

I could live here among these friendly strangers, Dylan’s vagabonds, (Bob not Thomas) these fine animals who tear and eat at souls’ flesh on this night of all hallows – these outsiders who live inside out.

Taking pictures of a skinny building squeezed into the corner of Lafayette – Discovering a book left abandoned or forgotten, Sri Iso-panisad, his divine grace A.C. Bhak-ti-ve-danta Swami Prab-hupada founder of Acarya of the international society for Krishna consciousness.

Was it planted there for me? Did my soul bring it forth? The only knowledge I have of Krishna is the Hare Krishna that used to engulf airports adorned in robes and tambourines; and George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord.”

Maybe it’s a sign, as I lifted it off a news rack and stuffed it in my sack.

Passed Two Boots for a slice then onward to the Yippie number 9, oh how fitting I thought. Here shall I tread my soul’s refrain to songs of breath, tea and sympathy. Here can I smell harmony and spice.

Here, Hearing poetry - reading poetry - feeling poetry – eating poetry; occasionally it all seems like ****** anyway, I digest.

Until she came on, with her finger drum or whatever you call it.

I, an alien, unaccustomed to pretending literacy in such regions; but it was from Zimbabwe, this I remember; because she said it.

She was from the earth. Her feet were familiar and secure with the ground. Her thighs, hips, breasts and shoulders sway to the rhythms of her own sound. That sound, she graciously offered, became my own.

Her eyes were from Lourdes, her smile from a poem conceived upon the River Jordan by a great poet who drowned and whose spirit dwells within me, within her.

Her eyes; dancing eyes that see, eyes that see through to the marrow of nature’s own self. Eyes which; if looked upon too long could reveal my own turpitude.

A crisp smile, crisp as linen sheets strung over clothes-lined laced tenements; absorbing fresh sunshine, clean, genuine, likened to sails on a ship, holding no lies neither past nor present.

I did not dare approach as she spoke to the bearded man; he showed her his instrument, a large bow-stringed apparatus sounding rather like a Jew’s harp.

I decided to lie to her by pretending she wasn’t there.

She sat down nearer to me, not a word was spoken between us; but a conversation took place nevertheless; one far greater than the one previously held by the bearded man.

Traversing again that lineage called Bleecker. Cobblestone warriors in tents of cardboard, come to this place.

Oh that which is the cruel randomness of existence begs the questions of who begat who.

The clear deep and cool waters calling me forth; the soggy bogs from whence my foot stays. Desperate urges from another place, another time, far in the distance of an ancestral mind.

Have I forgotten how to sleep? Or was I never awakened? I, in a state of glory walking past the myriad carnivals and side shows here; the showmen and show girls. I see them unhidden and naked to their world.

Where discontented bullshit artists prey. Where the Pharisees, the has-beens, the what-nots and the washed-ups and rebels stand yearning for their own kind of justice, their own kind of cause, the triumphant public masturbators.

We are not liars; for we embrace our lies, we recognize our lies, we live them.

It ain’t easy exploring and exposing truths here on Bleecker Street.

By William Teague, © 10/31/2011

I don't think you need to worry about a copyright.

This is terribly disjointed, uneven. Didn't know where you were going or where I'd been after I'd gotten there. Take one paragraph and develop it.

This is prose in every sense of the word. No rhythm, much less rhyme. No graphic images that relate to poetry. Toxic images abound, but not poetic.

Sorry. I don't normally pan poetry this badly.

from childhood's hour I have not been As others were - I have not seen

As others saw - i could not bring My passions from a common spring

(from Alone - Edgar Allan Poe)

I’m honored that my piece caused such a vile response from you. You’ve made it clear that you didn’t understand it and I do understand that you don’t ...  By the way; yes it is prose in every sense of the word. Perhaps your anger is misdirected.  Seems you’re disappointed in the fact that it doesn’t carry a mundane meter with its safe bland rhymes and rhythm. Try not to limit yourself to just dancing a box step waltz. You may want to expand your horizons to more than just unicorns, flowers, mermaids and butterflies.   Maybe listen to some unusual jazz compositions or perhaps view some abstract expressionism next time you’re in NYC. Have you ever been to NYC? Try and experiment outside of the box a little. When critiquing people who may be exploring areas that you’re unable to comprehend, be careful not to expose your own lack of understanding. Try to use a little tact; because the fool who ridicules others only exposes his own foolishness.  It’s quite obvious to all, that your criticism was not intended in any way to be constructive.  It gave no insight nor was it helpful and isn’t that the purpose of this forum?  It is clear that you didn’t like my piece; I read some of your limited work and the feeling is quite mutual, but I wouldn’t respond to your work as you did to mine because my response would hold no constructive suggestions.  Clearly my piece provoked you, for whatever reason - I know this and everyone else does too; except you. If you must offer criticism, please have some basis in knowledge of the subject; poetry does not have to rhyme.  Feel free not to read me anymore...but we all know you will.

I'm not angry, just honest.

If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen. I've had much worse said about what i do. I took it like a man. Why can't you? All critique is the opinion of one person.Take what you want and throw out the rest. I know all the rhymes and rules of poetry. It does not have to rhyme, but it does have to make sense.

If any reader doesn't understand your work, (or offers any criticism for that matter,) it is not always the reader. It is your job to make the reader understand. It is your job to make it readable. it is your job to have it make sense.

Regardless of how bad my piece may be, I'd rather it make sense than to just exist. Get off your self-congratulatory high-horse and write something. If you can't communicate, then perhaps you weren't meant to be a writer.

I'm sorry I offended you. I almost never pan a piece, always find something good. I knew I was taking a chance on saying what I did. but hey, I'm right. The reader is always right. Never forget that..

from childhood's hour I have not been As others were - I have not seen

As others saw - i could not bring My passions from a common spring

(from Alone - Edgar Allan Poe)

My point is - you don’t offer an intelligent critique at all.  Again, it’s not the criticism that I object to; it’s the fact that it doesn’t come from a place of intelligence. You merely attacked the piece with snide remarks on work you don’t like.  There is no redeeming substance to your review. My argument is that you really have no clue on critiquing another’s work, nor qualified based on your words here and what I’ve seen of your own work. What’s your point? You have none. Your limited vision is only surpassed by your ignorance. You claim to know all the rhymes and rules of poetry. I don’t believe there is anyone who knows all the rules to anything. You must be quite a superhuman, perhaps a god or a misdirected, arrogant, pompous moron. It is not my job to educate you on basic fundamentals of poetry.  I’ve allowed you to continue this exchange knowing that you will only prove my previous statements and you still have not as yet expressed any viable argument. Your statement regarding my inability of being a writer is unfounded, based purely on your inability to understand clearly the definition of what a writer is. In the act of creating art in any form, the artist acts on an urge or impulse to design and manifest that substance which is part of his inner being.  It is to create and to express that intangible inner spirit that is the true essence of art. It is not to mimic reality but rather, it’s his ability to interpret and express through his own unique vision. I believe the primary reason writers write is a desire to express themselves; not for the reader and not to be published. The latter is merely a pleasing by-product of the former. You seem to have a very false understanding of the motivation of an artist in any endeavor. You are under the false impression that as long as it’s understandable, it’s poetry. How very wrong you are. You seem contented with your “Roses are red, Violets are blue...” sort of poetry and completely dependent on clichés.  “...Can’t take the heat; get out of the kitchen” - I’m sure you can do better than that. Instead, try to find your own voice and come up with an original thought of your own. You may find that you grow as a person.  Your main problem with my work is that - you can’t comprehend it. Trust me...  it‘s not as esoteric as you might feel. It may be a bit out of reach for you and over your head but there are many that do get it. As stated, you’ve had much worse things said about your work; it stands to reason, since your work in my opinion, represents that of a 14-year old school girl. Still, I won’t block you and I will give you an opportunity for having the last word. I’m sure it can only further prove my point. The reason I haven’t blocked you thus far, is that perhaps this exchange may be helpful to others here on Writers Mag.  You have truly presented yourself as an$1***$2 You have the inalienable right to be as such and you will probably continue to exercise that right, I’m sure. I hope you have understood exactly what I have tried to convey to you; I hope this is clear enough for you.  Please note that these are purely my own opinions.

You know nothing about me. I am the most gentle, kind and honest critiquer this forum has known. I always have something good to say about whatever it is. For me to give such a bad pan is almost unknown. Maybe if had a better relationship with you, it wouldn't have gotten your goat so badly.

Instead of getting angry, maybe you should ask, how mean I make it better? I have had critiques of my stuff such as, "this stinks, how horrible."I didn't get angry, I got better. I honestly thought maybe it should have been placed in fiction. I don't claim to know everything, but from my own perspective, you did not communicate anything, either in your poem, or in your attack essays.

The job of any critiquer is to give an honest opinion. It is the job of the writer to take the critique and say nothing. I did not attack you personally. You have done just that, and I resent it.

If you can't do a better job of communicating than to call people names, you will never be a writer.

One sampling of anyone's work does not necessarily mean that one's overall output is good or bad. Time alone tells that tale.I write in many different styles, some I hate. I hate poetry. I hate some of my own. I am my own worst critic. I am honest with myself. You are not.

If you want only "good" responses, then maybe you should let your family and only your family read your stuff. I write mostly for myself anyway.

Will you allow criticism to make your work better or will you argue with the critiquer? if you do the latter, you're not a writer, and never will be. A piece should stand on it's own merits. Period.

Your essay of me is so far off base it doesn't deserve a response. If you don't want to be helped, so be it. I have better things to do than to argue.

If I made you angry I deeply apologize. I was hoping for a friendship, but you will never know now what kind of gentle encouragement I could give you. You are too combative and self absorbed.

I will let my subscription expire again. My friends know my addy. (Just for the record, you haven't seen my best works which are anything but "Jack & Jill". Likely, I have not seen your best either.)

If you ask Jeff, he can delete this entire thread. Or Martha.

from childhood's hour I have not been As others were - I have not seen

As others saw - i could not bring My passions from a common spring

(from Alone - Edgar Allan Poe)