Alexander Filippou (An Artist’s Life)
I decided to go to the Post Office
Its only 430am
Had to get something in the mail
Right away then
I grabbed my coat
And ran outside
Slid my way
Across the icy snow
Down to Houston Street
I grabbed a cab
Around the corner
On Bowery
And slowly crept west
Alexander Filippou was my driver
For the evening just now
He feels tingles in his left arm
And a pain in his chest
No, not the doctor
He just needs rest
Alexander explains to me
Through our plastic barrier of exchange
We continue through the ice
To closed 6th Ave
And then to 8th
We pursue
Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that
Alexander curses
I nodding my head
Making mental notes
Filippou pissed
He has to work hard
To pay the rent
But can’t get the Co-Op
Because the immigration is bothering him again
His mother and sister
Still remain behind
As the Ryder truck tailgates
Dangerously
They are in Russia
I’m sure cold too
We make our way
Through the tiny streets
To the avenue of 8th
Where we belt up North
Alexander tells me
How he was a trained fabricator
In his homeland of Russia
Supervising ten men at a time
He explains to me
The I-Beams of America
How strong they are
Buildings lasting for hundreds of years
Alexander wanted to open his own
In Brooklyn town
But they call for papers once again
So, he works fifteen, eighteen hour shifts
After the red and green lights
We arrive at 33rd street on 8th
My grand post office is open
Of course
24hours it is, indeed.
I wish my friend
Alexander
Have a goodnight
And give him 9 “I Am America” bills
Walking up the flights of icy white stairs
He goes off slowly
I’m sure with American dollars
Trying to make sense
The post office was usual
Security
Remotely tight
Because of Iraq over there
I do my business
And carry on with my art
I step down the stairs
And see the sight
I take some photos
to remember this night
I walk my way
Down 33rd and now up 7th ave
I want to see the center
Where it’s at
A few delis open
Selling produce and New York bagels
Of which I have none
Not even one
I get to the epicenter
Right near the NYPD
I’m in Times Square
To be an artist
I take my photos
Vertical and horizontal
My fingers now numb
In the coldness I share
Not to be too shy
I was on by
The porno shop
Even this too
Is not closed
On a night like this
Should I go in?
Just for one dance?
I’d like to see
That naked horror dance.
You know me well
I ventured inwards
And to my surprise
Only video tonight
Dollar booths with porn
With sounds of animals
Because the women who worked days
Are not here at this hour
Defeated in a way
I walk away
Down South on 6th Ave
Until I hit Broadway
I remember walking down
On sunny days
In the spring time
When it was warm
And that first walk
That I did many years ago
First exploring
The city, my city
I’m an artist
This is what I do
I observe everything
Welcome to my world
Running through the streets
A Bosnian effort
Of white delight
And tomorrow’s nightmare
I finally get to bed
Only to write this for you
It’s now 6:14am
Give me another hour
I’ll be up for twenty-four
Goodnight.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.14.06:18:59 @ 296 NYC