listening to cuyahoga, r.e.m., michael stipe, used to be a household name, like prell shampoo, but now he’s a my generation kind of thing, as in the 80’s, i remember the green tour, when the band went mainstream, didn’t they all try, to get the money, blow up, get bigger, artists and their stage, their platform, grow it, except fugazi, ian mackaye, $5 shows, think about that
Author: @DwPolk
Sports Card Investing. Photography. Poetry.
Laugh With Summer
The eternal summer laughs, joyce mansour, the name, the face, the poet, jewish-eygptian, born in england, portrait fragments. she was right, the eternal summer laughs, like fireflies, barefoot grass, lemonade, and tanned skin. as tom hanks said, there’s no crying in baseball, save your tears for winter, today we laugh with june.
The Girl From Ipanema
astrud in black and white, bossa nova posterchild, rio de janeiro summer, probably first heard it in a west village cafe, turned any room into a beach, even in february new york city, samba power, brasil cool, we lost her, ms. gilberto, but the song lives on and on
George Winston: 1949-2023
when i heard that George Winston died, i realized i had no one to tell, no one who would really understand how he transformed piano notes into snow, into darkened pine trees, into music of the winter solstice. transcendent, like time immemorial, i can still see my seventeen year-old self, not making a sound, just listening to Winston, that quiet focus, he taught me to be still, appreciate all that is.
Althea Gibson
from south carolina, harlem really, street fighter, paddle tennis champion, her younger years spent competing, and surviving a violent father, that story, the one where abuse makes humanity stronger, while most wither away, not to say her name is like serena or venus, fame swallowed by racist history, they let her play, but pretended she wasn’t really there, regardless, althea gibson with the volley, the lob, the slice backhand, the victory
slam dancing
wasn’t what i thought, i thought it was you slamming into me, me slamming into you, but that wasn’t it at all. it was a river, the current pulsating with human motion, spontaneous stage diving, swaying of limbs, giving into the chaotic whole, bodies tributed to the thumping drumbeat, electric guitar, ska/punk vocals. and those who knew, went with the flow, those who didn’t, they got moshed.
Of Love and Madrid
her curfew midnight, i sprinted the summer streets of madrid. by metro and taxi, she, an hour away, then an hour back across the capital city. 16 years old, when i could run and sweat, 94 degrees dripping down my cheeks. it didn’t matter, because i always stood by the open window of the metro train, hot air drying everything except the pounding blood in my chest, and i hardly knew it, but this was love. arriving, eyes aglow, to stroll on an ancient moorish pathway, share a morsel of ice cream. 12am, taxi, underground train, back to carabanchel, the far reaches of madrileńo civilization. never a second thought that i would do it all over the next night.
Coca-Cola
translucent brown bubbles, how else to describe, perhaps dark caramel, better image of sweetness, and this is just the surface, have a coke and a smile, coke is it, i’d like to buy the world a coke, and on and on, streaming backwards in time, all the ads, commercials, inducements to imbibe this drink, that the chileans cursed, leche de los yankees, yankee milk, and to think it will wash away even the saltiest of buttered popcorn, attract yellowjackets like no other, this beverage, this legend, white script on a red can, on a bottle, tingles on tongue, blamed for cavities, craved over pepsi, coffee, or sprite, hated and loved, this never-ending all-american delight.
Embarrassing Moment, July 1987
Summer asphalt, I feel it against my cheek, warm with embarrassment and sun’s absorption, after toe snags into pothole and I tumble face first into the road’s crosswalk. This, while holding two Slurpees in July, neither spills, miracle of frozen blue sugar ice. Honking cars and trucks applaud, recognizing my brief journey from sky to ground, entertainment while waiting for red to turn to green. I rise slowly, take a small bow, try to grin, clutch the drinks and walk again.
The Screen Reaper
The screen reaper has taken all the books away. The ones we used to read by the fireplace, or on the rug, or in bed, or underneath a tree. The screen reaper doesn’t care about your memories or narrative works assembled on page after page, plots, characters, all those stories shaped in your head. No, instead it offers the everything/nothing, of videos, tv shows, movies, colorful clothes draped on dancing bodies, never-ending updates, snap maps, instagram images, and tiktok temptations. The screen reaper wants it all, all of you, your eyes, brain, mind, and time.
And most of us never fight back, we open the computer, clutch the clicker, scroll with our very own fingers, authors of our demise. The screen reaper has taken all the books away, and yet we let it stay, perhaps forever, it will be this way.
Daniel W. Polk 