Meeting Hiram Bingingham   1 comment

Meeting Hiram Binginham

Hiram Bingingham plausibly denied

Meeting Jerry Seinfeld on a subway.

Mortified Norman Mailer once replied

To a text from Twyla Tharp: the rub way.

In Vegas, Frank Sinatra is singing

To the wax Barack Obama statue.

And it’s A. J. Liebling who is bringing

His good friend Danny Pilsener, his “plus two”.

Meanwhile, Kevin Naughton exercises

With friend Arlene Croce, stirring passion

In Billy Joel, who this time surprises

Mikhail Baryshnikov with High Fashion.

  Old Bartleby is a scribbler, like me.

  Rusty Miller is a dancer, so free.

Posted May 22, 2024 by phringo in Poems

One response to “Meeting Hiram Bingingham

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  1. Waxing poetic, PR? Here’s one re an encounter with …

    At the Whitney Mus-eum

    by Don Ward

    To my right The Nighthawks are stirring sugar into eddies in white mugs. 

    Behind me a pair of comic book Lichtensteins tawdry, primary and overlarge

    “Picasso and American Art.” Weber and Warhol for fifteen minutes only.

    Ahead is a stainless steel EXIT and institutional hallway.

    It snakes behind the bank of elevators that would ascend to DeKoonigs above

    or plummet into the unpleasant eighth circle of George Grosz below. 

    Huddling inside a buff hide, oversized, shaggy, and stained he lurks.

    Eyes darting behind wire spectacles perched on a rodent’s nose.

    His henna-ed hair in thin stingy parasitic curls against his head.

    Pressed against the wall, trapped between the lavatory and the stairwell

    he sniffs recognition. Assumes that I will care to worry him.

    He feints left, right. Grabs the fire door with both hands and scurries an escape.

    Could he be mistaken for a common street rat who held out a claw

    Begging to passersby: “Hey, Buddy, could you spare eighteen dollars?”

    Or is it his Sunday game to be noticed and coyly run away?

    I might have thrown open the door into the dark stairwell in pursuit

    Shouted, “ There goes once-celebrated Joel Grey

    remembered as the creepy mc or the psychopath on the swing.”

    Hopper and the Nighthawks yet without ashtray and her nails still a mess

    glance up once when I pass but seeing that I am not Tom Waits,

    they return to nocturnal reverie of iced ennui and caffeine.

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