You Can Remain Anonymous
by Bud Smith
from time to time
we descend the fire escape
declaring war on 173rd street
on Friday night
there was a wall of cops
on the corner
a girl, abducted
an unmarked van
gunpoint, ski masks,
children seeing it all
from the chain link
in the dog park
our problems:
the cornerstore is closed
we have to walk uphill to get beer
there's construction
they've torn up the road
I loop around forever
searching for a spot
"in the city it's not called a road"
"who fucking cares"
the subway will soon contain
all the hellstorms of Hell itself
and we will sweat
the fruit stands return
but nothing is ripe yet
I eat it anyway,
like a world destroyer
nothing sadder than a bland pear
Saturday, a squad car
drives all up and down the block
playing a loop
"If anyone has information
regarding an incident
involving a missing person
and a white unmarked van
driven away in the night
please contact the NYPD.
You can remain anonymous."
for lunch I make eggs
I make bacon
the toast is perfect
best toast I've ever toasted
we sit at the yellow table
slowly sipping hot coffee
eyeing each other up
all while the cop cars
slowly circle below
playing that announcement
she's afraid. I'm afraid.
it's like we will be dragged off
at any moment
by our hair, by our teeth
by the veins of our heart
however they'd figure out
how to do that
criminal masterminds
Monday, at her desk
her co-workers ask her about it
"the thing". It gets much coverage
all across the office.
by lunch, a girl has found some info
online that says: "over the weekend,
persons of interest came forward
and confessed to police
that they were involved in the "abduction"
on 173rd street. It seems
that a young man was picking up
his girlfriend for a SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY
and startled her. She screamed.
She got in the van. They drove away.
To the party. Had cake. Had balloons.
That was it. Happy Birthday."
and I stand
at the window of my corner store
peering into the darkness
wondering
when we'll crashland into Heaven
and get our just rewards
for all of our uphill struggles
Never, probably.
I crunch into a hard nectarine.
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this is terrific! fave*
I eat it anyway,
like a world destroyer
nothing sadder than a bland pear
Truth. Bland pears are even sadder than bland strawberries, which at least have the smell of strawberry as a consolation prize.
Every once in a while I wish I could fave a piece twice. This is one of those times... This is so tight... But it's open at the same time... draws me in, has me make pictures... plays me music.
"from time to time
we descend the fire escape
declaring war on 173rd street"
Probably one of the best opening stanzas I've read in a long time. Loaded, succinct, no tricks.*
Fave, Bud. I like it all. Any special lines? Yes, every goddamned one of them.
I'm waiting to "crashland into Heaven" too, Bud. *
"things" happen all too often. This is nicely done.
it's like we will be dragged off
at any moment
by our hair, by our teeth
by the veins of our heart
Very good poem, Bud.
Intense. FV*
"Monday, at her desk
her co-workers ask her about it
"the thing". It gets much coverage
all across the office."
Strong poem. Good writing. I like. *
Bud, your poetry kills me. In all the best ways. (I nearly wrote 'beast ways' there, which is true too.)
An edge always an edge, and I like that edge.*
The bland hard fruit especially effective in this.
Thanks for all of your comments on this one. I appreciate all of your insights into the poem. Thanks for chiming in, much obliged and humbled over here.
--Bud
"nothing sadder/than a bland pear" was great, but when it ended with "I crunch into a hard nectarine" I felt and tasted it all. Nice one, Bud.
This is an electrifying piece Bud.
I know from bland pears and hard nectarines all too goddamn well. Last night I enjoyed a succulent plum, a rarity. Love this.
Re-enactments of "The Game" are appearing everywhere. Scary to think you never know what is real anymore. You mixture of the gritty and the bland was very effective. Thank you for an interesting read. Fv*
I don't even know what to write. This poem is that good. The flavor of fun and games mistaken for high drama (and/or vice versa?)--and yes, the patient acceptance of the hard fruit. Wonderful. *
Oh, and not to mention the perfect title!
I really like the perfect toast in the middle of all this. And the hard nectarine at the end. Shocker and plain news, real and unreal and everything in between. And I'm with Beate -- great title for this poem. Fav from beginning to end, Bud.
Damn good poem.
*
Fav. *
So much hard fruit.
Lxx