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What a Glorious Blizzard
by Mitchel Cohen
What a glorious, glorious old time blizzard!
It is sooooo beautiful, this Brooklyn, and the plows
can't keep up with the drifts.
In returning from Manhattan, where I went to see the film "Social
Network" with Howard B.,
I boarded the D train around 8:45 pm which then decided to go on the N
tracks.
And then, just before arriving at my station (Bay Parkway)where I was
to switch to a bus
under normal circumstances, it came to a stop. And we sat.
And sat.
Two hours later, with people in my car starting to grumble (and none
more than the great
conductor, Joanna) she was finally able to get through on her failing
radio -- they prohibit
cell phone calls to Control (I thought I was in "Get Smart").
They said the switches were frozen stuck (it wasn't THAT cold out). I
offered to pee on them
to steam them up -- after 3 hours I had enough stored up (thank you for
sharing, Mitchel!) -- and sought volunteers.
Suddenly the announcement came that the train would move
slowly
up to the next of the 9 trains stuck in a line, and after another 1/2
hour we were all able to walk
through our train and into the next one (surprisingly, no one fell
through the gap!) and walked the
gauntlet through the entire train to the very last door which just
barely reached the back edge of the station.
And so I ran to the bus stop to catch the #6, but of course there were
no buses running.
So we walked, our small D train army -- after using the toilet in a
friendly Chinese restaurant.
And walked.
And walked. As I said, it was cold and windy, but glorious! Cars strewn
all over the roads and abandoned,
plows unable to clear the streets fast enough, the burning stench of
rubber -- or is it polyvinyl something-or-other?
-- filling the air from the futilely spinning tires.
Around 2 miles of trudging later I made it home to Cropsey Ave. in
Bensonhurst -- 1:30 a.m.
Here's a poem I wrote years ago, as fitting today as ever, from my book
"The Permanent Carnival":
PLOWING THE SNOW
In Brooklyn, snow is plowed
soon as it falls. Uninspired monitors
measure every inch.
What is the name for snow,
you who so adeptly sweep aside the beauty
as though there's nothing to be learned?
Do you know the true names of things?
What is it that gushes but does not weep?
In Brooklyn, moon is clogged
with drizzling soot. Beneath the boardwalk,
a man stares up between the cracks.
What is the name for touch,
you who so adeptly sweep aside all warmth
as though there's nothing to be learned?
Do you know the true names of things?
What is it that dies but is reborn?
In Brooklyn, rush-hour milieu
crushes into the trains, transport to boredom
MetroCard Gold
What is the name for movement,
you who so adeptly sweep aside revolt
as though there's nothing to be learned?
Do you know the true names of things?
What is it that moves but goes nowhere?
In Brooklyn, Bloomberg sweeps the streets
of loiterers. If you are not at work
you are arrested.
What is the name for freedom,
you who so adeptly sweep aside the homeless
as though there's nothing to be learned?
Do you know the true names of things?
What is it that produces but never owns?
In Brooklyn, it snows too quick
to be removed at once. Alternate
side of the street parking
Suspended today.