Blizzard on 105th Street
by Bud Smith
i drive slow behind the salt spreader
the world is canceled for tomorrow
my radio is exploding with
herky jerky afro cuban
jazz brass wood
block breakneck bass
Machito and Charlie Parker
but behind a disintegrating
windshield wiper
everything is slate gray
and sucking its teeth
in anticipation
i drive slow behind this salt spreader
hazards flash reflect against
everything
sign on turnpike said:
SEVERE END OF TIMES CONDITIONS
—good!
✓ ready for severe
✓ ready for end times
✓ ready for conditions
the drummer is destroying
the trumpeteer is losing his shit
the trombonists, all twelve of them
they have to explain what snow is
on the telephone to mom (mami) and dad (papi) back home
and have to say, 'no it doesn't snow in California'
and live this thought:
'I miss where I'm from
my island of sugar and steam'
we're all foreigners here in NYC
no one was born here
king saxophonists is a making clouds collapse
my back seat has beer, has water, has mac and cheese, has peanut butter, has toilet paper, has bourbon and tollhouse cookie dough, has batteries and lightbulbs and lube and condoms
and I slap down the blinker
with an open palm
shut off the mile-a-minute pop of fireworks
then the silence levitates
over 112th street
and I sigh, "sorry Bird"
the sky outside sounds like a down blanket
they sky outside smells like industrial chemicals
the sky outside is leaning heavily
on every building and every head
and even on this windshield
I press down the gas
somewhere there's a blizzard
hitting the snooze button
rolling over in bed
stretching, blinking its eyes
but I
have to find
a parking spot
on this street
before 10pm
and there are
none
the salt truck makes a left by the park
I pull in face first at the hydrant
they're calling for 32 inches
no traffic cop
would ever remember
there's a hydrant, right here
fuck it
i'm canceled
for tomorrow too
I live here
as I walk towards 138 Haven
I still hear acoustic piano
that sounds like it surfs along the tides
and wears the tropical sun
in its summer hair
as the palm fronds shudder.
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Nailed it.*
Great. I like the tone you create here, impending doom...stay safe & warm, Bud*
very topical
Love the signature Bud Smith manner in which this rambles forth. Cuddle up to Spout and celebrate the blizzard mon! Might try some other formatting styles with this...the sections, and enjambment might work better. But it might also turn into prose depending on where the night lands... Either way, so you, and imaginative, whimsical and clever. *
yes! Robert, this is changing! For sure. I'm putting up different versions here.
that you Kathy, thank you Amanda. Huge respect to you both.
*.
like Bukowski when he was on.
Something about a blizzard that suspends reality, at least for a while.*
Ripped from the headlines...
With a backseat inventory like that, this poem's ready for anything! Enjoyed.*
"somewhere there's a blizzard
hitting the snooze button
rolling over in bed
stretching, blinking its eyes"
Yeah. *
"...everything is slate gray
and sucking its teeth
in anticipation." Reminded me I forgot to brush after lunch today. *
Having grown up in icy climes, I have dug the snow and do dig the. My favorite:
my back seat has beer, has water, has mac and cheese, has peanut butter, has toilet paper, has bourbon and tollhouse cookie dough, has batteries and lightbulbs and lube and condoms
An appropriate improvisational feel and shape to this.
Really like the piano at the end. Great shiftings, stanza to stanza. Good piece.
I love how this piece moves.* Thanks for sharing.
Wonderful jazz poem. Gotta love a guy who has Bourbon and cookie dough as storm supplies.:-)) *
*, Bud. An amazingly appropriate and timely and so well-written. In audio it would be additionally marvelous. You nailed the blizzard for sure, but for me this is your money line:
"we're all foreigners here in NYC"
yo bud
*