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Black Cop and White Russian --A New York City Poem Beginning at La Guardia Airport December 2002
"But what I mean is, lots of times you don't know what interests you most
till you start talking about something that doesn't interest you most." Holden Caulfield, explaining his digressions in The Catcher in the Rye It's a bitter New York December cold, yesterday's deep snow is today's dirty trash, American flags are everywhere to remind us of death and the holiness of vengeance. Lee and I join the long lines of warm wallets and purses, all of us becoming a conference of birds, not much wisdom here, just a bunch of chattering pigeons and sparrows wanting to know where all the taxies are. The black cop smiles. He says that half the cabbies of New York City are Muslims and tonight is the first night of Ramadan-- the Muslims are nested in the hands of God. Their dark beards are scraping our Good Mother Earth. They don't care if we are cold. They have turned away from our filthy lucre. They have submitted themselves to God. They refuse to bow to the Golden Calf. The rest of us wait in the cold for our taxis. We want to enter the gates of Paradise. The black cop is a crow. I whisper to the crow that fundamentalism is a curse of the heart. I whisper to the crow that monotheism is a curse of the brain. I whisper to the crow that there are no answers. Only questions. And emptiness. Exactly emptiness. The crow smiles. He thinks I'm goofy, but that's okay, huh? Lee and I wait. So an hour later the line snakes around and it's our turn to travel to the sacred city. A white Russian picks us up in a yellow taxi. Color is everything. The Russian is a stately white crane from the East. An exotic bird. Lee and I wrap together in the back seat to get warm. Warmth is everything. The crane smiles an atheistic smile. He steps on the gas and begins our migration. We head west away from Mecca. The crane has enough letters in his two names to start a dictionary. We want to talk, he wants to talk. He wants to practice his English, we want to know about Russia. He has been in the U.S. seven years. He came because his friends told him to come. " 'Look for better life,' they told me. But no different here. Same as Moscow with snow and stupid drivers. People are walking on the streets-- they are drinking coffee, they are fat, they are skinny, they are fucked up." In his mouth the word fucked is like a juicy peach from the fertile regions of the Black Sea. The crane waves his white hand at the radiant city. He says "fucked" several more times, enjoying the taste of exotic peaches. He smokes an illegal taxi cigarette. He drives wild, he honks, he yells, he curses. He has served 22 years as a major in the Russian Army. He has faced death. "Over there," he mutters, jabbing his thumb behind us, back across the ocean, his words of English like broken toys, "one out of every three men was in army. No good. Communism good idea but no work." He lives in Queens and pays $1000 rent every month. When he first came it was $500. "Crazy," he says. Lee asks him if he has any children. He says "teenager" like it's a disease. Boy or girl? "Girl." Another disease. He fought and lost a war in "Afghanistan." The mother of all diseases. He wants to know how I feel about Iraq. "Should us bomb Iraq?" "No," I say. "George Bush is a liar." He says, "Bomb Iraq. President is right." I tell him that George Bush is a fundamentalist. Like the Muslims are fundamentalists. Like the Communists were fundamentalists. Fundamentalism is a curse. We are caught in a self-centered dream. All of us. Each and every one of us. I am waving my arms and hands berserk. I want him to understand. The crane grins at me. He thinks I'm crazy. He likes me. Lee is nudging me, telling me to shut up. "Be a good Buddhist," she says. She knows I can't be a good Buddhist. I have tried to be a good Buddhist, but I get lost in the confusion of my heart. The crane says, "You must pay toll. Three dollar fifty." I give him money $3.50. Across the bridge is New York City, a glowing fat paradise of desperate angels-- We are crossing the black River Styx, The beautiful, the beautiful river, We are crossing the black River Styx, The river flowing like the tongue of God. |
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Issue #31, February, 2003 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.