Jim Pignetti
Jim Pignetti grew up in Astoria, New York, where his father owned a neighborhood candy store. At 13 he commuted to the Bowery for weekend art classes at Cooper Union. In 1970 Jim gained entrance to Cooper’s fine arts school. While studying there, he became a studio assistant, and house painter, creating a workers cooperative in the newly rediscovered neighborhood of SoHo. Finding himself immersed in a unique creative community, he was exposed to and developed a distinct visual and musical literacy. Straddling two worlds, Jim maintained his relationships in the art world while negotiating responsibilities at home.
With the birth of his daughters in the 80’s, Jim accepted a friend’s offer to gain a seat in the New York metal market. Here, he discovered another way to use his creative skills. He engaged engineers, inventors and creatives, whom he advised and helped to manifest what they imagined. This problem-solving, and the subsequent opportunities in an otherwise banal marketplace, was enthralling. Jim went on to create his own company, metalmen sales, inc., innovating a custom response technique that evolved into a unique inventory and a niche market for non-standard metals.
In 1998, Jim returned to Cooper to enroll in Steve Zeitlin’s course, “Writing New York Stories.” At the end of the course, Steve asked Jim to create a peer-led writing workshop at Steve’s folklore organization CityLore. After several years Steve returned to ask Jim to join him in developing an online poetry group. brevitas was born from brainstorms in a Grand Central bar. Poems, 14 lines max, shared twice monthly via email, member comments and edits welcomed.
For more than 10 years Jim nurtured brevitas into a generative salon. Membership grew, chap books published, and an annual festival is still ongoing.
Jim has returned to his first calling and is currently painting and printmaking. He shows at the Roosevelt Island Art Association gallery, where he is an executive member of the board. He continues to explore his interest in viticulture, crafting wine, amaro and vermouth. He divides his time between his studio/warehouse in LI City, his apartment on Roosevelt Island, and his property in the Hudson Valley.
Apologia
Beautiful box turtle, snatched from mulch near the mulberry,
forced into a hard enamel tub, your carapace grows putrid
under my bed.
Sorry newts and salamanders, wiggling in shallows – deposited
in my fish tank – orange inmates staring, doomed.
Sorry frogs for lunging in your ponds – me, the boy, measuring
myself – your eyes bulging, heart pounding, legs thrusting,
in my child-fist.
James Fast
sits next to me – first grade.
He lives near the factories
on the dirty shore of the East River.
James, my new friend
-he’s got the same name as me-
his grin and green eyes say, Go!
One Spring Saturday he makes a raft
from skids and wood, and slips
into the swirl of Hells Gate.
James Fast, my new best friend,
is soon bobbing off College Point.
Monday Mrs. Black says James
won’t be coming back to school.
High Tide
Poles, with mackerel-sized hooks, stretch
through the car, peeking out the window.
Dad drives toward dawn, as my bro Lou babbles
about weights, knots, boats and bait.
All day we reel 5 – 6 at a time. Back home
Mom says, What’re we gonna do with ‘em?
August night, ’63 sun-burned, proud,
me and Louie push a slippery slimy
shopping cart up and down our block
giving away beautiful stinking fish.
Route ‘66
When Dad’s candy store closed, he said,
They all know you’re my son,
they’ll still need the paper,
the bundles will be out front at 6…
Corner house – down the steps,
storm door ‘cross the street,
up the porch – mail slot,
31-49 Lupo, 31-52 Gallino,
apartments 2A, 3C, 3B, 4A
The Tanners, La Verdis, the Youngs,
Daley, Gomez, Keaveny…
Dad starts driving for Mayflower,
I get a shiny News jacket,
92 papers before school.
Tony and the Count
Our neighborhood got only small-time bands, but this time Tony gets Count Basie and his
Orchestra. He puts up posters, hustles tickets, books the Sunnyside Garden. For weeks
he spins Count’s records, he dances and studies album covers, gets to know the horns, the drums.
On the big night Tony’s at the door as three carloads arrive from uptown. He greets the Count
as the band files by. The music starts, lights go dim, the crowd sways.
At intermission in the alley, the horns pass a bottle and a joint. Tony thinks: Count picked up
these bums in Harlem. Later the snare bangs a machine-gun beat, across black and white keys
Count’s fingers fly. Everybody’s swinging – except Tony. He’s glaring at the band. Where’s Spike
on sax? Who’s that cat on trombone? At pay-up time Tony gives the Count five hundred, not fifteen.
The band rears up, snarling faces behind their leader. Tony points a pistol at Count’s fingers shouting,
You’re not the fuckin’ Count Basie Orchestra!
Thirteen – Juarez
The light at the market stall glows behind your head
giving you a halo. Want that, son?
You’re pointing to a belt with a big silver buckle
mounted between bulls’ horns and onyx chess sets.
You saw my eyes on it. Yeah Dad, I want that.
You pull out a twenty, kneel down, weave the belt
around my waist. I think, Wait’ll the boys see this!
You give me the motel room key, Lock yourself in...
a bounce in your step – as you fly into the hot Mexican night.
Driver’s Seat
Dad’s face is lit by dials, swept
by headlights, rear view reflections…
If I… when I…if I ever… leave
the truck running, don’t…
Dad grips the stick shift, muscling
the squealing pounding engine,
…don’t ever get in this seat, son…
