1001 Disco Days

I'm A crossing the Hamilton Fish toward Beacon, a giant brown bridge spanspanning the great Hudson, like the byzantine vertebrae of a giant brown whale. I meant to appropriate seeing as to how Hamilton, via the eyes of Lin-Manuel Miranda, has become a metaphor resurrected for our golden hip hop age. I watched a V of geese fly just over the lip of the Hudson, toward the shore. I think to take out my phone, but remember the snow leopard in Walter Mitty that Sean Penn did not capture. I am listening to David Bowie's Blackstar, maybe his greatest work of art, and the saxophone comes in, that  inimitable David Bowie saxophone. And I remember hearing in one of the countless interviews as of late how he started out wanting to become the saxophone player for the Little Richard band. I understand that exactly. So this saxophone solo built up to it's messy scattershot climax just as the geese hit the shore, scattering the several geese waiting, in perfect disharmony. Dancing across t...

I dig the dead Follow me Says Roethke  from cemetery tree Via terrasonic Spinning Japanese  Chemistry. He gave up Because it messed with His kissing. Red stairs Follow me from the needy. Una vida largo. No one was on the other end. Other than me. "mirror in the bathroom." The music takes the body. Snuck it in. "And besides the words only get in the way."

Brooklyn bowl seeing some funk band from Leeds England, with Sunnyside dads, Quinn, Marco, Esta Bond. We were so much more fun than the Brooklyn dads! I danced for over an hour, hard, several songs with Lucia on my back. Great. Followed by a barbecue at Quinn's house and a jam. Not to mention the garage sale card games, I ZZI.

Jonesing to go dancing at Bembe in Brooklyn. So I looked for a Bembe mix on soundcloud which led me to a mix by illexxandra. It hit the spot. Down at the cemetery.  Action framing

In basement to these fine albums. The first heard while on hold with Apple Care. I liked it anyway. Like greasy potato chips. Pop smear.  Second no qualification needed. Beastie boys unvoiced.

Let it be. Great dance album. Just skip let it be, the song, and long and winding road. Unless to do yoga break or something.  I love how they get back to where they once belonged on this album, with all the old rhythm and blues licks. At the same time sending up and paying homage to the grateful dead on I Dig A Pony, the Rolling Stones, and even velvet underground with "sweet Loretta Lynn  thought she was a woman but she was another man." And all of those crazy irreverent John Lennon cut-up remarks between the songs. What an album to go out with."You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere, on our way back home."

Today took Ana Lucia to central park on the bike. The ride there so smooth and elegant. To Al Green who is celebrating his 70th. Always Green. Asked her what she wanted for lunch she said a bagel, so we grabbed one and sat under a willow at 65th street entrance, watching the baseball players, the perfect arc of the ball as it sailed past the trees lining Central Park West, blonde mushrooms at our feet. Then up again to the carousel. Need to be 5, Lucia is 4, and I could go on with her, but they charge you double. Lame Carousel scalpers. Lucia cried because I refused to pay $6 for a carousel ride. I told her we would find something better. We kept going until we heard music. A jazz band was playing near 62nd street entrance. We went in watched with a crowd of people. I told Lucia I would be her carousel and so we danced and I spun her around and around, whirling her overhead, a hundred times better than a carousel,  with a soundtrack to match. The drummer was blind and so I shut my ...

So long since I have really danced. And I did yesterday for two minutes before seeing Ron Padgett read his masterful translations of Apollinaire at the Poetry Project. Aaaa! Alive. Then. Now too in recollection. In writing. The always now. The then and now. But to keep record you must count. It was the streets of New York that were singing to me, the underlying rhythm of the streets.