Of the Her Light in August
August 2020– To start this month I proudly present some selected works from my fellow poet and friend Marie Anzalone- Quite frankly ? I am clearly in awe of her sprint and talent- Recent Visual Tone Poem by Marie
Marie Anzalone is a US national living and working in the developing world. She is a professional scientist, economist, translator, and artist; also trained as a life coach, writer, and business manager. She lives in rural Guatemala with a passel of rescue dogs, cats Alexa, Emma, and Pippin; sheep, goats, an underground greenhouse, and a garden. She is finishing 3 scientific publications for her master’s degree in 2020-2021. She has been writing for most of her life. She welcomes travelers to her home, and will be able to offer author retreats after the COVID pandemic.
Marie is an active member of the Writers Cafe community, and also of the Quetzaltenango Poetry Club “Casa los Altos.” She writes and edits in both English and Spanish. Her writing has been featured in the human rights journal “Namaste,” as well as in several anthologies, and literary publications by Versewrights, Rising Phoenix Press, Circus of the Indie Artist, and the Larcenist, among others. She is a frequent contributor of researched articles and essays for The Wisdom Daily magazine.
She has 6 stand-alone works of poetry, and was the editor, translator and/ or co-editor on several other books. She tackles themes of multi-culturalism from a woman’s perspective in her works, and has started a series of workshops for empowerment of women, which she offers in both languages as well- most recently, in 2019, she was invited to address this theme in Mexico and Guatemala.
Aside from her pending scientific research publications, she is currently editing and designing a custom series for Spanish language learners, writing the manuscript for her fifth bilingual poetry book; and assisting 4 poets, historians, and story writers to publish their works. https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8393469.Marie_Anzalone
https://www.writerscafe.org/hauntedfox
https://coldhungryinlove.wordpress.com/blog/
I Had Some Dreams
A Poem by
Second of three poems based on a series of extraordinary dreams over the past two weeks
I had some dreams.
Some took me to the edge of cliffs
before throwing me off; some made
me see perfection in a wildflower.
Some dreams led me to isolation
and others connected me to ancient gods.
Some dreams made me believe in love
and others raped me in my sleep.
Some dreams ran in herds
like buffalo in North Dakota in
the 1700s, and others were as elusive
and solitary as a heron in a marsh.
Some dreams fed my body and soul
with new and exciting things and
others ate me alive. Some dreams
took me to places I could never even
have imagined and others kept my
mother and me prisoner in our own
home. Some promised me the universe
and others robbed me of all material
possessions. Some dreams whispered
to me in the absence of all background
noise and others shouted from the rooftops
of bustling city subway stations.
Some dreams wanted to buy me and
others tried to sell my soul.
Some showed me only who I
was not; my dream of you
showed me who I most want
to be and how to get there.
*
Rain in Quarantine
A Poem by
translated from my original in Spanish
This is how my ancestors lived,
I think; as I tend seed beds
and wash shirts in a bucket
with a stick. The land is dust,
every drop of water, precious.
I wash a fork and use that water
for 20 seedlings, 3 colors
of lettuce. In the realm where
family is king and togetherness,
religion; I am easy to overlook.
The Outsider; I travel to town
to feel the accusing glances:
You brought this here; and I want
to scream, no I did not. You did.
A virus thrives in dry, in dust.
You did. We all did.
A virus thrives where land
is destroyed, green things,
turned to dust. It transmits in drought.
We made that decision when
we killed too much that was alive.
You made that decision with
the closure of research centers.
Curiosity, the desire to know more
than daily consumption, is the
cradle of civilization. The
creation of ideas.
Cut the tree, the land dies.
Eliminate compassion, replace
love with suspicion; the soul of
any place, withers and dies,
like so many green leaves choked
in dust and waiting for tending.
I too, want tending. To be held.
Reassured, not even that I
will live. But that I matter.
A land puts down its activity
and holds its loved ones
a little closer, a little tighter.
We wait for what our grandparents
called, relief. We wait for dawn.
We wait for someone to find
a cure. To say, “resume normal,
go forth and make joyful noise
unto the lord, once more.”
We may not know what to
call it, but we all know how to
feel the drops of emergence
on our upturned faces. Like so many
lettuces, like untended roses.
We all need to be free of the dust
of human failing, human fear.
We all pray for some kind of rain.
Triggers
A Poem by Marie Anzalone
Response to majority supremacy in the US and abroad. Read on international radio July 6, 2020
“Triggers”
I.
I would not be a poet,
if I did not feel the terror
of extinction, held
like hatred by so many living
components of this little blue marble;
if I did not also hear the prayers,
of every oppressed man in history,
who turned his face to the moon
when his brothers, turned their backs,
on him. I could not call myself a poet,
until I knew the story of every girl
in my class, afraid to raise her hand
when she knew the answer. I cannot
be a poet, until I learn to love the free-
as much as my cultures adore the idea
of freedom, but secretly hate
every young woman or old man
who has the audacity, to find it,
live it, grow it in their gardens and
basements and printing presses.
I will not be a poet, until I know
how and when and where
and with how much intensity-
to takes sides, to take a stand,
to take a book, to take a knee.
II.
The woman jealous of love,
scorns the other, who lives, free
and alone, in her own small home,
earning her own keep on her own terms.
The man afraid of his inner voice
fill’s God’s silence with useless noise.
Those who never bought a painting
ridicule the artist;
those who never wrote a letter
to a dead lover, say the poet’s words
have no value.
III.
“They” made me do it, you say.
Hangs wrung in false helplessness,
and I had no choice. But-
Your mother may have chosen
your toxic lover- but you chose to stay.
Your cousin does not ask to be insulted
for being gay- you learned the words.
George Floyd did not kneel
on his own neck; the system you built,
did that. The devil did not pull the trigger-
you did. The immigrant did not steal
your culture- you sold it.
China did not steal your job; you
refuse to pay a few extra cents
to your own neighbor.
Your girlfriend did not make
you abuse her to the point
she doubts her own sanity.
Without the food harvested
by the poor, you starve.
Without Indians to protect your water,
you die of thirst. So do the salmon.
The boy you lynched or shot
for being out of place on your street-
he did not disband the power
of the court. You did.
Stop making excuses.
Stop making others responsible
for what you do or did.
Own it, take back control-
of your hands, your words.
I would not be a poet,
if I swaddled your comfort
in a warm blanket, changed its diapers,
and fed it honey from a plastic spoon.
*
The shame of inability
A Poem by Marie Anzalone
I.
We lose so much of life
in the space of not trusting;
in the waiting for planets
to align, the right moment
to be invited in, given
permission by the divine.
I should be there with you,
holding your hand through
this grief, but a pandemic and an
inability to say who you are,
to me, get in the way,
stay my hand, shorten my grip.
I take in the sun by day,
contemplate the rain on the roof,
by night. When my friend died,
like for you, the hardest part
for me, was there being
no goodbye. No body, no
permission to be at the funeral.
I don’t want that for us.
II.
I have become an expert
at counting shadows, telling time
by the slant of sun on the garden,
knowing which bird trills
what song, from where, each hour
of every day alone in my own space.
I hold a doctorate in unsaid things,
I am a master of paintings for which
I never seem to have the right colors.
I hide ocean liners of passion
behind curtains woven of friendship.
I pretend to only understand half
of what I hear and see. I could write
a novel with nothing more than
spider silk, carving knives, and
garden soil. My actions tell the truth
when my mouth forms partial lies.
III.
To know an artist’s heart
watch how their brush or pen
caresses, strokes, massages, stabs,
or timidly approaches her subject.
As I am subject to you
you own most of my nights now;
I woke one morning
and a silver cord was tied
from my soul
to your midsection.
An ocean liner
was moored in my garden.
A story was demanding
to be written, out loud;
a painting came to life
in my teacup.
Something softened
in the way you come to me,
I almost see me now in some
lines drawn by your pen.
I drink 2 liters of liquid
a day but it is your water
my body wants to absorb,
like sunlight, like rain
in good soil.
IV
I sit here listening
to thunder and water drops
the rain sheeting off roofs.
I am ashamed that I cannot
hold your hand through your pain,
now and every night. And
I wonder- do you and I
ever sit, watching the same
river, from the same banks,
in any of our nights apart?
*
Solitary Confinement
A Poem by Marie Anzalone
If we don’t make it,
I hope the birds inherit the earth.
Great big flocks of them;
all colors, a celebration of
their own resilience in front
of their own pandemic
of unchecked human expansion.
May they carry seeds and fishes
and reclaim what we selfishly
took and took and took;
centuries of entitlement;
decades of “not my problem.”
May ducks dive in clear waters;
may sparrows sing
from abandoned WalMart
warehouses; may warblers
return to public spaces
where horns don’t blare. May
a renewed sensitivity awaken
in our children; may they
paint denizens of the sky
again in artwork
and make dishes and lamps
in their likeness; in the 18th
century we spent time outdoors
seeing God’s grace in a swallow’s
wing, a falcon’s dive;
visual expression of man’s
desire for remembrance
in solitary confinement.
July Gridville Fricassee Au Jus
July 2020- Selections from the July release Retread Rubbereden 2020 forth coming –
Right Terrible Now at first glance
Behind your Mask 2020
In Dragon Speak
These days
We look at others
Through ugly eyes
And hear them
In dirty ears.
And terrible now
We seldom see anybody’s face
Anymore just the same ole
Adverted glance and distance
Social prophylactics protocol
Six feet apart above or under the grave.
Those days of wine and roses, you thinking going
creating custom voice commands for text and graphics
editor to flawed commands based on
Larynx Malapropisms
to be able to work on certain angles
the collection of memory
wild intangibles
A Plague on their own-
-for V Wolfe & Emily D
Emily preferred to stay home anyway
While Virginia driven besides herself
To the Shelters in the underground
As the bombs fell.
How quickly the moment passes
As the bottle swings in a few
people that should be lightning bolts
like they strike you
when you least expect it to that matter
with those that return to you hopefully sans empties
ignoring thunder
Transformation
East 7th street
Quarantined
Deserted
No beer at the Coal Yard
No Pizza at Iggy’s
That blessed Cheeseburger
At Paul’s
Not a chance.
Gone with Wind
Like it was axed from HBO
Who was that person who took one you once
to where you always wanted to be ?
on the page
on the sidewalk
like so much unbridled heart gift
with a voice that has a mind of its own
So is it ?
polarized time
polarized time pulverized after the fact
every third word repeats the code
as a virus for Iris
when here in this terrible now
we measure our steps
in coffee spoons
March in place
Treading water
Into mud
Wishing for fins
Or at least gills
While all the dirt of the earth
Fails to support us as top soil
Until the finish
When we return.
So just maybe he is reminding you slowly still in the terrible now
not making much sense in Newspeak
Grief is done
barking up the wrong tree
We have done our time
paid pretty good respectively
I still think you all got off
rather mercifully.
But I didn’t
Perhaps it was those both barrels at once
I lost my old man and you in the same month
I stood and took it
At that time you were strong and weak
as the flesh and spirit are bound to be
Yes the sails shredded
Rutter shattered
the tide came and went
leaving us just a couple of extinguished red flames in the rain
thinking of that day
When we never had the guts or heart
To say it to each other-
face to face to end our dance
without the mask
when we still had the chance.
-Retread Rubbereden 2020
June turns the page-
June 2020 – End of the month update pending-info on next Book in July-
Narration/text composition/arrangement- Vincent Quatroche
Image association – Kayla Cunningham
Acoustic Piano – Matt Wiggers
Sound realization Dan Berggren
2020 Shorts
Slips-
(for Leo Gorcey aka Terence Aloysius ‘Slip’ Mahoney)
-looks if youse guys are gonna sing
Would you mind trying to that in Venison ?
Sure- it might happen
But then it would be anti-climate
You Nose youse guys have gotten
Pretty used to using me as an escape goat
Well from the looks of youse
I would ascertain you’ve been on Gullibles Travels
Terrible now I find dis de-Lama
Rather interplanetary and need
To try and figure out just what
The big de-Lama is
Well-
It’s pretty oblivious
What happened.
*
Special Occasion Designation Nation
This year I was thinking
I just might re-gift
Some of my Rescue dog Poetry
For you-
*
My Career in Porn
Yes-
Briefly back in the 70s
I was a stunt Dick
Later in life
I did the voice-overs
For when they forgot
Their lines
*
Behind your Mask
Some days
We look at others
Through ugly eyes
And hear them
In dirty ears.
Uncollected 3/20
*
The Girl from Podunk
-circa 1973
Lucinda
Danced on the horse shoe bar in bare feet
In Mitchell’s that Tuesday night and hiked
Up her black skirt and red petticoat
To mid thigh grinning figure 8s down
At the locals who were going nuts
And she couldn’t buy a drink
For the rest of the evening.
Towards closing time
She picked me out like a face in the crowd
And took me out back
To the waterfront harbor docks
On a splintered stringer straddled me
Locking our eyes she said
While sadly shaking her head
Hovering above with that long black curly hair
Falling on my face like theater curtains
Opening like at the start of a movie about
All the years I had yet to live and understand
just what Lucinda meant by telling me.
No…no…not you…my good man
Uncollected 20202
If you Fool with April 2.0
April 2020- Additional new work pending –
Christ Climbed Down
For Lawrence Ferlinghetti 1958
A Crucified Christ
Hidden in the cellar
Behind the oil burner
For 57 years-
He might have remained back there
Indefinitely if not
For the oil tank that sprung a leak
And needed replacement.
Like a mummy he was wrapped
In swaddling ancient newspaper
The N.Y Times from February 23 1958
Sunday edition
Mostly in the sports and fashion section
Including the race results from Hialeah
Surprisingly he was heavier than you’d think
Even sans cross-
As I gingerly carried him up the steep cold war stairs
From the cellar and propped him up against a tree
In the backyard in the shade of a late Sunday august afternoon.
He hadn’t been out since the Winter of 1958
Moved from the apartment over Van’s Hardware
Next to the shipyard.
To 12 Sutton Place
He was molded sculptured out of plaster of Paris
Slim limbs w/ the Pax Fish symbol in his arms
And legs like holy tattoos
The nail holes in the center of both his outstretched
Hands and crossed feet for mounting and hanging
I sat in a lawn chair regarding my father’s creation
And contemplated blasphemy by wondering if
I should offer him a beer-
After all I was having one.
And it’s time to come down off the cross boss
your last supper is getting cold
I don’t have any wine unfortunately
So Christ-
Have a beer
Uncollected 8/2019
Advice for Aspiring Alcoholics
Listen
if after beer number three
you don’t feel
at least mildly optimistic ?
And after number dozen
you’re sobbing in your pillow-
Quit.
Collected circa 2014
*
Why is April the Cruelest Month ?
Hard to put a handle
on this label.
So I asked my students
who originally wrote
this line.
They “peered” up at me
with such a deep bewilderment.
All except for that one girl who sits off on the left hand side of the room
who rolled her eyes and let out a sigh while huffing indignantly ,
“I don’t even see what that’s even supposed to mean.”
I guess now wasn’t the time to introduce the line,
“I see myself dead in the rain”
Maybe it was the bookend of chilled dawn memory
sandwiched between the evening dusk desire frost.
Sniffing the smell of the shit hitting fan
tends to make you a “little thirsty”
by the end of the day.
OK.
How about
“a lot….. of “little thirsty”
Perhaps it is the terrible now taking hold
like one real “stick it to um” bastard of planet
The distance of the years gone by realized numb
is a growing, gnawing squeezing in your chest.
But really it’s that stranger’s hand in your pocket
You know that one you discover
upon putting your own in there
to fish something out.
And it looks like somebody already beat you too it
In some other April
where somebody else’s memory
picked that pocket clean
of all you ever desired. Collected 4/2004
*
One for ears from Mr. Cedric- Stop him if you’ve heard this one
*
Ready the March ?
March 2020- Call for prices-
Mad March World
In this light
March simply has
nowhere to go
but……on.
The step in the day
a longer presence
of illumination into
the afternoon later now
every new year born
in this same way.
There is this sense of urgency
a sort of headless Madness
that ignites
brittle tree limbs to
fan fine struck fingers
in complicated silhouette
flung across the horizon
like a bottle of India ink
spilled and splattered
upon a pale blue sky page.
I send these words
mere reflection
auditory stenography
purely dependent
on perception systems
beyond my grasp or control
Along the prescribed channels
as the pale blue light
drains the light
from the sky’s page.
3/11
Fragments of the March
Light upon the lake
Waves frozen in mid-break
Broken Shafts of weak March sun
newly poured upon cracked and
shattered sheets of hyper-white
entrenched ice
a history of persistent bitter air
trapping flowing waters still born
beneath.
Light upon the Lake
waves frozen in mid-break
Barely Marching sun
arrested impressions
strange frigid contours
rivets of pressure
compacted tighter
isobars deceptive surface
unlikely to support any weight
Yet enough to entrap
a fool’s misstep
Light upon the Lake
Waves frozen in mid-break.
3/11
Of texture and Color
Waiting in the door
the bartender with some
exasperation shrugged
all I heard was a spicy bloody Mary.
I nodded in agreement and immediately wrote down
You change the pens color in me.
It was the creme feel to the page
somewhere in the sheep and oil skin
To the touch that defines the lines content
in context calling in a fluid hue
all that two parallel paths
can carry between them
all they can contain
in the ear that listens
closely for what the eyes sees
left for you upon
the crème of the page.
You can’t touch color
or so they say.
However the request to bathe
in tone and shade is to extend
to reach out the hand and try
Touch were all the colors
never answer to their proper names
and refuse to simply run out and dry.
Perhaps then it is that desire
to request the color of the pen to change
is what so very few can do to each other
-for each other.
No one chooses anything here
The first glace into the other’s face
that rings the bell or
reverberation between
the four eyes looking into
the crème of the page
as it goes……………..ding. 3/11
Last Day of Winter
So sing blue sky without
memory on the cusp
of seasons exchanging gears.
March in transition chilly
with a deceitful light promising
warmth but delivering
stark fingers puzzle scissors
purple brown sleeping limbs.
The air in the room hisses
in more chilly silence
Students bent to their task
glance out the window
hoping an answer appears there.
A flag flutters stiffly at the end of a pole
like it was an end of the broadcast day
announcement.
But this is mid-morning
for such a terminal signal
a sign-off, a blizzard of white noise
so the clouds defuse the light
and the classroom darkens…
A blanket of gray descends…
bringing with it a big black old memory
of a time like this before
where the silence bores into the ears
and fatigue of vague weariness
invites the eyelids to begin to droop
There is always the sleep of change
reminding each fleeting season
just how short our time on earth is
in March.
3/09
February is a Short Dog Typo
February 2020 New Work
Narcissus Echo
(For M A O’Hara)
They were home in bed after an evening out for dinner and drinks that had progressively
Degenerated in the sullen silence now between them. He didn’t know it yet but this
Affair was having its walking papers being processed,
After he had some observation about how lousy the restaurant she had picked for
them. She sat up and shook her head saying- You are some Narcissus-
He had heard all this before- a kind of default negative character assignment when
His relationships were going south. Usually he just let it go- but not tonight.
They had the following exchange
So if I’m Narcissus do you know what that makes you who ?
Who ?
Narcissus/ girlfriend Echo
Echo ?
Yup. Not only that but everybody seems to have him pegged, but very few seem
To know anything who she was
Who She was ?
Echo was a very good looking Wood Nymph. She had one annoying characteristic
However she was bather mouth- would talk the ear off anyone she met.
So one day Zeus has come down from Olympus to frolic and knock off a few
Stray Nymph’s in the woods. His wife Hera (also known as June) was very aware
Of her husband’s salacious hobbies on earth and followed him to catch the old lech
In the act of his indiscretions and she might caught him too….but she happened to
Run into Echo. As you can imagine Echo wanted to talk to the Godness about everything.
She ran a blue streak babble detaining Hera’s pursuit of her wayward husband, Zeus seeing
What was going on escaped clean away back to Olympus.
Later on Hera figured out that Echo had perhaps purposely distracted her. She was pissed.
So Hera took away Echo’s voice and pronounced from now Echo could only repeat
The last words spoken to her. So in one respect Echo would have the last word forever.
A rather ignominious gift to round out the punishment.
So Echo is wandering the woods on that day and sees young Narcissus a rather spoiled very
Good looking teenager out hunting with the boys. Now all the other Wood Nymphs thought
Our boy was to die for- But he wanted none it.
Now Echo sees Narcissus and goes nuts. She wants this beefcake in the worst way.
But she can’t speak to him first. She starts stalking him. He gradually becomes aware
Of this and is kind of creeped out- and he yells out go away beat it and of the course she hears back
Go away beat it. This goes on for awhile till Echo can’t stand it anymore. She sneaks up
Behind Narcissus and knocks him flat and straddles him. Her intentions are very clear.
No Dice. Old Narcissus isn’t into this sort of thing. Yells at her I would rather die than
You have me. Echo humiliated in tears replies Have me.
Echo continues to follow him till he comes to that pool of water. (which was created by the
Gods to punish this rather vain teenager). Truth was Narcissus wasn’t very bright to begin with
Anyway. His birth and been as questionable as Echoes- (but that’s another story) A Seer named
Teiresias had told his mom (Blue Nymph) that her stunning son would be ok only if he never
Knew himself, Get it ? The stupid bastard probably never knew it was his reflection in the
Pool. So you might know the rest by now- Narcissus withered away and died because of a lost love and Echo did as well a few feet away pinning away for him.
Back in the bedroom she was getting dressed getting to leave and said
Well that stupid story proves my perfectly- Our relationship has some very serious issues and rather discussing that you tell me that stupid story where you actually defend and try to justify that guy – no wonder you spend most of your day when you aren’t working watching Porn and drinking beer.
Know what ? You are Narcissus and you can forget that bullshit about Echo/
I know what I want-and that’s not you– Goodbye Baby-
He shrugged as she walked out the door and called after her Goodbye Baby
Uncollected 2019/2020
January 2020 Hindsight 4.0
January 2020– It gets late early out there. -Yogi Berra
Mixed Signals
Encased
Inside
the very center of a
January icicle night
with all the colors
running silent
screaming black and white
and the top of the tip
of the tongue’s pigment.
Encased
Inside
the very center of a
January icicle night
He ran from the room
like an errant fire engine
in his eyes was the lighthouse
on fire while a confused group
of hastily summoned volunteers
wondered what the next best course
of action might be
either make a run to connect hoses
or watch out for the jagged rocks
off the shore line shrouded in icy fog
or just shrug and leave quietly
by the clearly illuminated fire exits.
But instead
they sat arrested by him
in his wake
his warning
his smoke
while wondering
what could be next for all them
Encased
Inside
the very center
of a January Icicle Night.
From Sometime Grief- 12/11
*
Strange Winter
These long dry days
when pavement yawns bare gray
grass sleeps brown
and light shivers lost
without the blanket
of snow to surround..
So very quickly January
settles into herself
without memory’s delay
the novelty of newness
wearing thinner
every day.
Not a second thought
escapes here to slip away
nowhere goes the tongue
explaining nothing further
other than the day to day.
In this strangest Winter
forecasters scramble to explain
the lack of punch in the season
the vacant numbness
in practiced silence
to justify and ordain.
So stillborn
time seems
when a lull
in the beginning
seems to betray
what you know is coming
now to you any day.
In this the Strangest of Winters.
Uncollected 1.2012
January Letters 2012
So soon the light struggles to return
to fill the new year wolf ticket sky
in a lingering tentative twilight
towards some vague promise of Spring
merely a rumor of illumination
left in a hand written note
taped to a bus shelter on the corner
of 33rd St.. and Lexington
asking you in rhyme by name
What did all the years mean….. …… ?
I recall writing those January letters
imploring you to reconsider
that annual ritual of tossing
the poet out of your life.
Now as you have finally succeed
you still read in stubborn justification
safe in the distance from these words afar
telling you exactly
what you never had the heart
to tell me
to my face.
Mute the voice
Blind the eye
drain the last pool
of affection dry.
What is written here now
has a place beyond words
where language is the
shallowest of vehicles
for sequestered emotions
scattered to the four corners
of isolation, exile
estrangement and banishment.
Distance now is the key
after you have left another
in so very deep
that the hope of a journey back
to all the lost moments are everything
that you can no longer keep.
Uncollected 1/2012
Get that Poem…
Written in the Coal Yard 102 1st Ave. between 6 & 7th St. East Village NYC Sunday Night 12/11/11
Listen there you
and better listen good
get the poem off your chest already
and then
take that crestfallen chin
with you.
You really want it
to continue to dig
a hole in you ?
Better face it at last.
Nothing you write really matters here
so it’s really time to try to forget it…
Write it down and then burn it.
If it was all just another
of your ill-advised creations
of the heart
then reconcile
file
and
at least try
to resist your insistence upon remembering
anything more about all this….
But you at least took your lumps
and I mean did your time
in payback zone all alone.
Some things I suppose
you could have said better
what rage you deferred
was perhaps at first what you should have thought better of…
or maybe your second guess was just the worst.
So now in this place past the end
you still feel that you would rather have had
it all done to you
than do the same hardness to another.
So they get the brake
They get another pass
But just how long
In their lives
Do you think that’s
Gonna last ?
But at least for tonight
and I mean right now
just for once
you can walk just right around the corner here
and get that poem off your chest
and take your skinny ass and crestfallen chin
with you.
Uncollected 12/2011
Another year ? Another Dybbuk
The Dybbuk Dreams
I
t was in the first few nights of the New Year
when all promise and disaster were as unopened mail
that the past had a walk in his sleep.
The Dybbuk’s hands opened old draws
shuffled through forgotten pages
Pausing to repeat a line of a letter
here and there.
Ashes were stirred and long dormant old flames set free
to flicker. Then the night faces could dance once more.
Night faces coming back to visit shining
eyes to glow back into.
Another year rolling itself out like an immense black wing .
Your sleeping form swept along in this night flight,
those waking hours, now the specter, this was the soul
strolling hand in hand with the eternal freedom of
time asleep.
She walked once more upon the mores, in a chilly thick fog.
Here where she had always known that he waited for her
In between anger and consequences,
in this dreamscape of quicksand recall where mushroomed
marsh islands of what might have been.
They both returned to this shadow realm of still photographs
hung and propped in the endless stark arms of winter.
Here where the past stood naked and true.
Both came with small hands grasping deep into the heart’s
pocket. Each visited at different points
along the dream curve, with separate dependencies and
versions of the same story.
They left messages here for each other.
The last word over and over. The promises of reconciliation
and forgiveness. The sensation they shared of never being
able to meet face to face again, outside of this place
of half light sand deep grey pools. Always to return to
the same beaten path, in the corner of the dream.
This place where the images of each other’s faces
in those frozen photos snared arrested looks
and eyes of love and delight that once were shared.
They both returned to this place, every so often
to get a face full and
look down at the other’s footprints
left in the path
from the night before.
Another Rubber Eden 1997
NEXT !
(For R.B)
The wonderful life Christmas is over
One tries not to be depressed.
Maybe re-read Brautigan’s piece
From 1963
Where he and his friend were
so depressed over Kennedy’s public execution
that they took pictures
of discarded Christmas trees
abandoned in the gutter
and then proceeded to get drunk
while watching a slide show of them later.
I get that.
All those rolls of left over wrapping paper
all about the place.
The lights that need to be taken down
before the neighbors start with
the “white trash” wisecracks
One thing you can say about Christmas
in this post modern area,
Once it’s over.
It’s dead.
A lot of build up.
A product orgy climax
And the day after ?
Forget about you
The day after Christmas
is like nailing a wood screw
into the back of an old friend
Who shows up once a year for a visit.
And as he walks out the door.
You slam and lock it on his heels
Hissing, “and don’t come back till next year,
You pain-in the-ass bastard.”
Thankful ?
Sure.
This year I was thankful I didn’t end up
in the paraplegic chair
in a nursing home in Baldwin
after that nasty fall
down the Cold War stairs
back in your hometown
that ended up with you
kissing some concrete.
Instead I made it back here on Christmas Eve.
Just in time to have a good cry
With Alastair Sims.
Greeting from Gridville 12/03
December always comes last 2.0
December update 2019- Your ghost at the door knocks again
Greenport Christmas 1967
I’m walking next to my father
on a chilly, but clear Christmas Eve
down to the movie theater
just past supper time
under a brilliant canopy of stars.
The sidewalks are hard solid grey
cracked and buckled slabs.
We walk the mile
side by side
as we always have.
We have been doing this
since I learned to walk
and was able to keep up.
Tonight I’m going down to work with him.
The town glows silently tonight
The storefronts decorated.
We pass swiftly the last few blocks
down to the other end of town.
We can’t be late to start the show on time.
We stand in front of the darkened theater
as he fishes his keys out to unlock the lobby doors…
He has them attached on a long silver chain
There are a lot on the ring….
As I stand next to him searching for the right one
I can smell the low tide bay a block away
in the cool night air.
Once inside the theater is dark…
He goes in the office and I hear the snap of the circuit breaker
relays bringing to life the light the Deco Movie Palace
The orange chasers on the huge marquee dance in a mad circle
outside in the Christmas eve night.
The movie theater is alive.
Gushes great sighs of forced warm air.
The crowd is sparse.
I sit up in the near empty
orchestra/lodge in the front row
of the one thousand seat house
eating popcorn and drinking coke
and watch a comedy farce
that I hardly understand.
Even the second time.
I sit through the two showings..
the Seven and the Nine PM.
There are even less people for the last showing.
A little after eleven I watch my Dad
kill all the lights
with the same circuit breaker snap
sequence.
I watch the movie theater go back to sleep.
We ride home with Jimmy D
the projectionist
in his work van.
I sit in the back with all the tools
on a overturned milk carton.
He smokes cigars
and barks a hard husky throaty laugh
as he farts
which makes him laugh harder…
I like him
and the sound of his laughter
but I hope when I grow up
I don’t find that stink as funny
as he and my Dad do.
He pulls up
in front of our house
near the Sound Bluffs.
As the engine idles
They talk in the front.
I ask if I can go inside.
I’m sleepy.
Need to go to bed.
It’s Christmas eve
and I’m 12.
Too old for Santa
but not my dad.
12/07
Cool Whip June Christmas
Could anything
look much better
than a white plastic
former Cool Whip
container presently
filled to the brim
with old-fashioned
glass shelled peanut
sized multicolored
electric red, green,
orange, purple
Christmas bulbs just sitting
there on the workbench
out in garage
on a brilliant June evening
ending so slowly
the longest day of the half
disappeared year as a gentle twilight
shroud of dusk descends
so slowly ushering in another
fragile fleeting gift of Summer?
Except you.
Nor’easter for Christmas
(for Monk)
And he started
talking in
back alley doorways
with a mug full
of parking lot teeth
as the gale wound
up her fist from
the east and positively
dared him to jump
across four feet of lapping blackness
from the aft deck
to the floating dock
gleaming slick in salt water ice
to square of that drag line.
Of course he did it.
Now the red and green
of the old Claudio’s
liquor sign flickers,
buzzes and glows
around his head like
sucker punch halo
as the flags up on top
of the poles
sport boners.
Of course
he did it.
7/07
*
Serial Visits
*
The whistle is the period
in this motion sentence.
Punctuating movement
calling cooling coffee steam
escaping gray minuet figure 8s
in a rocking cardboard tray.
Go ahead.
Spill it.
After all
how many years
have you been ending
your life sentence
in this paragraph.
Awareness unraveling
to some temporary core
where you define
your next visit as the
last lap of time and distance
measured increments
like rungs of a ladder.
That track bed ratio
of rhythm and ties.
How do they sing in their beds so ?
What is it with that whistle
that you still insist upon
that you hear so clearly
much less
ride off
into a sentence of movement.
Present future
Past period.
Take a deep breath
of the dark roads awash
in wire to wire rain.
Do you stop to heave a sigh here ?
In relief awash or gasp for air
15 hours after ignition.
Do we have your
arrested attention
yet ?
How can you hope to convey
this flight
this passage
A shadow’s dance
In lock step perpetuation.
What kind of ticket shall we call this then ?
Miracle, weary ritual
or merely picking
from the fabric of your reflections
a thread you wove
that called you by name incessantly.
Into a dream
from out of a dream.
Where you step
and step again
all over it.
On it.
Just past it
Inside you.
Greeting from Gridville -2004
*
Christmas Visit Snapshot
*
Nearly noon along the Hudson
Brilliant light about
descending rust wine
iron crane wench hook
set in blue and white midday relief.
McNamara’s daughter isn’t coming
Johnny in Singapore
You sit in here alone
listening to the bartender
tell that the pickpockets are
using box cutters this year
up on 86th and Lexington.
Back in the Big Red Mountain booth
way downtown beaten worn linoleum
I’ll call you from the payphone
in the back near the pool table
while listening to the killer jukebox
resurrect Spike Jones singing,
“you always hurt the one you love.”
Attitude House 12/99
*
Homecoming
*
Can you find any words left
for the long runway and this familiar foot rest.
All day miles melted past
and you were able to sit still silently propelled
just reading and taking notes.
Your big idea of time off.
Now before the last leg of the trip
you heel toe the legs put the sidewalk square
with an older eye.
Attesting to this as I walk in the door
overheard from the boys over the pool table,
“here comes the professor…..
wonder where his footnotes are tonight?”
So you take your place at the bar and
put out.
Always remembering, remembering
where you came from.
Attitude House- Greenport Christmas 98
November said Nada
November 2019- Post Thanksgiving Thoughts-
The Ancient Mariner reading Lucky, Lulu, and a Cat Named Bo (Cold Turkey) for “K’s” Ghost City Cabaret II Halloween Edition @ Cornelia Street Cafe October 15, 2018 – Video courtesy of Mitch Corber
Presented here is good friend and guest contributor featuring recently published work by Poet extraordinaire Bernard Block.
Fable of the Mermaid and the Starbuckers
A satiric riff on Pablo Neruda’s poem, “Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks”
All these Starbuckers were there inside
When she entered, nude.
She came from the East River,
She lost her way. Eyes came from faraway.
Wended her way between hookers and bucks.
No one noticed. Who was she?
Glided into Starbucks.
Did they see?
Gray faces, gray tables
White spaces, gray fables
Smell of coffee, smell of money
Ringtone tinkled Lovely Rita
Someone seeking Goddess Sita?
Fingers tapped Blueberry
Brains blogged Strawberry
Twitter blogged I-phone
Tarragonswiss gelatocone
Pointy heads cyberspace
MySpace YourSpace
Beyond time and face
Eyes glazed laptop
Educated—Stop and Shop
Eyes—Wi-fied
Viral infection since July
Did they see?
No one asked
Who was she?
She did not know tears
She did not weep
She did not know dreams
She dared not sleep
She tried, tried to imagine
A pirouette
Did she forget
Did she forget
She did not know words
She did not speak
Eyes were birds
White and meek
Arms were topaz
Lips—coral light
Eyes were birds
Stripped in flight
Silence twined her glistening flesh
Blindness blanked her golden breast
Glided by
Who was she
No one noticed
Did they see
Suddenly, she left by that door.
She entered the river, gleaming
A white stone in the rain
Only hearing her refrain
Without a backward glance
She drew a breath
Swam toward never
Swam toward death
— Published in Thrive Global August 19, 2018
*
All Souls Day
*
November shrugged at the time the masks slipped
Stripped away in the face of high wind warnings as if in this season begged advisements cautions
Still mild that morning fooling few to believe
That this day would pass swaddled in gray soft gauze
While the light diffused diminishing increments
Was that encroaching mist unraveling like a ball of yarn
To cascade down a slope of cotton
Falling needle pinpoints liquefied
There was this puncturing of scattered shallow puddles
Reverberating in sound wave concrete circles
Auditory auditions sharpening a deaf set of eyes
In these stains of ink
Lurk faceless memories I think
Past Persona gone non-grata
November shrugged at the time the masks slipped away
To reveal the naked face of high wind awnings
As if this season begged advisement cautions
Stripped away now in alibis and warnings
-Got Abstract ? 2014
*
Bright
Yellow weeping Willow
hangs her head
caught in the corner of my eye
waving goodbye
Long finger limps
strum the empty heaving air
moving in the tentacle string wind.
Cascading color
tangled water crest fallen
as stray estranged leaves
scurry across black gold
While the adjacent playground
is deserted of children
today
A lone fire hydrant
squats silently chipped red
not playing
not playing
at all
today.
VQ Collected circa 2012
*
Are We really his Reality TV ?
When the vox populi
turns a moron into a sandwich and asks what would you like on this ?
Hero President or Nero
having at this instrument that was more that he had
bitten off-
and had to chew – always some mouthful to swallow
and sleep between the sheets of a well when you make your bed…….
ci incontreremo quando i sogni si scontrano
as Rome burned
Uncollected VQ 11/10/16
October Boo Man
October 2019- My reruns ran me over in retreads
Recycled from October 2014 in redux
In the End of October
*
The day had been the kind of grey
that elected itself spokesman
for the afternoon.
The voice chilled with a certain
knowledge of pale blue diluted
into a chilly white that promised lassitude.
The voice is saying the seasons
are in collision and we are in the locking in.
Fall has spent weeks gathering on the ground
and Winter as of yet is disinterested
in the whole business
refuses to go to work
so the ground shuffles the leaves like
a card shark ready to
deal ice cube deuces for your hand.
The time of the mask comes and goes.
So the night fills and drains costumes.
Stalking Quick Bank; Celebrity hero murderers,
Syntax gender victims seeking damages; Purple
suited stunt person blubbering compassion and
politeness; decapitated rock stars, mutilated
millionaire ex-cheerleaders and just plain folks
caught in the crossfire, carjacking drive-by
random acts of brutal insanity of choice or chance.
Legions of green, yellow, red, black and white
three foot high grunting kicking punching power
midgets morphing into respected connected influential
public officials and politicians that are shaping the
course of personal liberty in your lives.
The traditional allotment of vampires, ghouls, demons
and blood thirsty fetus snatching liberal aliens.
What freedom the night affords.
All the secretaries become waitresses, the waitresses
begot actresses, the actresses begot whores, the whores
begot Raggedy Ann princesses, who begot
gypsies and then as the dawn breaks they all turn back to
secretaries.
The great hangover of our self-deception on
all souls night.
I watched you swim the twilight
while the trees are stripped of their delicate garments.
You are swallowing the dusk in buckets
drowning in a swirl of mad flight as the undertow of
the wind sucks and pushes brittle leaves dragging
their finger nails along the sidewalk.
On the way home, I’ll buy you a pumpkin
and we can carve a face into it and take turns
guessing whose it is.
Another Rubber Eden 92
*
Taken out in the American Trash
1471 1st Ave. NYC
Halloween 10/2010
*
I was standing at the urinal
in the Men’s room in American Trash
and the devil strolled in and positioned
himself next to me and unzipped
and I glanced over and said
Hiya Satan.
Long time no see
How’s the old demon tonight?
He coolly regarded me in the mirrors
reflection in the mortal image in front of us
and corrected me saying,
That’s Lucifer to you son.
He asked me what I was supposed to be
A beat writer I replied
He smirked.
Finished pissing
vanishing in a plume of fire and brimstone.
And I thought,
“What….no deal?”
So I retreat back into the barroom of humorless costumes
as the night of masks passed with a the dead captain singing
with a ring toss dildo attached to his loins
that love won’t keep us together
when Bad Barbie strolled in
still in the box
with a five o clock shadow
and unlit White Owl Tiparilo
ordering a drinking next to me at the bar.
And of course.
She had a proposition for me.
-Sometimes Grief 2012
*
October Nocturne
(for the Phil & my son)
Even Damnation is poisoned with rainbows
-Leonard Cohen
October evening in the railroad earth
Were Wolfe and Jack once rode
Split this month in half
Between Summer and Winter
And allow the days to Fall
As they May.
Earlier in the afternoon when you showed up
On the sidewalk in front of his apartment
Looking so lost and beat
The brother from another planet
Grinning at you with amusement said
So what do you think you’re doing cursing for Sailors?
Tonight I sleep in the arms of St.Mark
This place where you cut your
Beatnik teeth over on E 7th forty years ago.
Back then you knew how to get to only
Two places in the City-
Hess’s apartment
And Veryonna across the street.
So with the Ancient Mainer and my son now a full grown man
We kibitz, mug and joke around on the stoop in front of Phil’s place
Thinking the three of us are like Matt Dillon Mickey Rourke and Dennis Hopper In Rumble Fish as we head for the bar around the corner to
Over beers try and figure out just who is who tonight.
October 2018
*
Osculating with the Ocelots
When we filter our words
We strain out thoughts
Away from the desired intent
And then attempt to hit the
Dartboard of coherency
With these dull verbal flechetts (Fa-chets)
And even worse aim
Depth perception.
*
Meeting Geo the Wheel
I remember years ago
Running across him at the bar
After some poetry reading
And the lapdog barfly writers
Were crawling all over him
Circling him like the sharks
Had hung a pork chop around his neck.
*
The Art of the Wink
Can I ask you a question ?
When was the last time somebody winked at you ?
Better yet- when was the last time
You winked at someone ?
Now consider this
Has the wink become a lost art ?
When was the last time you lost something
Fragile, dear and precious
In the wink of the eye ?
Do you remember your last favorite wink ?
(and what it meant)
And how about the most disturbing wink ever ?
Clearly much like a good laugh-a pregnant pause- a fleeting deep glance
What has become of the Wink ?
But I will tell you this much-
I never want to have to think either before or after a wink.
*
Academic Smirk Alert
Coming out of the Film Analysis class he had just taught
That early winter morning as the hallway flooded with
Shafts of sunshine the hallway abruptly faded as this little dark
Cloud in a mini-skirt, knee high white go-go boots sashayed
Towards him moving in the opposite direction
Spotting him glowered lowering her brow
To avoid eye contact
And sending the clear message-
So this is the asshole I keep hearing about from Professor McPricker’s school of disdain.
He shrugged, sighed and sadly shook his head
Thinking why in holy hell did he still manage to attract this kind of sophomoric horse shit.
He let out a rather conversational assessment of the encounter in exasperation saying
Whatever
And immediately she echoed
Whatever
Well now he thought-
I guess we’re in agreement about that.
*
Narcissus Echo
(For M A O’Hara)
They were home in bed after an evening out for dinner and drinks that had progressively degenerated in the sullen silence now between them. He didn’t know it yet but this affair was having its walking papers being processed-
After he had some observation about how lousy the restaurant she had picked for them. She sat up and shook her head saying- You are some Narcissus-He had heard all this before- a kind of default negative character assignment when his relationships were going south. Usually he just let it go- but not tonight.
They had the following exchange
So if I’m Narcissus do you know what that makes you who ?
Who ?
Narcissus/ girlfriend Echo
Echo ?
Yup. Not only that but everybody seems to have him pegged, but very few seem
To know anything who she was
Who She was ?
Echo was a very good looking Wood Nymph. She had one annoying characteristic
However she was bather mouth- would talk the ear off anyone she met.
So one day Zeus has come down from Olympus to frolic and knock off a few
Stray Nymph’s in the woods. His wife Hera (also known as June) was very aware
Of her husband’s salacious hobbies on earth and followed him to catch the old lech
In the act of his indiscretions and she might caught him too….but she happened to
Run into Echo. As you can imagine Echo wanted to talk to the Goodness about everything.
She ran a blue streak babble detaining Hera’s pursuit of her wayward husband, Zeus seeing
What was going on escaped clean away back to Olympus.
Later on Hera figured out that Echo had purposely distracted her. She was pissed.
So Hera took away Echo’s voice and pronounced from now Echo could only repeat
The last words spoken to her. So in one respect Echo would have the last word forever.
A rather ignominious gift to round out the punishment.
So Echo is wandering the woods on day and sees young Narcissus rather spoiled very
Good looking teenager out hunting with the boys. Now all the other Wood Nymphs thought
Our boy was to die for- But he wanted none it.
Now Echo sees Narcissus and goes nuts. She wants this beefcake in the worse way.
But she can’t speak to him first. She starts stalking him. He gradually becomes aware
Of this and is kind of cheeped out- a yells out go away beat it and of the course hears back
Go away beat it. This goes on for awhile till Echo can’t stand it anymore. She sneaks up
Behind Narcissus and knocks him flat and straddles him. He intentions are very clear.
No Dice. Old Narcissus isn’t into this sort of thing. Yells at her I would rather die than
You have me. Echo humiliated in tears replies Have me.
Echo continues to follow him till he comes to that pool of water. (which was created by the
Gods to punish this rather vain teenager). Truth was Narcissus wasn’t very bright to begin with
Anyway. His birth and been as questionable as Echoes- (but that’s another story) A Seer named
Teiresias had told his mom (Blue Nymph) that her stunning son would ok only if he never Knew himself, Get it ?
The stupid bastard probably never knew it was his reflection in the pool. Ok so you should know the rest by now- Narcissus withered away and died because of a lost love and Echo did as well a few feet away pinning away for him.
Back in the bedroom she was getting dressed getting to leave and said
Well that stupid story proves my perfectly- Our relationship has some very serious issues and rather discussing that you tell me that stupid story where you actually defend and try to justify that guy – no wonder you spend most of your day when you aren’t working watching Porn and drinking beer.
Know what ? You are Narcissus and you can forget that bullshit about Echo
He shrugged as she walked out the door and called after her Goodbye Baby
To which she spat over her shoulder-
Goodbye Baby.
*
Humoresque
And John Garfield just told Joan Crawford-
You know full well you have a blank check with my emotions.
*
Central Casting has been notified
You know what you’re like ?
A two dollar plastic frame.
Cheap and easy to find.
*
Drinking in every second
Five senses walk into a bar
And start buying rounds for each other.
Bartender doesn’t know what to think about this bunch
Except perhaps he needs to speak into their good ear.
Mostly much of what you see is still wet anyways
And runs into your eyes upside down and backwards.
While touch and smell debate
Till taste tells them all
To just shut up.
*
Please don’t play that again Sam
And of course
You had better remember this
A kiss is still a kiss or a swing and a miss
While a sigh as become an alibi
It would seem the fundamental things have gone array
As time goes by.
June 19
September will remind you 2.0
September 2019 – Falling Shorts 2012
In Synesthesia
Three kinds of listening:
Wind chimes without a voice
The incomplete sentence of silence
Lexicon stripped of shivers
When did my delight
become a dead language ?
*
Cancelled Cooking Show
When someone has
really gotten deep
into your kitchen.
You’ll never find
that recipe again.
October is…..
October is what
you once said
to an empty door.
*
The Spider leaves home
These are our ghosts now
trapped like ashes
in an abandoned cobweb.
*
Remember we are not….
And he had this stiletto cackle
laugh like a manic trip hammer
Woody Woodpecker
*
Never be
Try to never be
a shitty thing to do
Sure.
Say what you will
Do what you do
but if any that just means
washing your hands
to do what you had to ?
Try to never be
just another
shitty thing to do.
*
Bitten off
One might be wise to bear in mind
that all the hurt you have done
in appetite and menu
will someday return
to eat at you.
A nibble here.
a mouthful there
when you once bit off
more you could chew
-Got Abstract ? 2014
*
Saying Grace in Rocco’s Castle
When your infected
with color
images burn all night
no escape, intermission
or respite.
Twenty years ago I heard it
bent to a purple ear.
He was the handsomest man
you had ever seen.
Errol Flynn living down at the wharf.
You made him laugh so hard
in that afternoon at the café.
His boat moored upon the bay
where you tossed your beret
away at midnight.
Now
you sit in a pool of neon
right next to the door
and in the light and silence
you get a breather
and ponder which hope
you’ll drown first tonight.
Outside the winter moon
slices off a kiss to February
as if to say
you’d be better
off to forget
what you can
while you can.
All the things that you
have always persisted on
insisted upon
have uniformly
disappointed and deserted you.
In here the floor plan
issues enough elbow room
for you to reconsider
that cardboard partition
you count on to hold court
between all your illusive delusions
and that running gag
that doubles as your memory.
-Attitude House 2001
*
and yet the wheel turns again- October only a matter of time and the days are sneaking by you
Pull in the soften light
as October nears neigh
a new moon across the sky
in the next street over
hear where your absence
passes aspiration in a blur
of newer older days where
Fall emerges fresh
in still born green leaves
patches of watercolor encroach
like your temples gray
Turning away from the truth
the days are sneaking years by you
diminishing the sight
stiffening the limb
Time winding you down
ebbing your energy
singing in the empty driveway
the vehicle of your flesh
is late
and growing later all the while
so I still strain to hear the sounds
I need to
while resisting the same I’m forced
to endure
the terrible ticking of the now
in my ears
A sound I find
I cannot refuse or resist.
-Greetings From Gridville 10/09
August Reruns are on
August 2019- live link to a performance @ the the Three Cups Lounge in NYC 7/29/2015 for Phillip Giambri aka Rimes of the Ancient Mariner- Silver Tongue Devil Poetry Series-
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYGz6-Y_tYM&feature=em-upload_owner
*
Local Trinity
Night after night I would watch him
insisting upon tossing a pair of blank dice
and snapping his fingers hissing,
“what are the odds?”
And then the perfume of the moon
would linger in the air echoing
“what are the odds?”
Night after night.
I’d watch him and remark,
“this is strictly none of my business
but are you aware those are blank dice?”
He regarded this and simply remarked,
“doesn’t change the game or the odds
that you are not
just another ugly American
addicted behind the wheel
looking for the action
the sure thing
the real deal
knowing you’d settle for;
the rind, the peel, the squeal.
He had been a “wannabe” so long
that the “never was” in him grew curious as
to whatever became of that tired old “has been.”
Wanna see where the “wannabe” lingered too long
getting around to informing his “never was” to look
up that tired old “has been” and have a little fun
with his ass.
Wanna know how the “wannabe” was elevated to
the status of a “has been” after being allowed to skip the
“never was” designation all together,
it happened on that night when the “never was” happen to run
into the “has been” and grabbed himself fistfuls of his lapels
and snarled, “who never was?”
He wasn’t quite finished yet, however and with their jaws inches apart
snapped, “Listen you, I was a nobody before you were even thinking,
“wannabe” and my “has been” will see your dick in the dirt.”
So what are the odds?
Maybe some night you’re down at the bar
and three of them stroll in on the
perfume of the moon.
The “wannabe” buying them all a round.
While the “never was” fishes those dice out of his pocket.
But it’s the “has been” who is holding court with the
bartender and if you lean in a little closer you can hear
him saying, “Of course the dice are blank, what did you
expect, there’s a very good reason they call them “bones”
You be better off watching where you step either on the way up or
down because you never know who might have heard those
footsteps. Yeah, footsteps, they echo you know. It’s like this;
If you can remember where when, you can remember how now.”
Attitude House 2000
*
Talking in Punch Lines
There he is again.
Just sitting there
Looking like
Busted-in “Lite-Brite”
Puss in squid
On early release
promising to break out
the O most holy id.
So when he started talking in punch lines
Down at the bar one night
Nary an eyebrow was raised.
How many will it take him tonight?
Five.
One to steer.
One to work the pedals.
Two to push and one to sit under the hood and go, “varooomm, varooomm.”
I won’t come in your mail.
Rentacunta.
Kunta Kinte
Lepra-coon.
It’s hard to tell.
They keep slipping down the drain.
Six.
One to change the light bulb
And five to write the environmental report.
A Sipnic
A spigot.
Why? You want to know why?
Because they’d honk the horn, squeal the tires
and play the radio too loud all the way to the moon.
Dago forward.
Dago backward.
And when Dago flat
Dago Wop! Wop! Wop!
No doubt about that and the buttered popcorn wasn’t bad either.
The difference?
Well…one you shuck between fits and the other you…
Tippy.
Barry.
Curly.
Seymour.
Pete.
Muffy.
Patience.
Sandy.
“O yes you can” said the farmer
“You just can’t understand him…
He said there are more fuckin geese than
You can shake a stick at!”
“I don’t know”
Said the parrot
“I got a hard-on and fell off my perch”
I know what your thinking right about now.
Where’s the poetry in half a joke?
Why does this revelation have to be like discovering
carpet tacks stuck in the finger holes of bowling balls.
You want to roll with this but
But really what are you left with?
The carpet tacks?
The punch lines?
The poetry?
Is this what your really left with…the short end
of a sharp shitty stick poked at you
from an ordinary everyday
little prick.
And O yes and don’t forget
the O most holy id.
If you ever really
knew the entire routine
would you feel better?
The newlyweds stopped at a Bed and Breakfast
for a room for the night.
At noon the next day, they still hadn’t gotten up yet so the
Landlady calls up the room to announce last call for breakfast.
“Don’t worry about us,” yelled down the groom, “we’re living on
the fruits of love.”
“FINE!” screams the farmer, “but quit throwing the dammed skins out the window
-They’re choking the ducks.”
ibid A H 2000
*
Still Quoting Ron Swoboda
(Swoboda was an out fielder for the NY Mets in the 60s. He made the catch in the 1969 WS. The quote attributed to him was- why am I putting some much effort into such a mediocre career)
*
Listen don’t get involved with any
of this poetry business if you think
You want money, recognition,
or encouragement.
You would be better off doing
something useful or profitable.
A plumber, for instance.
That’s right.
Hell yes.
Don’t laugh.
Nobody laughs at plumbers.
Too expensive.
However poets?
Har-dee-har-har.
Almost ALL poets
(even the big ones,
in fact especially the really good ones)
lived fairly miserable lives
and rarely were successful in their own lifetime.
The rest have their collected poems end up in
the landfill library after their death.
You’re a poet huh?
What are you
fucking nuts?
Can you really tell people with a straight face;
“I’m a poet”
Personally whenever on the rare occasional that
I’m introduced to somebody as a “poet”
I’m always fairly certain they heard “asshole” instead.
Poet’s big week:
The reading at the local community college with six people in the audience.
The woman in the aisle at the market who wants some of your poems for her daughter.
The high school class you conducted the workshop on great American mediocre poets.
The phone call from a local celebrity offering a paying gig five years too late.
Local newspaper prints one of your poems, (with all the typos intact) reviving
discussion in community that you’re a moron.
And still you refuse to give up
or in
and the past week’s events actually encouraged you?
To go forward with:
the plans for a second self-published book
to follow up on the wild indifference that greeted the first one.
To go forward with a CD compilation of the past 15 years of
generally ignored recorded poems.
This fabulous obscurity
that’s taken a lifetime to achieve.
I’d be more disappointed
if I had ever really worked
at any of it.
ibid A H 2000
*
The Alcoholic Adjunct of the Month Club
That fall they had asked dad what he’d been up to?
“Purchasing major appliances and flying off at the handle.”
came the reply.
Dad regrouped.
Said fine.
Now it’s my turn.
“Why is it that talking with you is like dropping a jar
of mayonnaise on a shag carpet?”
Dad smoldered.
That broken jaw at large.
He’s awaiting shipment.
Any day now.
Something’s going to give:
Liver, kidneys, lungs, gums
hell, take your pick.
In the mean time
run his tags
test his urine.
Recite that alphabet
backwards.
No Jake Brakes
for Dad.
He’s not fooling anybody tonight
down the end of the bar as usual
with his 5 dollar and eighty cent
royalty check wrapped around the lamppost.
So tip your hat
or
shoot him five
but
let’s talk with four eyes
and get the story straight
Dad hustled
and I mean hustled
man,
to make it right.
After Work Beers
Cool Thursday evening
around quarter to seven.
Just after the 4th of July.
A work crew in orange tee shirts
line the bar for after work beers.
Blacktop I think. (from the looks of them)
The round went like this:
That’s 3 Buds, a Labatts Light, and Michelob.
They’re fairly sedate.
In fact; lifeless bunch of orange tee shirts.
But c’mon they are after all pretty beat.
You ever try spreading that stuff on your
feet for an eleven-hour day?
Yeah. No surprise here.
5 sweaty men with 5 sweaty beers.
Speaking low to each other, hunched over
butts and ashtrays.
They look as depressed, ornery and exhausted
as they have a right to be.
After all
Guess what they all get to do tomorrow?
At one point
Foreman announces,
“Let’s go and get some chow”
and in response more than half the crew
drinks them off
leaves the bar
leaving only two guys behind.
They decide to have “one” more.
Every crew has its’ “hard core.”
Would Hank have to explain it to you?
(For CB)
Man…..
would he ever look at you right now
and say, “You my friend…
You are out of place, time, and luck.”
Your old stomping grounds
look like the Monday morning after
the Circus elephants broke camp
at the carnival’s trailer park.
Better, face it kid
They don’t hand out Bukowski breaks
on street corners and if you don’t get
that through that thick skull of yours soon
your finished.
You never had his guts, endurance, or talent.
You’re at least as ugly
as he was
little debate there.
Sure you drink beer too…s’ what?
But whatcha expect anyway?
A thousand loser poets used his
smelly old fat ass as some sort
of measuring stick.
Believe this; your better off
trying to keep
your wife and kids
close to you.
Especially at the end.
The end always being a little nearer than you might think.
The finish always softens everyone up.
No. Buk would only look
at you and sadly, slowly
shake his head saying,
“sure you can buy the beer,
just don’t try reading
any of those horseshit poems
of yours, OK?
Holiday for Non Sequitur
Ok for you there Mister Pecker- head Poet
as if we all had plenty of time
to decode your cryptic contradictions
trying decipher the thin line you whine
between bravado and bingo
Is that strange verbal lurching
dance you schlep across the
vowelscape of the phonic bible
romper room really all that
important?
How about just for tonight:
You keep your piss and vinegar
Your sentimental bullying
Your paper wasp microphone
Your information age road rage
How about just for tonight:
You stand with me in the marketplace
You try to see what it is I see
O C’mon it’ll be fun……!!!!!!!!
We can blindly stare at anyone
who is not readily recognizable
codifiable, simplistic, one dimensional
cardboard cut out of derivative contrived
popular culture based reality and point fingers!!!!
Then we blend back into the shuffling trace of the mob
where the drooling innuendo laced drivel of
PRIME TIME media indices cow eyed moronic
compliancy and consumption.
Moo! baby. Moo!
Hey look lets face it.
Some of you out there haven’t had an original thought
in your head since before Kramer was considered clever.
O did I hurt your feelings?
Good. Now you know I feel.
Just for tonight:
Suspend belief
Entertain the notion that this
debilitating diatribe is essential to your
understanding of operation of the
brutal vending machine
they have made of the earth and
why on certain nights I feel like
the devil’s playground located in
the center of a third rate small time circus.
Wherein all the rusted battered amusement
park rides are constructed by shaky and suspect
picture sentences composed by blind drunk
carnies at five in the morning.
And you can guess whose got a pocket of
free passes with your name on them?
Later in the evening
we can hit all the same old haunts
See all the same old faces
say all the same old things.
Once I did try this new place.
It was upscale and snooty.
They had a dress code.
The doorman eye balled me with disapproval.
“Hey” he said, “You need a tie to get into this place.”
So I turned on my heel, went back to car
and got a pair of jumper cables. Fashioned them into
a Windsor knot around my neck.
Marched right back that bar and presented myself
to the bouncer.
He regarded me for full thirty seconds.
Finally he let out a sigh and with a resigned air
hissed, “all right smart ass, go ahead in….
but….”. he grabbed me by the arm and warned
…..just don’t start anything.”
All selections taken from Attitude House 2000
*
The 18th Sunday of Ordinary Time
After going to St. Agnes for early morning mass that Sunday with Edna
Next we stopped at the IGA
And I happened to run across by chance one of my poems
in the frozen food isle.
It was about 70 years no and hand on a pink pin striped shirt w/ button down collars and gold wire rim glasses sporting a dignified full head of neatly cropped
Snow white hair that when it spotted me out of the blue years exclaimed in pure
Wonderment as I crossed his path near the potato chips
Exclaimed- My God……are you still alive ?
The nature of the observation was delivered in anything far from a
Congratulatory intonation or tone.
Stunned I merely shrugged checked out thinking about this
after in the parking lot as I returned to the car to put away the groceries in the back seat and told my mom I forgot something inside the store and would be right back.
Marched right into the IGA again. Quickly scanning all the isles asking for it.
Spotted that sorry SOB
at the end of the succotash aisle
Ran that Poem down- and he saw me coming too none to happy about it.
I confronted it and introduced myself and forced it to shake my hand and
Asked just what the hell as the meaning of previous remark ?
At this point it got real sheepish, with lower eyes mumbling something
About Lucky Ward hastily shoved off to meat counter.
And I couldn’t resist I yelled after him-
Yeah well- you always were a lousy poem anyway Q- Bop City 2018
High Dry Goodbye July 4.0
July 2019 – Last licks for July
Ordinary Roar
July will linger just near the door
as it is time now to go
and in a sigh or perhaps that ordinary roar
inform the waning afternoon in the calender’s
numerical voice that you number is up.
What startles you with all it’s whispering are
concussions that wakes the waves to break
and break over the short eroded rocky bug infested
disappearing shoreline.
I hear strange voices in this ardent insistent wind.
I feel a tongue just inches from my ear that speaks
‘in that sigh or ordinary roar that these years I
was assured I wouldn’t be able to hear anymore.
All about this hazy animation of dirty white foam
driven madly on and upon.
So parade a secession of walkers across the face in
the beach. They nod or speak appearing as apparitions
that drift windblown on the most silent of feet.
Only some will find the courage to speak.
Scraps of paper and fragments of prose difficult to define
whip by in a helpless driven fury.
Now expression has little opportunity for introspection
or reflection. The art of language has been lost in
the stiff insistence of a brisk lake gust of wind.
And the sky above is so blue and blank
and it’s almost like time herself has slipped out
of her harness and has run on the shoreline
riding on the wind, being blown all over the beach
naked, wild and free of the sigh or that ordinary roar
of us as July lingers near the calendar’s door. 7/95
-Rubber Eden 1996
*
Long Island Sound
Now in this past of a punched ticket
at low tide I drink down this July sun.
Cathedral afternoon of canopy blue
in an endless awning sky;
Myself looking at the sealed plastic bag
of fiddler crabs as bait
thinking how hot and doomed it was inside
there.
Now after the rituals were observed
and completed nude solitary on the beach
Walking as elderly on the thousand stones
toward the water
wanting into the cold salty stinging sound
Your balls drawn up into a hard sphere
The waves at you ass the erect nipples
the water licking everything in degrees at once.
The excitement form the prospect of entering her
as she enter you.
These ten years past her flesh now sea better yet sound
Under this sky, bright bare to the shoreline shoulder
I’m dunking. Going under. Full immersion. Opening my
eyes underneath. The pressure of the silence has its
tongue in my ear. I’m coming up for air. I push off
and explode in high white foam.
I look back on the beach
to see who is lying under the makeshift driftwood
lean-to as the Sound breeze chops the darker blue
waters white while fluttering the contour sheet
in animated penciled in ripples.
And I recall falling into your eyes that moment
and never looking down
still finding I never, ever hit the bottom.
Even now.
-Rubber Eden 7/91-2/93
*
Classic live performance w/ full libretto from the streets of the lower east side NYC. Vincent Quatroche disturbs the peace on the corner of 1st Ave & 4th Street outside of the Karma Lounge on a June evening in 2012. Cinematography by John Dunn.
Yeah……But…..
(Burletta))
Yeah but
Yeah but
Yeah but…..
Andante
Yeah Yeah Yeah……..yeah But…
But But…but….but…..yeah….but….
YEAH……BUTYEAHBUT YEAH………BUT ! Forte
Yeah but Prestissmo
Yeah but
Yeah but…..
Yeah Yeah Yeah……..yeah But…
Ritardando
But But…but….but…..yeah….but….
YEAH……BUTYEAHBUT YEAH………BUT ! Ostinato
Yeah
Yeah…..Yeah
Alla Marcia
Yeah but…….but…..but…..yeah…..but
YEAHYEAHYEAH………Yeah Crescendo
But…..but………………BUT !!!!!
Yeah…….Yeah……Yeah……………Yeah…..
BUT…….But……..but………yeah but…. Allargando
Yeah but…….Yeah but……yeah but……
YEAH BUT !!!!!!!! Fortissimo
Yeah but
Yeah but
Yeah but….. Alla Marcia
Yeah Yeah Yeah……..yeah But…
But But…but….but…..yeah….but….
YEAH……BUTYEAHBUT YEAH………BUT ! Crescendo
Yeah but
Yeah but
Yeah but…..
Decrescendo
Yeah Yeah Yeah……..yeah But…
But But…but….but…..yeah….but….
YEAH……BUTYEAHBUT YEAH………BUT !
Yeah
Yeah…..Yeah
Accelerando
Yeah but…….but…..but…..yeah…..but
YEAHYEAHYEAH………Yeah Sforzando
But…..but………………BUT !!!!!
Yeah…….Yeah……Yeah……………Yeah…..
BUT…….But……..but………yeah but…. Staccatissimo
Yeah but…….Yeah but……yeah but……
YEAH BUT !!!!!!!! Stentato
Yeah but
Yeah but Agiato
Yeah but…..
Yeah Yeah Yeah……..yeah But…
But But…but….but…..yeah….but….
YEAH……BUTYEAHBUT YEAH………BUT !
Yeah but
Yeah but
Yeah but…..
Furioso
Yeah Yeah Yeah……..yeah But…
But But…but….but…..yeah….but….
YEAH……BUTYEAHBUT YEAH………BUT !
Yeah
Yeah…..Yeah
Sotto
Yeah but…….but…..but…..yeah…..but
YEAHYEAHYEAH………Yeah
But…..but………………BUT !!!!!
Yeah…….Yeah……Yeah……………Yeah….. Risoluto
BUT…….But……..but………yeah but….
Yeah but…….Yeah but……yeah but……
Aw…….forget it. Bruscamente
– Got Abstract ? 2014
*
At the end of turned pages
July gushing stream
vibrant shrouds and shade ripples in shadows
all the busy harsh traffic sounds so far away
I can gently orbit here just minutes from another planet nearby that I need not visit
in the newborn summer heat the rustle of the red maples from St. Agnes or genuflecting and benediction rustling in acknowledgment.
The progressing afternoon like apple red patterns in undulating rhythm
where the wavelengths frequency of sound light exchanged glances and
remember the last time they danced like this. -Got Abstract? 2014
Steam Heat Cool
Hottest day of the Summer so far that year
In mid July on fricasseeing 1st Ave and as I’m
Doing a steady sweaty schlep approaching
The corner of 12th street
And this eighty year old guy appears
in the heat waves like an oasis mirage
In a powder blue double breasted suit jacket with
Boxed square cut shoulders like Cab Callaway used to sport,
His cream dress shirt with ruffled button down trim has a mile
Wide grape tinted tie freshly off the rack from the 40s held
perfectly centered with a gleaming diamond stick pin clasp
tan trousers with crisp razor creases, heeling toeing spotless
white bucks with pink shoes topped off with an extra wide brimmed
vanilla fudge swirl Fedora and Harlequin blue sunglasses
And not a drop
And man I mean not drop
Of sweat on him.
-Q Bop City 2018
July Fragments 2012
Just so much Space
You can move only so far
I’m told in a very small space
Most human skulls are about
roughly the size of two fists
Yet they contain everything single
Perception one can fathom
In a life time about the universe.
So that world between your ears
Can be as wide or narrow as
You make it.
Shrink or expand
Exclude or include.
But I would advise you
To take care with the dimensions
You will ultimately design in there.
Because that is all
You are going to take with you.
His Yellow Tonka Truck
(Attributed to Matt H)
Outside of the bar that evening
After discussing guns and booze
He said….
And I just didn’t have the heart to tell him
Playing so contently in his sand box
With his yellow Tonka truck
That someday he was going to
Have to deal with women.
*
Remembering Herman
Herman Munster was an artist.
He loved the strange sounds of words
And how meaning could jump the tracks
From children’s books to surrealistic art.
So the TV monster based upon Shelly’s nightmare
Found notoriety and fame as being the
GD nicest fiend on the block
Who like to phrase his delivery
In the cadence of his mom.
Fighting back with Art
-For Doug
Wishes always it seems
Have to take a back seat in some cab
While nightmares ride first class
Like a holiday heart attack
That happens in front of the kids
On the Thru-way
Headed out to see the fireworks
And the numbness will continue
Till the awareness shows up.
*
Duck Dvorak Duck !
July early evening
After a stunning warm
Summer day with a brilliant blue
Sky without a memory of a cloud
In the world.
In reflection while the radio plays
Dvorak thinking over all the swings
And misses that fate has taken at you
Over the years.
Best take care before you
Grin and smirk…
Missed me….
Because
You can trust me on this one.
Something
Somewhere
Is always just now
Winding up
And headed straight at you.
So it perhaps might be
A bit premature to request
Fate at the piano to play
Ellington’s
I’m just a lucky so and so.
-Got Abstract ? 2012
Burning June Out
June 2019 – Swinging for the fences in Q- Bop City (selected pieces from Seeing Eye Ear/Q Bop City/new work
Of the Summer Solstice -every fleeting evening light, wish & sigh as brief as in the wink of an eye
1st Day of Summer
Solstice scimitar shaft
Slicing search torch
Gleaming longest burn
briefest pinnacle of light
declining seconds after
a descent commences…insight
The shadows start their
Encroaching erosion
Immediately… sans deferment or delight
Beware
Learn that lesson
From those who would
Build their world
On your ashes.
-Got Abstract ? 2014
*
Dwindling Shadows of June
(Audio version from the CD Quatro-Vox 2013)
In the dwindling shadows of June
dancing in her
twilight skirt
gushing vermilion liquid
time is like a broken
Capillarity in the calendars
main line artery.
You can’t hope to contain
any of the torrent
Just drown maybe baby
Because the
big drain is on
You can feel the pull
you can feel the life
leave you
diminished
ever closer to
the finish
Not some abstract
intellectual property
but a cold hard tangible reality.
Your ebbing confidence
in a narrow shallow vision
in the past semi-protected
you from the harsh truth
from too much disappointment
There are no prospects
for replenishment here
This dissipation bathed
in spectacular warm light
is waning
the dissipation grows in the encroaching shadows
and takes
what was given
in the finite
while what is being
taken away
is
infinite.
-Sometimes Grief 2012
Burning June
Each June sunset
burns like a stick match
struck against balance
left in the calendar box.
Right now I’ve got a few left.
But who’s counting ?
I am.
Dreaming in Paintings
There are these blank canvases
In my mind every night
And sleep brings dream pigments
To adhere as clear as if etched
In razor brushes so indelible
Frame after frame
Like someone’s home movies
From another dimension.
In the morning I can’t remember
Anything about them
Except I can still see intact
The memories of what
I don’t understand
Recognize
Know my place in.
But these paintings are still there.
Like pages unwritten
Yet containing this message
I know is there
Like being aware of portals
To a spirit world
Picture window
To what
The eye has not seen
The ear has not heard
What no mind has imagined.
Returning back to
This corporeal reality
Which seems so gray and shallow
Is a real drag
After knowing those paintings
Where fire is water
And earth is air.
Dancing between
in disambiguation there.
-Got Abstract ? 2014
New Year Shorts 2019
What Kind of Guy was He ? 7.0
What kind of guy was he?
He was prone to taking victory laps
Before he really had been anywhere
Or even sniffed a finish line in his life.
*
The Georgia Peach
One sports writer of the era
Once wrote that Ty Cobb
would climb a mountain
To punch an echo
*
Merkle’s Boner
After all these years
I’ve earned a place
In the record books
As the Fred Merkle of poetry
*
The Truth about Lassie
*
First off Lassie was a dude in reality
Not a she but a he named Hal
Not especially obedient cooperative or well trained
And in general really disliked children
They had to smother Roddy McDowell’s face
With ice cream so that Hal would lick it
And as for that scene where Hal
Gave Liz Taylor that long loving look?
One of the stagehands
Was holding a steak over Liz’s head
Just out of the cameras frame.
*
Yet more lost Dogs
Nobody refers to them
As Frankfurters anymore.
*
Recalling a NFL Hall of Famer
I still remembering watching him in the bar
Over near the cigarette machine
On August training camp evening
Glowering in disgust at everything & everyone
And I thought:
This guy has the world by the ass
But that look on his puss
Suggested he could only smell shit.
*
Drum Roll Please
It truly could be said of him
That walked to the beat of the length
Of his own plank.
*
Why all the Tinsel ?
–for Boni Iris
When she was a little girl
As we were decorating the Christmas Tree
She asked, Dad why do we have to hang this Tinsel stuff ?
It’s messy and gets everywhere-
And I told her- well that’s the point
You’ll find it all the coming year
Around the house to remind
You of this Christmas past
And hopefully the next one to come.
May would never Say-
May 2019- New work from Q-Bop City (Published 7/2019) https://www.amazon.com/Q-Bop-City-Vincent-Quatroche/dp/1984541226
April Shorts
Genderizing Kafka
Ok look-
Have your way-
He never fell under the bed one night
And woke up a monstrous vermin
She did instead
Turned up as a lady bug
And the family
Still
Did better.
*
Your Frozen Rope
Of silence
Ending up a lasso
In the center of a halo.
*
What did he say?
And he pursed his lips
Smirking like a rats’ ass sideways
and said…..
*
The Vindictive Proof Reader
When’s the last time
You looked a painting
And in triumphant satisfaction
Dismissed the work
Glibly stating
That’s spelled wrong
*
Am I out of Costume?
She glared at him
And spat
Don’t be insolent
He shrugged
Sorry
I was going for obstinate.
*
Who derailed you?
So you can stop giving that look
Like I was the engineer
Of your latest train wreck.
*
Literary Crime Scene
I write these flawed poems with typos and mistakes
In the shape of orange accident cones and if you want
To understand them?
You’ll just have to cross the yellow tape
And take your chances.
*
Substance Abuse Diagnoses
She looked at him with clear disgust and said
You realize of course you are rife with multiple addictions
He replied- Well perhaps
But I like to think of myself well rounded in that regard
And BTW I’d appreciate if you would lay off my hobbies.
April isn’t fooling anyone anymore
April 2019- Going to lead off the month with some recent work from a couple of great writers/friends.
Anthony Murphy –
http://www.Read650.com • “Straight Outta Ireland,” a Read650 live event, was part of Carnegie Hall’s spring festival, “Migrations: The Making of America,” and was recorded March 10, 2019 at City Winery, New York City.
*
Phillip Giambri- The Amorous Adventures of Blondie and Boho (Two East Village Dive Bar Coyotes)”Episode 11 of 13 in pending release of new book –
Brenda and Bubba
Brenda and Blondie are “best buds.”
She works noon-to- eight at Dave’s on First Avenue
Wednesdays and Thursdays.
Drinks are cheap and she pours heavy.
BoHo meets Blondie there around one
for their weekly afternoon buzzfest.
Bright sun filters through the large dirty front window
illuminating a classic village dive joint,
with iconic late ‘60s juke box
and a pool table with warped sticks
and chewed up felt.
There are hard and fast rules here when Brenda’s working:
The TV only shows Yankee games,
with the volume off,
‘cause her husband Bubba likes to watch the game
and listen to “The Sultans of Swing,”
so you better not play anything else on that juke box either
while Bubba’s there,
or the plug gets pulled.
Brenda’s a worn out version of Dolly Parton
without the high hair
and a thick muffin top where her waist used to be.
Bubba’s a younger version of Richie Havens.
He loves Brenda, the Yankees, Dire Straits,
and after two tours in Afghanistan, heroin.
Everybody loves Bubba
‘cause he’s so sweet on Brenda,
he’s so freakin’ mellow,
and he seems to know all the best musicians
who ever play the Village;
he’s that fuckin’ cool.
Just don’t mess with his Yankee’s game,
his “Sultans of Swing,” or his woman,
‘cause then he gets downright Green Beret on ya’.
Blondie and Boho check out of Dave’s around four
with a good buzz and a need for some play-time.
Gonna’ try to break that old bed again before dinner.
Funny how quick life changes ‘round here, though.
Jump ahead two weeks:
Brenda calls Blondie to tell her Bubba’s gone;
dead from an overdose.
Blondie and BoHo are devastated.
Such a sweet guy.
BoHo meets blondie at the bar.
They take up a collection,
but barely enough is raised for a cremation.
What to do with his ashes?
Well…. they’re resourceful, if nothing else
down in the East Village.
They put Bubba’s ashes
in a Maxwell House coffee can,
at the end of the bar, under the TV set,
with his Yankee hat over the lid.
Bubba’s home.
Next month Brenda says
the landlord’s sold the building for fifteen million
and the bar’s closin’ in a couple months.
Probably gonna’ be remodeled
into a knot-head Hipster joint with high prices,
so Brenda’s outta’ work
and Bubba’s lost his final resting place.
Blondie and BoHo get drunk with Brenda
and cry while she’s huggin’ Bubba in that coffee can.
Without Bubba’s disability check and no job,
Brenda can’t afford their apartment anymore.
She moves to a roach infested, six floor walkup, in Chinatown.
Blondie and BoHo are thinking things ain’t lookin’ so good right now,
but hey …. they’re dive bar coyotes.
This ain’t the worst they’ve seen.
They’re street smart and they ain’t dead yet.
Darla and The Dungeon
East Village dive bars are droppin’ off
faster than a prom dress in a pickup truck:
Mike’s Place, Broadway Charlie’s, Downtown Beirut,
Cheap Shots, St. Marks Bar, Grassroots, Continental,
Coal Yard, The Central, and lots more.
Blondie and Boho drop by Double Down Saloon for Happy Hour
and run into Blondie’s pal Brenda.
Seems like Brenda’s got herself
a handsome new lover boy
who looks to be a good bit younger than her.
She introduces him as “Bungie” and Blondie asks,
“What the hell kinda’ name is that?”
Brenda says his real name’s Russell
but she gave him that nickname
‘cause he’s had a pretty fucked up life
but always manages to “bounce back”
and stay focused and positive.
They all chat for a bit
with Bungie commenting that he lives in a loft
over on Attorney Street by Parkside Lounge.
He mostly writes and publishes online “Flash Fiction”
and fills in for cash
with a hydroponic, computer-controlled, grow in his loft;
mostly the high-end “Yellow Haze.”
Says his product is excellent and sells really well
with his downtown dive bar buddies.
Blondie and Boho immediately feel a kinship with Brenda’s new guy.
He’s a writer, he’s cool,
and they wanna’ try some of that Yellow Haze.
Boho asks Brenda how she’s doin’
since Bubba passed and Dave’s closed.
Said she’s still livin’ in that walkup in Chinatown
with Bubba’s teenage daughter Darla.
Blondie says, “What? We didn’t know Bubba had a daughter.”
Seems that her mama’s a junkie hooker
who runs a steady trail in and out of lockup.
Darla leaves home at fifteen and couch bounces
with different school mates from St. Brigid’s
while tryin’ to track down her dad.
She scours local bars and junkie crash pads,
eventually learns that Bubba had passed,
and that he has a wife who’s livin’ in Chinatown.
Long story short: Darla’s finds Brenda, moves in with her,
and is a senior now at St. Brigid’s High School.
She has really good grades and wants to be a nurse.
“Damn!”
Boho asks Brenda how she’s gettin’ by for rent money.
She says she’s workin’ at a private club
in a basement on 3rd Street,
across from the Hell’s Angels.
She and her of out of work bartender buddies
decide to open up their own joint.
She remembers a Puerto Rican Social Club
called “El Gallo Rojo”
that was busted for illegal cock fightin’ and shut down.
Been sittin’ empty for a year,
so they check with the landlord
and get a two-year lease for $1,100 a month.
They all pitch in and fix the joint up
‘til it looks like a real bar
and doesn’t smell like chicken shit anymore.
They contact a lot of their old regulars,
tell them they can join the club for twenty-five bucks,
and get a lot of takers.
The club’s been open about six months
and it’s called The Dungeon.
She invites Blondie and Boho to join.
Says she works noon to six Monday to Friday
and it’s usually open ‘til around two in the morning.
They’re doin’ good, it’s fun there,
and drinks are always five bucks.
Blondie and Boho stop by the club
the following day around four
stepping carefully out of bright sunlight,
down crumbling cement steps,
into a very dark space,
definitely justifying “The Dungeon” name.
As their eyes slowly adjust,
they find the it looks very much
like the old dives in the neighborhood.
There’s a juke box, pool table, dart board,
a DJ setup, and even a small space for dancin’.
Comin’ as no surprise,
sittin’ on the bar, below the TV,
is a Maxwell House coffee can
with a Yankee cap over the top.
They each tap the can,
say, “Hey Bubba!” hug Brenda,
and offer up fifty bucks to join the club.
They notice a striking young girl
in a Catholic school uniform
sittin’ at the far end of the bar, smokin’.
She looks totally out of place among the bar regulars.
Brenda introduces her as Bubba’s daughter Darla.
She doesn’t like bein’ alone in the apartment
so she hangs out here after school
until Brenda gets off.
She looks like a bi-racial gal, with olive skin,
striking blue eyes, and long blond “dreds.”
She’s wearin’ a pleated plaid mini skirt,
saddle shoes, and white blouse.
She gives Blondie a big hug
while smiling seductively at Boho.
Boho’s thinkin’ there’s lots more to be heard from this one.
Every Saturday is themed music night at Dungeon
with downtown DJs Ms. Cal and Oscar Oscar spinnin’ the hits.
There’s Punk “moshes,” Shitkicker Rockabilly nights,
Disco Nights, High Hair Heavy Metal Nights,
and even Swing Dance contests
with gals sportin’ vintage dresses
and guys in Zoot Suits.
Blondie and Boho quickly become Dungeon regulars
and she’s always out there on the dance floor
with her sexy ‘80s moves.
Cyndi Lauper was even spotted dancin’ with Blondie
one late Saturday night at the club.
Everybody knows everyone
and everyone dances, drinks,
smokes, and tokes with everybody.
It’s even better than the good old days
in the bars they closed,
‘cause this is more like family here.
They’re makin’ the rent,
the bartenders are makin’ a decent livin’,
and life is good at The Dungeon.
Blondie stops by on a Thursday afternoon
to hang with Brenda for a few hours
only to find the place closed.
She peeks in the window and it’s dark inside.
Even the neon beer signs are off.
She texts Brenda and asks what’s up.
Brenda says meet her at Double Down in an hour.
Blondie walks in to find her sippin’ a whiskey
watchin’ vintage porn on the bar monitor.
Looks like a digitized, black and white,
of an old 8mm from the ‘40s:
A naked bald guy wearing only black socks
is goin’ down on some chubby chick
with a dark barbwire triangle of a bush.
It’s actually pretty funny.
Blondie grabs a stool next to Brenda,
orders “a double Jack, back”
and asks what’s goin’ on with The Dungeon.
Brenda lets out a deep sigh, chokes up,
and silently trys to fight back tears.
She swills down the rest of her whiskey,
takes a deep breath,
and says Darla starts bringin’ two of her friends over
to smoke and hang with her after school every day.
Unknown to Brenda, they’re all sneakin’ vodka
from behind the bar
and pouring it in their cokes when she’s busy
or not payin’ attention.
On more than one occasion,
Darla’s friends are noticed by regulars
staggerin’ out of the bar.
Sonny, the President of the Hells Angels
stops by and tells Brenda
that the girls in uniform leaving the bar
are attracting attention on the block.
The Angels are concerned
about police snoopin’ around.
He mentions the cock fighting that was here before
and the police attention it caused.
He says, “As of right now, we’re closin’ this place,
and ya’ll got two days to get your shit outta’ here.
You’re not welcome on this block anymore.
Do you understand me? Do you get what I’m sayin’?”
Brenda nods and starts sobbing as he turns and leaves.
Darla and the girls stare in shocked silence.
Everybody’s outta’ work now
and they’re all really pissed at Brenda
for fuckin’ up a good thing.
She’s back on welfare and very depressed.
Darla keeps her head down and her mouth shut
around Brenda these dark days.
She’s scared.
Brenda stays curled up in bed crying a lot.
Time passes slow, hard, and painful for several years.
Darla quits college her senior year
and after two years of singing covers in Hipster clubs,
decides she’s gonna’ be the next big “teen sensation,”
like Madonna and Lady Gaga.
She reinvents herself as Darla Dungeon,
packed in Neo-Goth black latex and blonde braided hair
down to her artificially enhanced, Kardashian, bubble butt.
Things don’t always happen like ya’ plan though,
and three years later she’s found lying peacefully
by Harry Houdini’s grave in Brooklyn;
“works” still by her side,
and a needle in the femoral artery of her leg.
Like Houdini, she discovers too late
that sometimes the magic just don’t work.
Now . . . on any given lazy summer afternoon,
on the thirty-first floor of that new green glass,
hi-rise, monster on Astor Place,
you can find Brenda
quietly preparing a Chateaubriand for two.
How she ends up here in this glass tower
overlooking the Astor Place Cube,
is the result of an unexpected magic carpet ride.
Seems Bungie is sharp enough and knowledgeable enough
to buy into the legal marijuana trade early on.
With his writing background,
an extensive knowledge of growin’ product,
its customer base, and how to move it,
he scores big time.
“Bungie” is no more.
He’s only known now as Russell
by their “new money” millennial friends.
In the living room, tokin’ “Yellow Haze,”
he sits workin’ on his iPad,
carefully proofing next month’s issue
of his industry leading Ezine, “Pot Luck”.
There’s a large fireplace opposite
the floor to ceiling glass wall
overlooking The Cube.
The fireplace mantle consists of a wooden shelf
cut from the dark stressed oak
of some long-gone dive bar.
On it, sits two Maxwell House coffee cans;
one topped with a vintage Yankees baseball cap
and the other, tightly wrapped in black latex.
An Ultra HDTV mounted over the fireplace
casts silent images of a Yankee’s game,
while quad Bluetooth speakers pound out
Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing.”
Things seem pretty damned good right now,
if this is the kinda’ life you were deamin’ of;
but hey, even though they don’t look it,
or live it anymore,
underneath all this glitter shit,
they’re still dive bar coyotes,
and I’m thinkin’ they’ll eventually realize that,
make some changes,
and get back to who they really are,
just regular folks; like you and me;
OR NOT!
Was it a March or a Drag ? 3.0
March 2019- After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say ‘I want to see the manager.”
― The Adding Machine: Selected Essay
Narration/text composition/arrangement- Vincent Quatroche Image association-Kayla Cunningham Cuica- John Stratton
*
Daylight Stealing Time
So we lose a little time
in the wee hours tonight
We steal the hour here.
Conspire to hide.
O Please don’t wonder where.
C’mon…
Squirrel away an hour in secret
Pull backwards at the hands of the clock face.
Tick along with me.
Let’s make the red finger talk
as it passes us by again and again.
Tonight we turn back time
Won’t you turn back some time with me.
Like crisp clean chilly starched sheets.
Peel away the day
and slip in between.
Won’t you turn your back on some time with me
upon that maybe once perhaps we just might agree.
We might steal that time
hide in the lost hour
put it away somewhere
where they’ll never find it
never even miss it.
In the cool clear evening
after all the daylights busy color has faded
and all that is left is just us
clearly a jail break
a common escape
is in progress.
I hear sirens in the distance.
I see sirens in your eyes
They report an all points bulletin.
The authorities are baffled.
As we speak
Roadblocks are being planned.
Officers will produce snapshots
of our expired images
The ones we once looked like then
in the silence of the hours
we stole.
Our crime
is public knowledge.
The purpose of the theft
was always open
to common conjecture.
The motive attributed
to persistent desire.
It is after all
the only clues
we will leave them with
even if
our fingerprints
are all over each other.
After we are all over everything.
Won’t you turn your back
on some time with me
upon that maybe
just once perhaps we might agree.
To get away with
one secret perfect crime.
– Greetings from Gridville 2005
c4daaa03-09d8-467e-826f-117ed61e6377
Where the Blue Miracles March
I stepped into this light once.
Like a blue print dance floor
All the steps laid out for you
Cha Cha Cha
Charade-
All the future in the world
Denoted in foot Notes
-Uncollected 2/2019
*
Lost March Marbles
When you finally lost
Your marbles in March
There were these knowing looks
All around.
The rules are unavailable at this time.
As were scouting reports, rumor or conjecture
While all this then is just memory on the March
All heel toe retreat cringing in seasonal lecture.
The rules are still unavailable at this time.
The iris in your cat’s eyes lost
Looking in other mirrors
Small round and ultimately
Quite manipulative.
While at once some forgotten name
Is merely a marginally interesting game
So you’re left thinking
about more marbles
lost in the March
and just few of their names:
Ade, Beach ball, Lutz, Oliy
Onion Skin, Oxblood opaque
Plastic plaster China toothpaste turtle
Steely Mica swirly Sulpinde
So it’s down the Bunny Hole
I’m afraid with you then without a kiss
And just what game will it be next tonight ?
Knuckle Down Keepies or Quitsies
So you show them all
There Tiger.
-Got Abstract 2014
*
Locks
Throughout the day
mercy’s flame
flickered in the March
wind shaking
a fist in every face
rattled every locked door
in windows beating
cracking glass
calling out by name
all those who would
extinguish mercy’s flame.
Locked out from the inside
Locked in from the outside.
Did any of that matter
in the least now ?
Throughout the night
now barely illuminated
faded Mercy’s flame
March winds beyond
the touch to not even
fan
to combust dying embers
with sleepy red eyes
back to life.
No.
March was trying all the locks
the gust could muster
nothing was intended
to be allowed
to come back
to life here.
Throughout the years
now neither warmth
nor hope
still smolder
in a place
where
dark rings of scorched memory
reduced to white fine ash
to be blown away.
In the wind that March locks
shaking
a fist in every face
rattling every locked door
in windows beating
cracking glass
calling out by name
all those who would
extinguish mercy’s flame.
– Got Abstract 2014
*
Seeing Eye Ear CD- Locks/Mercy’s Flame audio version (reissue Summer 2019)
Short Dog February
February 2019– New Work & a Short Story from Terrible Now 2007 reprinted in Short Dog Stories 2013
So Sonic 2.0
We are so sonic
in tragic desperate dissipation
living with as much dissolute passion
in a quarter of the allotted years
left in the gas tank of youth
with the needle
sinking towards E.
Running now on pure desire
the last burn catching up to us
now would allow
one last glorious gallon
rubber burning acceleration
after dreaming
a lifetime of this
pedal to the metal
sonic furry driven between
us and away.
5/07-2/17 Seeing Eye Ear 2018
*
1984-2017
The Clock struck in Twitter time to post. POTUS adjusted his bathrobe and palmed his device thinking as he snapped off the remote on the telescreen snarling time to teach those Idiots the lesson for today.
Sleep eluded him most nights. All six telescreen Hi def 48 inch hype cyber link real estate reality blared on 24/7
The Leader had one in every room. All Staff had strict orders. These windows on his enemies were never to be off line
Sometimes of late he would walk the halls in the White House in the wee hours.
the gravity of his position was not even lost him.
Thinking I have the codes- is this what it’s like to be God ?
Abruptly his teenage son burst through the door
Eluding the Secret Service detail-
Asking- Hey Dad I have a question for you
Q- Bop City 2018
*
Your Ad Here
Becker Desire gradually became aware of the blinking LCD sensor on the nightstand next to his bed. A pale blue light gathered behind his blackout curtains (which didn’t open) indicating daylight of some sort. These days it was always merely a matter of just to what degree the constant gray would lighten to. There hadn’t been a bright sunshine day in the range of his limited memory. Desire was barely 12 years old. Becker was one of the lucky ones. He had his own comfortable habitat cubical and an employment. Two conditions of modern life for young people in those days and times that was very scarce and coveted. Becker’s parents were dead. Well that might not be true. He knew his father was. His benefactor. Before his suicide two years before, he had “sold” his son into this position. Becker was a Guest Host. Desire’s mother could still be alive. He doubted it. She had been exported to the local Cable Access Porno Pool and Community Chest when he was very small. He remembered her as being rather pretty and young. Life had become very cheap, brief, and brutal on earth in recent years. The rich still lived well. The rich always manage to live well. True they accounted for a very small percentage of the still dwindling population, but they controlled the government and the army. The only problem was they tended to get bored.
That’s why they had Guest Hosts. That’s why Becker had a job.
Scrambling to punch the first circuit prompt w/ his consumer evaluator, Becker lost his balance tangling his feet in the bed sheets and fell hard and flat on to the floor, smacking his head with a loud resounding
THWACK
Instantly the room erupted with laughter and approval. He shook off the blow and barely made it to the portal with his card to insert before penalty and the first corporate commercial jiggle blared across the room.
There was the sound of relief and approval from the monitors.
Another day had begun.
That was a concept Becker was increasingly falling out of touch with. He knew he was allowed a sleep cycle of varying length every fifteen hours. Becker had no concept of time in the traditional sense, much less free personal time. As Guest Host every single action, choice or movement in his habitat cubical was monitored, speculated and wagered
upon. The vast void cyber audience made up of the affluent and privileged caste votes and gambled credits upon the outcome of all Desire’s consumer decisions. And he had better log in and make them precisely on time. As long as he maintained a certain amount of profit margin for the system where thousands of other Guest Hosts (like himself) toiled with endless consumer choices, his “job” was safe.
However the only two real aspects of reality he was terrified that he truly understood was his “Expiration Date” and “service interruption”. Both contingencies were fatal to his rather comfortable, stable way of life.
Becker Desire knew next to nothing about the state of his own country or the world in general. When he was seven he was given an intelligence/aptitude test to determine him as “Serviceable” (able to do maintenance jobs) or “Expendable” (bright but of no real utility or value) Society & the social order had caved in on itself. Conditions were bad. Very bad. Indeed everything that could have gone wrong in the dawn of the 21st Century in fact had. From a general environmental collapse (fragile all ready but hastened by a limited nuclear exchange over the old blood feuds in the middle east, there were no winners, instead Israel and Iran no longer existed and surrounding oil fields were now going to be radioactive for the next 500 years) to an ensuing global economy’s evaporation, the only real thing that still was robust and functioned fully was perversion and greed. The internet had continued to flourish in a most bazaar fashion. Civilization (what was left of it) was regressing to a very basic subsistence existence as quickly as it had climbed above it during the 1900s.
Desire only knew he had choices to make. And he better make the right ones or his easy way of life was over. While he knew next to nothing about the outside world, he was sure it wasn’t good. He had no idea even where he was outside of his four walls. He might be on the grounds of a military compound or in the basement of a wealthy citizen. His shipment of supplies slid down a chute on a regular basis along with a program log. All foodstuffs, personal hygiene items, clothing, entertainment options (DVDs, CDs etc) literally everything an eleven year old could want or imagine was provided wordlessly and without human contact.
Becker Desire never saw anyone in person. He had been drugged in the middle of the night a long time ago and had awakened in here with a headache, an audio file of introduction, job description and operating instructions for being selected as a Guest Host.
The following is an excerpt of the introduction greeting transcript:
Congratulations…insert name here on being chosen as a Guest Host. This exciting and important position is a coveted opportunity for you to help shape, sustain and guide your nation’s essential consumer choices. Many very important and wealthy fellow citizens are relying on you to assist them in putting our great nation’s economy on the road to solid recovery and prosperity. Everything you need will be provided. Make good decisions. Wise consumer choices. Remember we are all counting on you. Remember you are the hope and future of a brighter tomorrow. So good luck insert name here. our newest Guest Host !!!
At first Becker had no idea what they were talking about or what was expected of him.
But Desire was a fast learner. He had to be. There was little margin for error.
The Guest Host was a mediator between a strange Post -Modern hybrid of E-Bay, Las Vegas and the old Nielson ratings system.
Rubbing his head Becker went to the bathroom. It was time to make his first choices of the day. What tooth brush, paste, mouthwash, soap, even toilet paper would he use? He had a dozen to choose from. This combination of these basic items could make thousands of credits (there was no longer paper money) to be won or lost in his first ten minutes of his consciousness. Speculators were wagering credits upon who was wagering credits on his choices and further more there was heavy action on whether he would make it back to his log in station on time. Double or nothing. Becker had to log in to the system every few minutes and that schedule changed from hour to hour. In addition, there were those voyeurs who were always watching the little boy.in his most intimate moments and with the prospect of puberty looming; surely his masturbation habits would cause both ratings and wagering to spike. How many times a day could he do it? Whose porno did he find the most interesting? What kind? The possibilities of that seemed endless. Desire was a hot property and his stock was on the rise. Every wall of his habitat cubical was covered with immense flat screen HD displays all showing different commercials and ad campaigns based upon the products he was provided with and encouraged to choose. And of course there was more wagering and speculation on that connection. In addition each screen had embedded video camera units transmitting his actions. There was virtually not a single action or movement of Desire’s that was not generating action, perpetuating distraction and entertainment, revenue streams for a degenerating culture trying to keep the collective mind off its own demise.
So the time passed. When Becker ate. They bet. He watched DVDs. They wagered. Listened to CDs. They speculated. Lost and won. Personal fortunes came and went, acquired and were squandered based upon every single trivial pre-teen preference that could be generated to occur in a controlled speculative environment.
Becker was aware of his tenuous position. He could be cancelled at anytime. He had an Expiration Date. Most Guest Hosts rarely survived past the age of sixteen. In rare cases, there was thing called Syndication that Becker didn’t really understand, that might extend his shelf-life (an alternative name for his present existence) for a few years.
The other more immediate threat was the dreaded and terrifying “Service Interruption”
This had happened twice since Becker had been in this place. It had only lasted a few seconds, but everything shut down. Everything. Complete separation from the mainframe. If Becker was off-line for more than 30 seconds the speculation on whether he would make it back live on time before he was dropped might sustain him for about two-minutes. Attention spans were short these days, plenty of other options (i.e. Guest Hosts) and time of course was money. The infer-structure grid system that kept the internet operating was deteriorating all the time. Becker had no way of knowing this. But on the outside all supporting frameworks were not only over-taxed, but more failed and went off line permanently every day.
Desires interior intellectual and emotional world was pretty much flat lined between his constant duties of the guest host, choosing for others and making them money, being completely inundated and overwhelmed by a steady flood of vapid massed produced visual and audio stimulation that amnestied as it etherized. But he had one favorite file.
It was left over from his father. And he had found it in a rare free period during his sleep cycle when he was restless and wide awake one time early in his career on a DVD compilation of animation he was supposed to view and make a determination on.
It was something called an Old Warner Brother’s cartoon. His father used to watch it with him and laugh, in what seemed like another world and lifetime a long time ago.
He didn’t understand who the obnoxious parody of Red Riding Hood in Bobby Sox was. In fact he didn’t even know the Little Red Riding Hood story. Who that Big Bad Wolf was. The grandmother. The talking rabbit. He could not fathom the world that had produced such a rich dance of song and color. But he remembered his father laughing
and him laughing along with him. And the song that girl used to sing;
. …….ta da da da dad da.. The five o’clock whistles on the blink, The whistle won’t blow and whadd’ya think? My pop is still in the factory ’cause he don’t know What time it happens to be. .The five o’clock whistle didn’t blow. The whistle is broke and whadda’ya know? Oh! Who’s gonna fix the whistle? Won’t somebody fix the whistle? Oh! Who’s gonna fix the whistle? So my poor old pop will know. It’s time for him to stop….
And that ending. That rabbit and bear sharing a carrot while the girl piled high with heavy furniture in her arms, sweated and strained spread eagle over a shovel of white hot coals looming closer and closer. He never understood why that part was supposed to be funny or why they had done that to the poor little girl.
But now he knew how the girl had felt.
She was just about his age. She didn’t look like she understood anymore about the position she was in than he did about his current one. She just kept looking down as her bottom sank closer to the fire. It was only a matter of time. He wondered if the Talking Rabbit and Big Bad Wolf were wagering on how long she would last.
Becker Desire was waking up again. He could see the pale light behind his curtains.
Only something was wrong. Very wrong. There wasn’t any flashing light waking him up.
His screens were all dark. Lifeless. Worse yet, the perpetually sealed entrance door to his habitat cubical was open ajar. He could smell smoke. Voices were yelling something in the distance.
Desire instantly knew what had happened and what was going to happen next.
All bets were off.
7/08
New Year Shorts 2019
*
What Kind of Guy was He ? 7.0
What kind of guy was he?
He was prone to taking victory laps
Before he really had been anywhere
Or even sniffed a finish line in his life.
*
The Georgia Peach
One sports writer of the era
Once wrote that Ty Cobb
would climb a mountain
To punch an echo
*
Merkle’s Boner
After all these years
I’ve earned a place
In the record books
As the Fred Merkle of poetry
*
The Truth about Lassie
First off Lassie was a dude in reality
Not a she but a he named Hal
Not especially obedient cooperative or well trained
And in general really disliked children
They had to smother Roddy McDowell’s face
With ice cream so that Hal would lick it
And as for that scene where Hal
Gave Liz Taylor that long loving look?
One of the stagehands
Was holding a steak over Liz’s head
Just out of the cameras frame.
Yet more lost Dogs
Nobody refers to them
As Frankfurters anymore.
*
Recalling a NFL Hall of Famer
I still remembering watching him in the bar
Over near the cigarette machine
On August training camp evening
Glowering in disgust at everything & everyone
And I thought:
This guy has the world by the ass
But that look on his puss
Suggested he could only smell shit.
*
Drum Roll Please
It truly could be said of him
That walked to the beat of the length
Of his own plank.
*
Why all the Tinsel ? –for Boni Iris
When she was a little girl
As we were decorating the Christmas Tree
She asked, Dad why do we have to hang this Tinsel stuff ?
It’s messy and gets everywhere-
And I told her- well that’s the point
You’ll find it all the coming year
Around the house to remind
You of this Christmas past
And hopefully the next one to come.
*
February Shorts 2012 Collected in Got Abstract ?
Overheard outside the Pre-K Room
And Sara just barely
four screamed in
such exasperated
soap opera desperation…..
You’re ruining my life
While a little boy with
moon shaped head and
big oval eyes remarked
He’s got purple all over his face…
How does he live like that ?
Kids.
*
A Beer in Winter
Tonight it feels like
I’m drinking beer
with Dr. Zhivago
Laura’s not coming
but she did send
her wolves.
*
Blow Me
Sure.
She took a lot of wind
out of his sails
only fair
she put it there
in the first place.
*
My Face Won’t Book
His memory is
just this untied
website shoe lace now.
Put that one
up on your fucking wall.
*
If the shoe fits
Don’t get to excited
you probably have it
on the wrong foot.
Idiot.
*
You could count all the Carnies in Canarsie
in your last ride on the Cyclone
That Amusement Park
of broken hearts
is regrettably
closed till further notice.
Seems all the rides ?
Got old…..
*
Dirty Rose
And he finally
spit the bit
like
a dirty rose. 2/12
Give them bread and Circuses – for terrible now
Never Shake that Dybbuk on a January Night
January 2019- New Work – Seeing Eye Ear- 2018
Mixed Signals
Inside
the very center of a
January icicle night
with all the colors
running silent
screaming black and white
and the top of the tip
of the tongue’s pigment.
Inside
the very center of a
January icicle night
He ran from the room
like an errant fire engine
in his eyes was the lighthouse
on fire while a confused group
of hastily summoned volunteers
wondered what the next best course
of action might be
either make a run to connect hoses
or watch out for the jagged rocks
off the shore line shrouded in icy fog
or just shrug and leave quietly
by the clearly illuminated fire exits.
they sat arrested by him
in his wake
his warning
his smoke
while wondering
what could be next for all them
Encased
Inside
the very center
of a January Icicle Night.
*
The Dybbuk Dreams
*
It was in the first few nights of the New Year
when all promise and disaster were as unopened mail
that the past had a walk in his sleep.
The Dybbuk’s hands opened old draws
shuffled through forgotten pages
Pausing to repeat a line of a letter
here and there.
Ashes were stirred and long dormant old flames set free
to flicker. Then the night faces could dance once more.
Night faces coming back to visit shining
eyes to glow back into.
Another year rolling itself out like an immense black wing .
Your sleeping form swept along in this night flight,
those waking hours, now the specter, this was the soul
strolling hand in hand with the eternal freedom of
time asleep.
She walked once more upon the mores, in a chilly thick fog.
Here where she had always known that he waited for her
In between anger and consequences,
in this dream scape of quicksand recall where mushroomed
marsh islands of what might have been.
They both returned to this shadow realm of still photographs
hung and propped in the endless stark arms of winter.
Here where the past stood naked and true.
Both came with small hands grasping deep into the heart’s
pocket. Each visited at different points
along the dream curve, with separate dependencies and
versions of the same story.
They left messages here for each other.
The last word over and over. The promises of reconciliation
and forgiveness. The sensation they shared of never being
able to meet face to face again, outside of this place
of half light sand deep grey pools. Always to return to
the same beaten path, in the corner of the dream.
This place where the images of each other’s faces
in those frozen photos snared arrested looks
and eyes of love and delight that once were shared.
They both returned to this place, every so often
to get a face full and
look down at the others footprints
left in the path
from the night before.
-Another Rubber Eden 1/95
Here in the Rubbereden
List of the End of January
*
Snow coal cone lump ashtray pustule
shrinking in the corner of the parking lot.
(Ah….early spring)
Sound of clogged carburetor gagging on itself.
*
(Great…now you’ve flooded it)
*
Lost key trunk eye-hole with yellow handle
long nick Phillip screwdriver protruding.
(Nope that didn’t work either…keep swearing)
*
False dawn slapping wind banging away
slamming cheap tin bed frame freight train
ready to orgasm and derail.
*
Centipede shadow crawling measuring spoons
scurrying across the dingy white moon soaked linoleum floor
looking like a pool of quicksand.
*
Brown plastic garbage can rolling down the block
yawning in the gutter.
*
Air raid siren blast exploding
in a razor blade cable running through your ears
jerking your head off the sound sleep pillow.
(This was only a test)
*
Child’s dream speak night talk back lit in
orange dragon space heater steel teeth
hissing at the bars on the crib.
(Some childhood memories are best forgotten.)
*
Fresh creme of the New Year
curdling in the calendar’s carton.
*
Whose face is that on the side?
*
Another Rubber Eden 1/89
Dismembered for the Holidays Reprise
December 2018-“There are times when those eyes inside your brain stare back at you.”― What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
NEXT !
(For R.B)
The wonderful life Christmas is over
One tries not to be depressed.
Maybe re-read Brautigan’s piece
From 1963
Where he and his friend were
so depressed over Kennedy’s public execution
that they took pictures
of discarded Christmas trees
abandoned in the gutter
and then proceeded to get drunk
while watching a slide show of them later.
I get that.
All those rolls of left over wrapping paper
all about the place.
The lights that need to be taken down
before the neighbors start with
the “white trash” wisecracks
One thing you can say about Christmas
in this post modern area,
Once it’s over.
It’s dead.
A lot of build up.
A product orgy climax
And the day after ?
Forget about you
The day after Christmas
is like nailing a wood screw
into the back of an old friend
Who shows up once a year for a visit.
And as he walks out the door.
You slam and lock it on his heels
Hissing, “and don’t come back till next year,
You pain-in the-ass bastard.”
Thankful ?
Sure.
This year I was thankful I didn’t end up
in the paraplegic chair
in a nursing home in Baldwin
after that nasty fall
down the Cold War stairs
back in your hometown
that ended up with you
kissing some concrete.
Instead I made it back here on Christmas Eve.
Just in time to have a good cry
With Alastair Sims.
-Greetings from Gridville 2004
Serial Visits
The whistle is the period
in this motion sentence.
Punctuating movement
calling cooling coffee steam
escaping gray minuet figure 8s
in a rocking cardboard tray.
Go ahead.
Spill it.
After all
how many years
have you been ending
your life sentence
in this paragraph.
Awareness unraveling
to some temporary core
where you define
your next visit as the
last lap of time and distance
measured increments
like rungs of a ladder.
That track bed ratio
of rhythm and ties.
How do they sing in their beds so ?
What is it with that whistle
that you still insist upon
that you hear so clearly
much less
ride off
into a sentence of movement.
Present future
Past period.
Take a deep breath
of the dark roads awash
in wire to wire rain.
Do you stop to heave a sigh here ?
In relief awash or gasp for air
15 hours after ignition.
Do we have your
arrested attention
yet ?
How can you hope to convey
this flight
this passage
A shadow’s dance
In lock step perpetuation.
What kind of ticket shall we call this then ?
Miracle, weary ritual
or merely picking
from the fabric of your reflections
a thread you wove
that called you by name incessantly.
Into a dream
from out of a dream.
Where you step
and step again
all over it.
On it.
Just past it
Inside you.
12/03 Greetings from Gridville
*
Christmas Visit Snapshot
Nearly noon along the Hudson
Brilliant light about
descending rust wine
iron crane wench hook
set in blue and white midday relief.
McNamara’s daughter isn’t coming
Johnny in Singapore
You sit in here alone
listening to the bartender
tell that the pickpockets are
using box cutters this year
up on 86th and Lexington.
Back in the Big Red Mountain booth
way downtown beaten worn linoleum
I’ll call you from the payphone
in the back near the pool table
while listening to the killer jukebox
resurrect Spike Jones singing,
“you always hurt the one you love.”
12/99 Attitude House
*
Homecoming
Can you find any words left
for the long runway and this familiar foot rest.
All day miles melted past
and you were able to sit still silently propelled
just reading and taking notes.
Your big idea of time off.
Now before the last leg of the trip
you heel toe the legs put the sidewalk square
with an older eye.
Attesting to this as I walk in the door
overheard from the boys over the pool table,
“here comes the professor…..
wonder where his footnotes are tonight?”
So you take your place at the bar and
put out.
Always remembering, remembering
where you came from.
Greenport Christmas 98 Attitude House
Who Novembered When ? 2.0
November 2018– Updated 11/23/18- Left overs update
When Black Friday comes
the Consumers of Gridville
huddle in the parking lots
in predawn frozen blackness
waiting for the sensor doors
to activate and swing open
so that the ensuing stampede
into the widget warehouse
can gush cheap trinket
torrents of electronic desire
to purge themselves
of what limited imaginations
they have left and haven’t
squandered and impaled
upon product acquisition
suggestions programmed
to them by fiber optic
daily behavioral vampires
so well appointed
with glistening fangs
of fashion compulsion
obsessive consumption
in a GPS vortex
instantly alerting them
of the nowhere
they lust….
Is here
In stock
On Sale
And they simply cannot
live without it.
from- Sometimes Grief Barks up the Wrong Tree 2012
*
The Ancient Mariner reading Lucky, Lulu, and a Cat Named Bo (Cold Turkey) for “K’s” Ghost City Cabaret II Halloween Edition @ Cornelia Street Cafe October 15, 2018 – Video courtesy of Mitch Corber
All Souls Day
November shrugged at the time after the masks slipped
Stripped away in the face of high wind warnings as if in this season begged advisements cautions
Still mild that morning fooling few to believe
That this day would pass swaddled in gray soft gauze
While the light diffused diminishing increments
Was that encroaching mist unraveling like a ball of yarn
To cascade down a slope of cotton
Falling needle pinpoints liquefied
There was this puncturing of scattered shallow puddles
Reverberating in sound wave concrete circles
Auditory auditions sharpening a deaf set of eyes
In these stains of ink
Lurk faceless memories I think
Past Persona gone non-grata
November shrugged at the time the masks slipped away
To reveal the naked face of high wind awnings
As if this season begged advisement cautions
Stripped away now in alibis and warnings
Uncollected 11/13.
Maybe Some Novocain?
Chock Full of Nuts
is no longer
a heavenly anything
anymore
Transparent as black coffee
understood at last;
He was now merely
half a pound of chopped chuck
handed over by Bruno Kisski
Who spoke fluent tracheotomy
to an over the counter fool
wrapped in stiff white common paper
with the price
penciled in on the top.
All I had to do back then was pocket the change
and deliver it back around the corner.
Once it ticked upon your face
and the sound escaped upon your ears.
The price
The time.
All that you never conceive being true
Merely justify the overhead
and defined the bottom line.
So now you try to force the black hands forward
Faster than they are supposed to go.
While a single slim red finger
that sweeps so sure and fine
that seconds soundlessly slide
in an inkling of eviscerated hope
The movement imperceptible impression
toward an inevitable destination.
Maybe some
Novocain in November
Maybe not.
This would then plug your ears
To hear any further
Than just you what
You didn’t want to hear
To believe this;
the texture in this request
to embrace the selfish din
and when put to the question
to the naked test,
“Where is it have I been?”
Smile and nod and start with, “Listen….”
I would pull the fingers from deep your ears
and lick the wax
that accumulated in there
to harden, numb and deafen
Next I whisper now,
“Watch”
You just watch
Then tune the tongue out
in time to match
the mute with the deaf
over a bottomless cup of
freshly brewed
numbness.
- From Sometimes Grief 2012
October never forgets
October 2018- Either it’s coming for you or I am with a Seeing Eye Ear in Quattro Vox
From Q -Bop City
Education
For Sarah
They were the Teachers
They were the Vehicles
The blunt object
That forced their door open
Just a crack so could think escape.
They were the spark
The enablers.
Telling you on a fog shrouded
Far away beach one afternoon this-
That everything was only not permitted
Forbidden and questionable-
But possible.
So I let you
And you let me
So much that followed
Was a dream that
Came true
To some degree.
Some pay up front
For all to see
A reason
A lesson
A curse
Rendered ransom relegated to some stray verse
Some pay up front
For all to see
In the face of what we once
aspired to be.
Vincent Quatroche 5/2017
The Colleagues Talk 2.0
Kafka on Kampus (for K)
As he was pulling out the parking slot on a sweltering Thursday noon
His colleague came running up flagging him down waving his arms
With this wild look in his eyes and breathlessly exclaimed
The administration has sold the naming rights to the college !
He immediately pulled back in and cut the motor
Got out and stood before him and replied- say what ?
Catching his wind gasped that’s right– the bastards just posted the news
On Prof talk- it’s official starting this Fall Semester this school is
Now named Kafka Kollege –a yes that’s Kollege w/ a GD K
No Shit he remarked are you kidding me ?
His colleague shook his head emphatically and continued……
And that’s not the half of it- all of the buildings on Kampus have been renamed
As well as part of the agreement-
All the Dorms are now called The Penal Colony
The Kampus Center is The Castle
The Theater Department is The Hunger Artist
Academic Affairs? The Judgment
English ? Parables & Paradoxes
Science ? The Metamorphosis
Public Safety ?-Before the Law
Human Resources ? The Trial
Student Affairs ? Give it up
We stood in stunned silence sweating in the oppressive summer heat
Then my colleague broke into this really strange serene smile
And purred out-
But I do have some rather good news-
Seems all the Administrators, Deans & Chairs even the President
Have been transformed into Ungeheuer Ungeziefers( literally “monstrous vermin”)
like Cockroaches and Dung Beetles
and are hiding in their offices under the desks.
Vincent Quatroche 6/18
Swinging for the Fences in Q-Bop City
Of Odds & Pitch Counts
Some people are born
With two strikes on them
Others start out with the count 3 and 0
And go through life
Always content to just take that walk
While the former keep swinging at that one in the dirt.
If Only
If you could only
just write one poem
that sounded like
Ben Webster’s
Tenor Saxophone
Then maybe
somebody might
listen to you.
I bet infinity
is just endless talk
or worse yet….
Discuss.
Burning June
Each June sunset
burns like a stick match
struck against balance
left in the calendar box.
Right now I’ve got 27 left.
But who’s counting ?
I am.
How the West was Lost
Have we all become a race
Of distracted cyber pioneers
Too embarrassed to admit
All that we never knew is
the only remarkable thing about us
Remembering the trivial
Forgetting the essential.
*
Hearing Aide
Received a postcard in the mail yesterday
Offering either an agnostic apostle
Or generic prosthesis-
And I didn’t hear a sound
Or a leap of faith.
*
Fuck Waste book
Listen here
You can just skip the Like Box
And the dislike Box
Heading straight for the
I don’t give a shit Box.
Vincent Quatroche 6/2018
September in Q-Bop City 3.0
September 2018- Selections from recent collection of Po Prose Short stories published July 2018
*
Remembering Echinacea
They said on the package
These seeds are for the Fall
Where this old poem reverberates
In the dirt dreaming of flowers
Out of season.
Hear these lines
In the voice in your head
Cross threaded counter clock wise guy
Always just dim enough to try
And get the lid back on the jar.
Pandora would be so proud
To think a cyber citizen of the Terrible Now
Might still let loose holy hell
In this numb estrangement night
With a keystroke choke hold.
Blossom there you Moron
Your persistence of memory
Where they dug all their seeds in you
Only to disappear like a melted stop watch
Before they ever had the chance to bloom.
Q- Bop City 7/18
Sound Light
And then the sun went
Behind the clouds
Mid-afternoon on a
Mild late September Sunday.
McCoy Tyner played
West Philly Tone Poem
On the radio.
Somewhere in the next yard
Over
A crow had a good hard
Laugh.
The colors in here are trying
To embrace me.
Console and soften
A hard edged truth
About loss and remorse.
As a freight high balled
At the grade on the mainline
Next block over
While the engineer
This time didn’t hit the horn
Three times as he usually did
But I distinctly heard
A voice say
Your time is coming.
Q-Bop City 7/18
August Sucker Punch
August 2018- Selection from new Collection Q Bop-City
Nothing to See Here
–Well I honestly didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. In the past there was always somebody to pay for what I wanted behind me.
-Actress Gene Tierney’s explanation when caught shoplifting in the film Whirlpool (B & W 1947)
No Yellow crime scene tape.
No chalk outline of a victim on the asphalt.
A crowd didn’t gather.
Perhaps someone wandered by on the way to
the store and might have glanced here
in this direction looking for something else.
Just curious.
That’s all.
But really ?
No one saw anything.
A bored cop took the complaint
from an anonymous source.
Turned out to be a false report anyway.
It was ascertained that truth was the only injured party.
But nobody could locate that
And it never showed up at the hearing anyway.
The only charges filed were dropped later
due to lack of any real evidence
Or indication of criminal intent.
So Enough.
Nothing to be seen here.
Not even Poetry was called in to question.
So just….
Move along.
Nothing to see here.
5/2011
