#jeff friedman

[xanaxfarts]

Jeff Friedman: ‘Let There Be Neon’ in NYC photo: James & Kayla Murray

[lissaslunacy]

Wonderful documentary hosted by Raymond Braun showing why Pride started and why it's still important today. From Oscar-winning filmmakers Rob Epstein and Jeff Friedman, #StateOfPride takes you on a journey across the country to explore what Pride means to LGBTQ+ people 50 years after Stonewall.

[emblematik]

On Main Street, I spot the monster in the crowd. He's clean shaven, but there are red nicks on his cheeks and chin. He's got long claws that can rip a chest apart in seconds. No one in the crowd appears to notice the monster is among them. I follow closely weaving in and out until I'm almost stepping on his heels. Suddenly he turns to face me. "You're a monster," I say. He licks the stain of blood from his lips. "Is that so bad?" he asks.

Jeff Friedman, Catching the Monster

[poemsiheart]

Working in Flour

When I walked into the bakery at my usual time asking politely for two marble cookies, a fudgy chocolate drop rising from the chocolate swirls, Ida Kaminsky, who came from strong Russian stock— a hearty vegetable stew, spicy meats rolled in cooked cabbage—winked and asked if I wanted a job. She offered me two bucks an hour, half off on the marble cookies, and anything not sold at the end of the day might also be mine. I put on an apron, pushed through the swinging doors to help the bakers. The smell of flour was thick and tree pollen spotted the windows. Tall and freckled, Max, the other assistant, squeezed my hand, "I'll show you what to do." He taught me how to use the cake decorator, how to prepare the éclairs and put them in their doilies, then pointed out the brooms and mops, the industrial strength cleansers, the double sink with rubber hoses coiled in it. "You don't want paste to harden in the bowls." From across the room, where he scooped chocolate chip cookie batter onto a baking tray, Julius, the baker, snapped, "Make sure you tell him: Everything has to be spick-and-span." The flies heard him and flew off the lip of the sink toward the light fixtures. Soon I began sneezing, my hapless ahchoos running down spotted walls, glistening on my face and hands as I pumped the custard through a nozzle into the delicate éclair rolls. Later, when I worked on cleaning the floors, Max yelled at me for spreading the dirt in circles with my mop. I stepped back, kicking over the bucket of lye. All in a day's work, I thought. The next morning, Ida Kaminsky cornered me, "I liked you better as a customer." I folded my apron neatly without arguing back picked up my bag of cookies and walked out into the bright spring air, where now I understood my mother's comment, "You're allergic to work" and where, for a moment, I stopped sneezing.

Jeff Friedman

(Source: http://poetry-park.blogspot.in/)

[sansura]

Bear Fight by Jeff Friedman         

When Liza fell in with the bear, I was more than disappointed as I had been in love with her since childhood. "What's he got that I don't?" I asked as we walked past the diner together. "He's a bear." She let go of my hand. "He gets a little jealous when I'm out with my friends." "Why do you want to be with a bear anyway?" Two teenagers pushed past us with their skateboards. Balloons floated above Main street, announcing a sale at the furniture shop. "Why do you want to be with me?" she asked. We parted ways when the light changed, but later I went to her home dressed as a bear. She opened the door. "Come in," she said, putting her arms around me. 'You don't smell like a bear," she said. Then in walked the bear, with a fierce look on his face. He growled and so did I. He cuffed me, so I cuffed him back. Then we grappled with each other, bear-hugging until Liza stepped in between us and held out her hands. "I'm sick of bears," she said. "Get out of here." I ripped off my bear mask. "I'm not a bear," I said. The bear ripped off his. "I quit this game," he said. "I'm not a bear either." Liza removed her mask, and she wasn't Liza. We ran away as fast as we could. I made it back to my place and locked the door, turning on the outside light, but all night I heard her huffing.

[movedtoabandonedsocks-blog-blog]

Crows

by Jeff Friedman  

You came with your dark hats, fringed shawls, gifts— armloads of flowers and grief.

You came with twigs, muddy houses, ashes smeared on your cheeks.

You came with your broken clocks, loud warnings. You came with your wisdom,

but your wisdom was air. You came with your umbrellas open despite the sun,

and the sun shone in the feathers of your wings held close to your bodies. You came with your offering,

the corpses of mice and birds, bundles of bones, and the bones were bloody,

and bloody were your beaks and talons ticking the long black table.

[kitheartfelt]

[rabbit-light]

Shallot

  I get little bits of you all over me while I bloody my index finger trying to chop correctly and precisely, like Jacques Pépin with his wide grin, trying to ignore the dog banging the glass door with her paw and barking to get in and the crows ganging up on the sharp-shinned hawk. I'm ready for an eclipse that brings me salty waves, pelagic pleasures. I'm ready to dance among lemon wedges while the rosemary reaches for the sun, and the orchid sways and dips and red ladies drop their skirts to their knees, wiggling free. A rich, fat man gets stuck in the needle eye of heaven, cumulus clouds closing around him. A camel clogs the drain. The sanguine sister, sitting on her stalk, casts her net, but nothing catches. In the uncut grass crickets rub their sticky legs, calling the names of lovers. Now you wait for me, shimmying in a sleek pan— your streaked layers translucent in the glissando of sizzle— giving up your bitterness to the peppery oil.

Jeff Friedman