Currently viewing the tag: "New York City"
He left behind the frozen landscape
and empty mines of his Midwestern home
to head east, for New York
where he heard it was all happening.
the culture vulture, scott duhamel, circles around a handful of reissued rock and roll records.
This project is a collective memory collage. It is a personal exposé: an attempt to make sound where there is silence and the shame and guilt it enshrouds. It is also a celebration, a tribute, a comedy and a love story. Mostly it is a conversation between truths, memories and generations, a step towards resolution.
Between Adam’s “Yo, bros” and Sooz’s GPS,
somehow we manage to roll from the Trash Bar
in Brooklyn to the open-windowed 35th floor
of Manhattan—“Man, Vic, Vic, Vic. Check out
the falling stars.”
“On the expressway, Sammy?”
From that height, the narrow road does indeed
look God-made, tiny headlights sparkling; and orange,
splashing off blue skyscrapers, swirls purple across
Roger’s sleeping cheeks, spotlights the show in here:
tip-toeing in black hightops, motorcycle boots powering down.
Post-dawn, the wake-up caller strokes his streaked hair:
“So, hey, anybody grab our pay?” Matt’s black hair had lain down
for the night, but now it perks up, along with nipple rings,
from a velvet-pillow nest. Heavy black and silver belts uncoil
from their partners on the glass tabletop, leather and mesh
fingerless gloves, visored, spiked, spider-webbed cap,
their owner suddenly awake among leopard-print tassles
and his buddy’s motionless, spring-curled head.
The synchrony of snores has stopped, one musician at a time
growling at daylight. Sammy stands rubbing his thigh,
purple from the beat, beat, beat of last night’s crescent tambourine.
