Donald Semenza

Donald Semenza — Sat, 17 Mar 2007 16:50:05 +0000

Goody sucks down a Yoo Hoo
His soul long gone to heroin
Crow looks out at MacDougal Street
Doesn’t see winter giving way to Spring
Tucker discards the queen of hearts
His left shoulder twitches
Gazoot runs his hand across the green felt
The pool table lies silent
Itch checks the racing form
He knows he’ll lose again
Sinatra bellows from a radio
perched on a dusty shelf
On the Street of Dreams
Donald knows it’s all here
Well, isn’t it?

Plato’s Cave, 1954

Skidding Stones On Long Island Sound

Donald Semenza — Sat, 17 Mar 2007 16:43:02 +0000

We stood, slightly bent at the waist,
Whipping our right arms sideways
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
My brother and me
Late October ‘54
Warm sun
Chilled breeze
We didn’t talk past
It was too painful
We didn’t talk future
There was none
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
The stones list in the gulp of the sound
Three, four, five, six, seven skids
We couldn’t reach Connecticut this day, we giggled
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
We didn’t talk past
It was too painful
We didn’t talk future
There was none
We talked an early Wynn
Dusty Rhoades
The Giant Sweep
Cleveland, Willy Mays, Vic Wertz
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound
My brother is gone now
The last time we talked, we talked fortunate
We talked loving wives, kids, family
We talked past and future
We talked chilled breeze, warm sun
Skidding stones on Long Island Sound

Struggles of an Improviser: How High The Moon

Donald Semenza — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 15:46:13 +0000

You worked on the melody
The chords
The tempo
sounds dull
–yes, boring
Listen to Bud Powell do it
Again and again and again and
Sounds right
Flowing
Yeah, Bud’s got it right
no cornball Les Paul
Mary Ford
Plink plink
Lenny told you
The right hand independent and dependent on the left hand
Improvise
Create
Do something beside safe
Safe is correct
Lacks style
Listen to Bud again
Lines choppy
It’s not connecting
You’re lost
Changes fragmented
Twenty hours
Sounds like no sound
Is Bud hearing you from another time
Cringing
Come on work it
Major seventh
Minor seventh
Seventh
Concentrate
Know where you are
Know were you are
Make music
2003

Medley Boys Social Club

Donald Semenza — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 15:37:29 +0000

The corner of MacDoudal and King Street—
street level–
A large coffee machine on the marble counter—
La La is at the helm—
he drips and serves brown and black coffee from the machine—
Cappuccino is a foreign word left for the N.Y.U. students—
Orazatta is a popular cloudy Italian drink made from almond nuts—
Home run gin and pinochle are the card games—
The players fill the room with smoke and hard luck cursing—
the games run from noon to the wee hours of the morning—
Tommy the Priest books out the back room—
He stuffs horse and sporting slips through a trap door in the floor—
The cops make their monthly raids—
they pace the back room searching for the trap—
Can’t find it—
Gee, too bad—
Tough luck—
The bulls can’t get a break—
The players laugh silently—
The Priest moves to a new location—
John the Bug a graduate of Alcatraz takes over—
The word spreads around the club—
A presidential pardon from Harry Truman—
The players know The Bug has notches on his belt—
He is to be respected and feared—
Business as usual—
The trap door is in the floor—
Lots of action—
Gambling illegal—
Not immoral—
The cops pace the back room—
Become more frustrated—
Threaten players with an overnight trip to The Tombs—
The players are silent—
Don’t know nothing—
Time Zone—
Fifties through the sixties—
My last visit – 1971—
The Feds busted the place in 1986—
Cat and mouse games are over—
La La, The Priest, and The Bug are at rest—
The Medley Boys Social Club remains empty today

My Living Room

Donald Semenza — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 04:37:25 +0000

Looking south from my living room window I can see the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, the Citicorp Building, and the 59th Street Bridge—
four New York monuments—
at night the monuments through light from the East River—
the river shakes back light to my eyes—
Most of the times I don’t pay attention—
I mean I look but I don’t see—
My wife Pat reminds me when the Empire State Building changes its lighting for particular holidays—
I look and see—
Independence Day – red, white, and blue—
that’s simple—
Saint Patrick’s Day—
green – a natural–
Columbus Day—
red, white, and green—
pasta for dinner—
My daughters drop by with the boyfriends—
wine, crackers, cheese, and Italian sausage are laid on the coffee table—
we hug—
we banter—
lots of joking around—
they’re good kids—
they’re a magnificent gift—
there’s love in the room—
where am I going—
it’s all here and I’m in New York

The Strand Book Store

Donald Semenza — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 04:12:28 +0000

The Strand Book Store—
12th Street and Broadway—
two floors of books—
street level and basement—
advertised as eight miles of books—
all books sold at a discount—
all subjects covered—
if you like to browse get there early—
avoid the bumping and the excuse me’s from the crowd that will pour into the thin aisles by noon—
smell the dust and sneeze—
I prefer the basement—
the latest reviewer copies are there—
all half price—
stored neatly on the shelves—
alphabetically by author—
I walk down each aisle searching for subjects I enjoy—
music – history—
investing – politics—
general science—
I pull a book off the shelf and read a sentence or two—
it holds me—
a paragraph—
it holds me—
a page—
a chapter—
I’m hooked—
could the budget afford it—
my social security check is coming soon—
will my 401k only be a (k) someday—
I push the book back and continue browsing—
an hour or two hurries by—
I leave Strand’s empty handed—
there’s always the public library—
how come I always forget that—
maybe I like the dust in Strand’s—
—achoo!

United Artists Union Square Stadium 14

Donald Semenza — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 03:39:58 +0000

United Artists Union Square Stadium 14—
13th Street & Broadway—
Enjoy the movie
ten movies going everyday—
the seating is stacked deep and wide—
no heads blocking your vision—
the seats are wide and push back for total relaxation—
the screens are curved and wide—
the popcorn is a bit pricey but good—
my wife Pat and I hold hands like two kids on an early date—
Pat like romantic and funny—
I like violence and who done its—
we compromise—
in the end the movie doesn’t mean all that much.
We’re hanging out—
sharing the day—
Pat has quick eyes—
she helps me understand the director’s obscure clues and double flashbacks—
for that good deed she gets to eat more popcorn.

Birdland

Donald Semenza — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 03:23:34 +0000

Birdland—
52nd Street & Broadway—
Named for the great jazz musician Charly Parker—
Known as Bird—
Yard Bird—
musicians said his alto sax sounded like a bird humming in flight—
dead at age 34—
heroin – alcohol—
signs posted around New York—
Bird Lives—
Birdland built below street level—
the neon sign reads “Birdland – the jazz corner of the word”—-
a special section for non-drinking teens—
deep stage—
long bar—
small tables and chairs crowd the center of the room—
dim lights—
bird cages hang from the ceiling—
tinkling piano warming the crowd—
tinkling piano stops—
the quintet appears on stage—
Dizzy on trumpet—
Mingus on bass—
Powell on piano—
Roach on drums—
Bird on alto – all greats—
musical phrases start early—
end late—
accents in the wrong place—
substitute chords over substitute chords over substitute chords—
the tempo is hectic—
fast—
off the metronome—
Bird’s lines are long and flowing—
his technique flawless—
the notes come from his gut—
fellow musicians are at the bar listening with praise—
they know genius—
Bird’s Ornithology is the tune—
chords borrowed—
How high the moon—
how high—
Be-bop—
1949

Flipping Baseball Cards, Friday Night, Spring 1943

Donald Semenza — Sat, 23 Dec 2006 02:54:11 +0000

Andrew is such a jerk
teasing me all through supper
saying that flipping baseball cards is a stupid game
that any dope could be good at it
that if he wanted to he could beat me anytime

He teased me so much that he got Dad mad at him
now Dad wants him to play me
I don’t want to play him
I was supposed to play with cousin Michael across the hall
Cousin Michael plays nice and he doesn’t cheat and give me sputzies on top of my head like my brother Andrew

Andrew thinks he’s so smart
He’s twelve and I’m eight – and maybe that’s why he thinks he should beat me
I beat Billie Biff and he’s eleven
I even went around the corner to Sullivan Street and beat Junior and he’s almost twelve
That time I played for my best friend Gene and I won back all the cards he lost to Junior
I’m good at flipping cards

Dad’s splitting my cards and giving half to Andrew
Mom is taking the dishes off the table
I know I could beat Andrew – I feel good
Andrew won’t be able to cheat and bulldoze me with Dad watching
Dad’s waving at me – I should go first
Dad’s eyes are shining – I think he likes me more than Andrew
I know just what to do – I put the card just in the right place between my fingers and thumb –
It feels right – the word side of the card is tails and the side with the ballplayers pictures on it is heads I’m going to flip five heads
when the five cards lay on the kitchen floor the ball players will be looking up at me

I’m swinging my arm back and now forward – letting go of the card
it’s spinning toward the floor – the ballplayer is looking up at me
again and again and again and again – five ballplayers are looking up at me
Dad’s waving at Andrew to go – Andrew will have to flip five heads to win
if he flips one tail he’ll lose five cards
I could tell he’s scared – I know he doesn’t think he will flip five heads

He’s holding the card all wrong – He’s holding the card where his fingers and thumb bend
no good it’s too tight – even I know that and I’m eight
He’s doing just what Billy Biff did when I beat him –
Holding the card too tight will make it bounce around on the floor and not lay flat right away
His first card is falling – it’s a head – lucky—
there’s his second card bouncing on the floor – tails – he loses – I knew it
It’s hard to match cards when they are all the same even if they’re all tails – you can’t make one mistake
Andrew just finished his turn – three heads and two tails laying on the floor
I know he wanted to flip five heads or five tails but he’s not as good as I am
I know I could make two mistakes and still match him
I’m feeling good now – I know I’ll beat him –
I’m getting even for all the times he cheats and gives me sputzies on my head
I’ll fix him good

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I’m in bed now and it’s dark
I beat Andrew so bad – he didn’t win one game
He even made excuses to Dad – Saying that I was the right height for the game and it was easy for me to flip the cards the way I wanted to
Dad had me stand on the step between the kitchen and the living room and I still won all the games

I feel bad for Andrew now
We’re in the same bed and his back is to me
He’s not talking to me like he always does – I think his feelings are hurt
He’s not such a bad guy
In a lot of ways he’s good to me
He stops the bigger kids from picking on me
two weeks ago he took me to the Museum of Natural History – He even paid for the subway
and last Saturday night he read to me from the small fat book about John Dillinger – we laughed together about John Dillinger’s wooden gun and how he used it to break out of jail –

I felt so good beating him but now I’m not feeling so good
Maybe getting even is not so much fun after all
maybe getting even is a game itself
I’m tired now
maybe that’s for bigger people to think about

Speed Write (1 Minute)

Donald Semenza — Sun, 26 Nov 2006 01:57:58 +0000

Speed died.
He loan sharked, and died.
He stole goods from the New York Central, and died.
His kids lost their love for him, and he died.
He wore fine clothes, and he died.
His wife died, and he died.
He gambled big time, and he died.
He never lived the good life, they said, and he died.
Some said, He lived the good life, and he died.
I remember him well, and he died.
He was part of the living dead, and he died.
He died, was buried, and he died.