GREEN PAVILION

When  mass  transportation  comes  to America  the  last  stop  is
Canarsie. Viewed from the elevated, yards at the terminus are flat
with  the  treeless  geometric pattern of  a  metropolitan  burial
ground  except here the cars are just resting for the night to  be
cleaned and made up for life again the next day.  The oldest stock
has matchboard interiors with oak windows, benches of woven straw,
and an open platform at either end.  These never make it under the
river into the city.

I follow directions to a venue with an unlikely name and get there
early  to  the  stop  at McDonald  and  18th  Avenue,  a  frontier
neighborhood  called Knightsbridge.  A big dark guy is at the  pay
phone  with a heavy accent probably Arabic.  He's just around  the
corner and he begs the lady to let him come up.  He makes  several
calls  in  a row,  none of them brief varying  the  approach  with
threats and promises. She may be hanging up. Or leading him on.  A
few  figures lounge at the side of the booth similar in dress  and
demeanor.

A photographer retired from teaching and a docent at the  Brooklyn
Museum in Egyptian she compares her work to someone I don't  know.
She's  new to poetry and likes the lyric potential of  the  medium
that  short circuits cumbersome visualizations and gets  right  to
the  heart.  I buy her a drink. She just lost her first husband  a
dentist and cracked up her car with no insurance.  The Union helps
with the legal problems.  He's so bad at the end he won't let  the
daughter visit. Lots younger her boyfriend Joel writes "HU"  poems
and they're called the Garden of Eden couple.  Before it  happened
she was planning to leave for Florida for the season. I ask to see
her stuff.

The group settles in the back room ordering meals and coffee in  a
haphazard  manner.  The featured reader hasn't shown and the  host
circulates   among  them greeting and presenting each one  with  a
flower.  There's a discussion about the owner getting on his  good
side  for  a regular Wednesday here. I mention Golan wine  but  he
doesn't   understand   my  interest  and  I  can't   confirm   his
nationality.  He asks me to sign up for the list.  The poetry when
they get to it and the noise from a commemmorative dinner that  is
taking  place  in  the same room are familiar  to  them  and  well
accepted.

I  get out immediately at the end to avoid further  socialization.
Nick,  an  animal  activist,  may have the same idea.  Up  on  the
elevated  I  decide against seeking his help for the  best  travel
route and take the first train that comes along.  In the noise and
confusion I only make out letter "F" on a bold placard. He gets on
as  well  and we sit together opposite the Subway  System  map  in
color. The roar enroute is an effective bar to conversation except
at the stops where I take note of the station names.  He gets  out
at  Flatbush Avenue and I see this line puts me at 23rd and  Fifth
which I know.

Madison Square is the heart of the city.  The giant coliseum rises
above  the  hubub  of  Broadway,  a  fantasy  of  classical  stone
decoration that takes up the entire block all the way to Sixth.  A
crowd  gathers  at the line of ticket booths in  front   and  it's
still an hour before the event.  I find a park bench at the center
and sit by a tree with green and orange leaves and consonant  grey
and orange markings on the trunk. A peaceful lawn lies beyond  the
black iron railing. With this in mind I offer myself for the usual
twenty  minutes of silent breathing along with  the  multitudinous
individual  blades of grass before me.  The dealers are quiet  and
orderly  for the Sunday  and office lights are off as I  walk  out
under the first skyscraper in America.

It's  a mess where I live at the other end of the street.  They've
finished the new underground from Chambers to Times Square and are
now building access stairs into the station below.  Sidewalks  are
barricaded  with  steel scaffolding two stories high.  Lined  with
wood bridging and girders the immense shaft can be viewed  through
a peephole. Cops chase the street vendors away from the corner who
set up inside the block by the Chelsea.  Someone tells Stanley and
black security guards clear them out. For months the men who  come
for  minion to the synagogue next door navigate the flimsy  tables
of books, bags and jewelry without complaint.

2/27/10  New York,  NY.  (From notebook entry 11/18/94,  the  same
material as Macedonia.)