The Earthquake

In photos and words

On Friday, April 5th, an earthquake of 4.8 magnitude shook windows and rattled walls in New York City. It was nothing compared to the two earthquakes I lived through in LA in the 80s, but still. It was a figging earthquake. Even a friend’s house on Cape Cod shook and scared away the chickens.

Now, I’m not a poet (though I follow and appreciate a few people on Substack who have a perfectly-tuned ear for muscular words and rhythmic sentences), but sometimes, a poem slithers out of me, like a two-headed baby out of a woman who accidentally fornicated with a Siberian ghost. That’s what happened during the earthquake. That baby delivered itself.

A viral photo of an unknown author on X

“Don’t show it to anybody”, implored Freddy. “Why would you want to embarrass yourself with this half-assed discharge?!”

Thankfully, I am at an age when embarrassing oneself seems to be more interesting than shying away from it, so I told him to go forth and multiply.

The Earthquake

The building is prewar, unmaintained.
When the earthquake hit, weak as it was,
the foundation cracked with the sound
of corn popping in the microwave.

And the neighbors, in bathrobes and pajamas
spilled out into the hallway in spurts
“ooohing” and “ahhhing”, and saying things
like “Did you feel it?” and “What the hell was that?”

But a moment later they went back to their
phones, their apartments, their lives
as if a subterranean tremor knocks on
their door daily, with a tulip in hand.

Go light a candle, put on your best dress
and meet me on the window ledge.
We’ll ride aftershocks from streams to fields
Ignoring the wind, the fire, the powerlines.

We’ll no longer play music or read books,
eat popcorn or sleep past noon.
We’ll travel the world looking for nothing,
forever, like you’ve always wanted to.

_________________________________________

Thanks for reading, as always. I appreciate you being a subscriber.
If you upgrade to PAID, I will send you a video of me playing a waltz on the accordion.

Wild God, by Nick Cave, from his new album, out in August, 2024

A tour of Michael Imperioli’s NYC apartment (with Architectural Digest magazine).
Looks just like my place.

All the PrettAy Horses, by Cormac McCarthy.
The most readable of McCarthy’s work and maybe the most beautifully written (save The Blood Meridian, perhas; but it’s arguable.)

An experiment. Our friend’s son, a bright and handsome young man who lives upstate New York and wants to become either a brain surgeon or a chef, had a momentary lapse of reason the other day and decided to throw his brand new iPhone into the blender. After he snapped out of it and unplugged the whirling beast, he discovered that his phone had turned into an 8mm movie projector.

‘Til next time!
Cheers!
AK