The Ghosts of Gansevoort Street

beat poetry blues, jazz storytelling, cinematic blues

[Verse 2]
Now, Two-Tone Rebecca is checking her seams
With a purse full of nothing but theater dreams
She’s leaning her hip on a cold parking meter
Wishing the coffee in this city was sweeter
And the night-court lawyers are shedding their skins
At a table in the back where the bouncer always wins
Counting up the collateral, checking the gate
While the 3:10 to Hoboken is forty minutes late.

[Chorus]
And the asphalt is bleeding a heavy, dark grease
Under a sky that’s been bribed by the local police
Yeah, you’re looking for mercy in a five-and-dime store
But they don’t carry that kind of stock anymore
And the piano is listing like a ship out at sea
Drowning out the sirens in a flat minor key.

[Verse 3]
There’s a wet pack of Luckies stuck to the floor
By the grease-stained threshold of the pool-room door
And a note from a finder that you never did trace
Left in the pocket of an old canvas case
It says, "Meet me by the tracks where the coal-cars unload
Before the frost takes the shoulder of the interstate road"
But the ink ran to water, the paper turned to mush
And the whole damn block is under a Saturday hush.

[Bridge]
[The brushes on the snare pick up a ragged, syncopated skip; the muted trumpet snarls, spitting gravel]
Oh, the track-side philosophers are throwing their dice
On a blanket that’s frozen with a thin sheet of ice
And the coins in the tin cup make a graveyard ring
As the winos assemble for a chorus to sing
You’re hockin' your overcoat to pay for the gas
Just to watch the tail-lights of the last bus pass...

[Verse 4]
[The tempo collapses back into a dragging, heavy crawl. Just the woody thud of the bass and an erratic piano chord]
So pull down your cap, let the collar choke your chin
Before the morning-shift milk-trucks come rolling on in
The tugboats are whistling down on the pier
Like a couple of drunks who are dying of beer
And you slide down the wall of a dead-end street
And let the fog wrap its knuckles round the soles of your feet.

[Outro]
Yeah, round the soles of your feet...
With a hole in your pocket.
And a glass full of rain.
Just another coat of primer on a broken-down dream.
[The saxophone lets out one final, breathy, multiphonic squawk; a chair scrapes heavily across the floor, followed by the dull thud of a closing door]

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[Verse 1] The streetlamp’s got a twitch like a terminal case Spilling yellow icicles all over the place And the diner sign’s missing its middle-grade ‘E’ So it just reads "EAT... OILS" to a blind man like me A Packard is wheezing by the edge of the dock With a radiator knocking like an old grandfather clock And the butcher-shop sawdust is soaked through with brine Where the stray dogs are hunting for a valentine. [Verse 2] Now, Two-Tone Rebecca is checking her seams With a purse full of nothing but theater dreams She’s leaning her hip on a cold parking meter Wishing the coffee in this city was sweeter And the night-court lawyers are shedding their skins At a table in the back where the bouncer always wins Counting up the collateral, checking the gate While the 3:10 to Hoboken is forty minutes late. [Chorus] And the asphalt is bleeding a heavy, dark grease Under a sky that’s been bribed by the local police Yeah, you’re looking for mercy in a five-and-dime store But they don’t carry that kind of stock anymore And the piano is listing like a ship out at sea Drowning out the sirens in a flat minor key. [Verse 3] There’s a wet pack of Luckies stuck to the floor By the grease-stained threshold of the pool-room door And a note from a finder that you never did trace Left in the pocket of an old canvas case It says, "Meet me by the tracks where the coal-cars unload Before the frost takes the shoulder of the interstate road" But the ink ran to water, the paper turned to mush And the whole damn block is under a Saturday hush. [Bridge] [The brushes on the snare pick up a ragged, syncopated skip; the muted trumpet snarls, spitting gravel] Oh, the track-side philosophers are throwing their dice On a blanket that’s frozen with a thin sheet of ice And the coins in the tin cup make a graveyard ring As the winos assemble for a chorus to sing You’re hockin' your overcoat to pay for the gas Just to watch the tail-lights of the last bus pass... [Chorus] And the asphalt is bleeding a heavy, dark grease Under a sky that’s been bribed by the local police Yeah, you’re looking for mercy in a five-and-dime store But they don’t carry that kind of stock anymore And the piano is listing like a ship out at sea Drowning out the sirens in a flat minor key. [Verse 4] [The tempo collapses back into a dragging, heavy crawl. Just the woody thud of the bass and an erratic piano chord] So pull down your cap, let the collar choke your chin Before the morning-shift milk-trucks come rolling on in The tugboats are whistling down on the pier Like a couple of drunks who are dying of beer And you slide down the wall of a dead-end street And let the fog wrap its knuckles round the soles of your feet. [Chorus] And the asphalt is bleeding a heavy, dark grease Under a sky that’s been bribed by the local police Yeah, you’re looking for mercy in a five-and-dime store But they don’t carry that kind of stock anymore And the piano is listing like a ship out at sea Drowning out the sirens in a flat minor key. [Outro] Yeah, round the soles of your feet... With a hole in your pocket. And a glass full of rain. Just another coat of primer on a broken-down dream. [The saxophone lets out one final, breathy, multiphonic squawk; a chair scrapes heavily across the floor, followed by the dull thud of a closing door]

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