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    Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen
    Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen
    Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen
    Ebook146 pages50 minutes

    Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen

    By Jonathan Moya

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    About this ebook

    Poets pay close attention to the movie that life makes for us. These poems are a testament to the beauty that lies in every day, and to the poignant artistic frustration that comes with witnessing injustice in life. Pull up a chair and prepare to be inspired.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateAug 26, 2019
    ISBN9780359877898
    Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen

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      Book preview

      Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen - Jonathan Moya

      Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen

      v  v  v

      Like No Movie I Have Ever Seen

      v  v  v

      Jonathan Moya

      v  v  v

      Copyright 2019 Jonathan Moya

      This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

      About the Author

      Table of Contents

      Snapshots of New York City in Stride

      At lunchtime pigeons and pinstripes dance with Rockette syncopation in front of Radio City

      following the lead of thirty balloons encased

      in vinyl tugged down the 50th Street station.

      A chauffeured limousine pops out

      a freshly groomed and leashed Pomeranian

      seeking reunion with her dowager owner

      getting purple locks and cuticles nearby.

      At the columned entrance of Manhattan Bridge

      two lovers kiss at the Canal Street stoplight

      while a Vespa owner stops near the pedestrian

      walk to hitch the love of his life in full stride.

      Black children in bowlers and their Sunday finest

      share a car in the Connie Island Cyclone

      with Hasidic eyngls from Avenue J

      carefully protecting their yarmulkes.

      In the South Bronx the children of 136th Street

      practice belly flops on an abandoned mattress

      before chickening out on the adjacent kiddie pool

      decorated with aqua waves, clown fish and mermaids.

      The Monday field trip will transport ten

      young Harlem poets to the Schomburg Library

      to eulogize when Maya Angelou and Amiri Baraka

      danced a jig on the ashes of Langston Hughes.

      One will write a Christmas story about the time

      Richard the reindeer took the Roosevelt Island

      tram to bring presents to the orphans

      after Santa’s sled had fallen apart.

      South Beach Daze

      South Beach before the hurricane

      was an old man in oversize shorts

      that dangled below his knees

      and protruded an obscene wangle

      when he walked.

      A Brooklyn or Queens refugee

      with a scent of ovens baked in.

      He smelled of bagels after breakfast,

      Wolfie’s cheese cake in the afternoon,

      cholent for an observant dinner

      followed by a nice walk down Collins

      delighting in the acrid smell of

      sea salt, sand crabs, seaweed

      and the waft aroma of exploded jellyfish

      popped by impish children

      with sea grape batons.

      South Beach was a prattling old Yenta

      in a one piece swimsuit with

      peacocks, zebras, vibrant

      schools of parrot fish swimming in the coral,

      and for a hint of the exodus that every

      elderly Jew needs to wear and carry

      with them a looming pyramid

      with a Sphinx stamped on the back

      to distract from the black

      tattoo numbers on the wrist.

      They would meet on the return,

      each breaking from their clique,

      joyfully begrudging a welcome peck

      still holding hands like decades before

      when they felt they had a true home,

      walking just a little block further beyond

      the screaming neon Art Deco haze,

      settling in to eat leftovers, a TV dinner

      and watch the glowing embers

      of Sullivan, Godfrey, Jackie Gleason

      knowing how sweet it all is.

      South Beach was a parking lot at night

      cracked, weedy, seedy, fading painted lines

      erased by lonely cars backing to the wall,

      headlights blinking one for yes, two for no,

      a forbidden, hidden, tormented love call.

      Down the road the Fountainbleau

      swayed to the rhythm of cerulean congas,

      a swarming taking over, a buyout with

      million dollar conversion dreams financed

      with white powder and rolled hundreds,

      and lots of leverage muchacho, so

      the tourist will spend and come and cum.

      The headlights still blink night love songs

      but with better accessories and stylings.

      The greedy can wait for old Jews to die.

      After the hurricane South Beach,

      became SoBe, as the locals,

      the bankers, the flippant rich like

      to call it and chant it as the tourists

      money the streets in a conga line

      so dense that it will start a riot

      if someone errantly blinks twice.

      The neon is the attraction and lure,

      even though it really is the

      after smell of a corpse.

      Every one knows the old Everglades legend,

      that lingers like a skunk ape arm

      caught in an airboat propeller, about

      never messing with an alligator

      seeking refuge under a car after a storm.

      Rain Dance

      The rain creates its own ballet

      starting with a lone figure on a bridge

      holding an umbrella in the fog

      splashing teardrops with his feet,

      doing jetes over the larger puddles,

      until the wind inverts his shade,

      plies turning to pirouettes,

      approaches cascading to the portal

      and the head of the street,

      dancing to a cityscape beyond.

      At the last turn they meet cute,

      their outward canopies entangling

      rib to rib, shadow to shadow,

      a plastic bag covering hair and

      half her face, soggy groceries

      nursed to her chest, an oversized

      purse dangling her wrist, pulling

      her down, falling, wishing for

      something, someone, anything

      to stop the descent, the crash.

      He catches her in

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