by John Clinton
VII. Greenwich Village
“Let us raise a standard to which the wise and honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God.” – George Washington (Washington Square Arch)
Poets in leaves of grass, writing
couples in beds of grass, kissing
circle of friends on the grass, laughing
as young men in skinny blue jeans
contemplate the wide blue sky
Each section of the park sings their song
with Spanish guitars & drums
with saxophone & bass
with bongos & beat boxes
as bystanders snap their fingers in delight
A blonde haired baby
on her father’s broad shoulders
hears jazz maybe for the first time
After two people including myself, applaud
the saxophonist jumps into something resembling
“Giant Steps”, where myriad notes are hit
& begin to take shape in the cool of the evening
like Paul Chambers, the bassist is free to stretch
his fingers out & beyond the limits of time
where a minute crowd now gathers to hear
the madness invading our ears in ecstatic enjoyment
A white haired man
convulsively rocks his body
to the symphony swirling around him
Beyond that a sax is blowing
beyond that guitars are strumming
beyond that drums are pounding
beyond that heaven is listening
to all the rhythms & beats that are
Welcome within the cosmos
myself among the stars & amateurs
for all time & no time to shine
above the thousands dead & buried
beneath Washington Square Park
West 4th Street Courts (The Cage)
In black & blue uniforms
between the cage of concrete
darkly tanned & well toned arms
glisten under a late afternoon sun
Safely on the other side of
the chain-link fence, sweating
hands grip in rabid anticipation
for a basket or blood to be shed
