Silk City PIT: 5. Hope and Labor (WIP)A Poem by riskrappercounting the homelessLou Costello’s bronze semblance dipped and danced atop his granite pedestal spinning miasmatic tales of enigmatic hope and resplendent labor “the sweet unbounded expectation of hope once surged down this city’s streets” ... said Lou "I was a self made man until someone thought up the idea to cast a bronze caricature of me and bolt it to this grand rock” nostalgia is the boldest form of fiction culling from the past the things hoped for in the now “growing up here I clipped school, played ball, rolled drunks and fought nickel ante prize fights to get my daily bread, I literally punched my way out of this town” a smith smelts a batch of liquid bronze pouring molds full of a fervent wish a madman's delusion a priestly promise a Pollyannaish illusion? baskets overflowed gushing hope, offered at the holy altars by honorable workers it was said that a morsel of labor could feed 5000 starved families breeding hopes as large as a half cup of water hope the size of a mustard seed sparked recovery of 1000 sick children dying from the Asian Flu at St. Joe's hope willed an end to war’s slaughter which ironically was bad for Paterson's war profiteers forcing layoffs sparking labor actions hope ignited conflagrations firing the resurrection of dead industries lately there is a lot of hope circling this one miracles spring from the pronounced lips of trembling hearts the hopeful amassed slogging forth on bloodied toes along razor thin slices of expectation hoping to begin again eager to build anew new starts sometimes grow old fast soon hope expires winging back home on broken wings of misspent labor hoping for the snow to stop a lump of coal to last the labor of a budding crocus rewarded, breaking through the hard crust of winters end blooms for a day then expires hope is a beggars wish gods give yearnings heft prayers earnestly chanted willing paradigm shifts prayers of absolution play the angles calculating odds of probabilistic mathematics a sure thing long shot the prayers of the righteous availeth much we hoped for jobs we hoped for leisure we hoped for love we hoped for labor we hoped for rest we hoped for luck we hoped for a life wealth health blest laughing at our follies crying over defeats our city a tragic star a comedy of schemes our hope and labor is the keystone of our self construction cornerstone of a grand city’s edifice its negation our deconstruction tragedy and comedy invested and spent falling and laughing foibles and faith belief trumps evidence happenstance slays surety horror and beauty compose a life's mural nothing happens by mistake learning and ignorance fate and chance the risk of randomness expiration dates arrive fast predetermination a bold conviction, suspicion, intention a splendid kismet banality becomes sublime laughter is vulgar ...the mystery is in the loam... says WCW ...the finished product is what I’m after... “what the f**k are you doing here?" the bronzed Louis gagged "Hey Abbott look at these clowns in the yellow plastic garbage bags! bobbing in a sea of midnight mist a posse of neon clowns donning glad bags on the most dismal night of the year twinkling under the gloom of my playgrounds faltering streetlamps “twinkling targets easily tracked, a trained eye, a steady hand could pick you off at a thousand paces what gives? “what the f**k are you doing here? “what the f**k am I doin here for that matter?” “the second question is easy to answer, “I’m Paterson’s finest son.... ...“Wherever he is tonight, I want him to hear me," and went on with the show. No one in the audience knew of the death until after the show when Bud Abbott explained the events of the day, and how the phrase "The show must go on" had been epitomized by Lou that night.... "Mr. Bacciagalupe he use to live on Cianci Street “who’s on first? what’s on second? I don’t know is on third? was a riddle one recited to get into his speak “his Ginnie Red was legendary and no one was ever known to die from drinking his bathtub gin” the old world ways are made new by the arrival of new old worlds supplanting old Italiano “where is all the goodwill capital we invested in this place?” successive generations thought it best to export the capital of the expired generations elsewhere it was ferried across the river, crossed the city boundaries, leaving for Wayne and the fairer lawns of Wyckoff and the greener grasses of Franklin Lakes all the old wise guys died off or were sentenced to life by their children, some still doin time in old age homes in Rockaway all the sport clubs boarded up but their spirit lingers like an espresso ring on a post slurp demitasse cup “hell my body is buried in Hollywood but here I am, holding court in Costello Park talking with you knuckleheads a baseball bat my royal scepter a brown derby my crown, truly a King of Nothing, Lord of All “the soul of my city is eternal, like the comedy of tragedy or is it tragic comic? “here I remain omnipresent, spinning about frozen forever in a magnificent bronze age, erected to my likeness beholding me to stand witness to this litter strewn park decorated with corrugated Big Mac boxes, plastic Big Gulp tops and discarded rubbers bagging the jism of this cities arrested citizenry” never actualized never naturalized citizenship denied at the commencement of ejaculatory flows of joy unfulfilled spirit of citizenship never to experience the splendor of yesterday’s modernist metropolis and Lou’s stand up routines “look at that John over there, that guy wheezing like a ruptured blacksmith’s billow, pounding away laboring to get off “the poor little shemale just hopes it will end soon it does poof he’s done I” knew that guys grandfather, getting off runs in the family and remains one of the few things that draws the progeny back to the old neighborhood “you can still glimpse snippets of the old ways rising in new ways “an Armenian sports club around the corner is a new incarnation of the old Neapolitan social clubs that once demarcated the neighborhoods “these days great grandsons of once proud Sons of Italy come back to the old neighborhoods begging for hand-jobs from crack w****s “welcome to my burlesque world “since the Gumbas moved to Franklin Lakes the wannabe wise guys became p***y whipped dumb f***s making asses of themselves with their painted b**b-job Jersey Housewives “they w***e their families out for a bit parts on MTV and a free lunch at the Brownstone “their grandfathers labored long hours to assure the well being of their families in the expectant hope of a better shot at life but the children squandered the hard earned bequest lovingly bequeathed by reverent forebears “in the wee hours one can sometimes hear a weeping chorus of concrete Madonnas musing melodious lullabies to the sleeping Lombard's lying in uneasy repose at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery “they twist in their graves dreaming of a last dance with the Lady of Unending Sorrows at weddings for unrepentant wayward daughters and prodigal sons “its small recompense for a lifetime of an honest day’s work” the dashed hope of squandered labor begets a city of ruin” at the parks northern corner the Salvation Army’s rumbling bivouac rests in a dreamless sleep its residents patiently waiting to inherit this city abandoned by nuevo wise guys this tragedy is all comedy the comedic hope of tragic labor buried snoring the millenniums away awaiting resurrection day Lou was getting pissed... “get outta my park “the artists in the rehabbed factories across the street are resting “nothing much going on there “if you're hoping to find some homeless slogs head over to the river you should find some there”.... Music Selection: Frank Sinatra, High Hopes jbm Oakland 3/26/13 © 2013 riskrapperAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on March 26, 2013 Last Updated on April 1, 2013 Tags: Paterson NJ, PIT, homeless, Lou Costello, labor, cities, ethnic culture, Frank Sinatra, High Hopes Author
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