smile.

I was mesmerized in 2004 by a photograph snapped

by the Cassini Probe which spotted the pinprick of Earth

through the rings of Saturn.

The more I concentrated on the image the more enchanted I became.

––What was I doing when Cassini flashed its picture for all to see?

––Was I asleep dreaming of another event or sitting on the loo,

due to an unusual midnight run?

––Was it the night of Bernadette hissing in the secret closet through

her vinyl flesh because the bicycle patch had failed us both?

––How am I to understand what to me must now be regarded as truth?

In a time gone by, Fred Stillskin, my high school science teacher refused to admit

that our Sun was a “mere star” pontificating on the "personal" importance

of the Sun, whereas other stars were puny and simply hung with no responsibilities.

The years have marched-on in their crazed assault, and Fred is long dead.

Peer review of the “Stillskin Treatise” has yet to be considered due to a universal

lack of interest.

-obsession-

late last night I thought of something.

something remarkable.

somehow it fell asleep and drifted

into a space of its own.

now I can’t recall it.

I’ve searched the house

and the undersides of its belongings.

I found nothing but misery.

tufts of dust that could only be

remnant afterthoughts of my great

grandfather who they say walked

from his home in the old country

and never returned.

I found nothing but misery.

damp things.

the scent of old iron.

the cries of rust.

a dark, useless coin-of-the-realm.

a Canadian Penny.

I found nothing but misery.

I cursed the memory

of my sainted mother who

deep-cleaned before and after company,

my treasures sucked-up by a bloated

Electrolux who never learned the lesson to exhale.

on the hunt, common necessities

became extinct.

food, water, and clothing became obsolete.

I was blinded during the stillness of dusk

and in the cool of the early evening,

readied myself for the mechanical

rattlings of the second shift.

  

                   a love poem in 6 lines and 2 wheels with special guest Barbara DiNucci 

driving my Hornet cherry red my young 

love draping the top-tube at the chrome-plated handlebars !

O, ye bicycle ! –– how you made her torso to lean-in head-strong

willing my strength for the uphill climb and her hair to flutter

jet-stone black at my face on the downhill run, the unmistakable

scent of Ivory soap perfuming the backdraft.

                  let’s eat some candy

                  1951

let’s eat some candy.

let’s eat more than our skinny

bodies have a tolerance for.

let’s eat by the mouths-full

sucking the juices in.

let’s go to Chasidor Leo’s Variety store

across from the backstop where

the candies are loaded into bins

under glass at the counter, each bin a globular

cluster of stars!

hard and soft, red, yellow, and green,

sprinkled with sugar.

we’ll eat to our hearts content.

"fill the bags, Mr. Leo!

fill ‘em up so that they meet the rims.

ten of the green. ten of the yellow, and

ten of the red"!

the chewy ones will fill our early mouths,

bleeding the succulent juices ‘till

they dribble out across our cheeks.

friends, let’s count our money.

the more we have the more we can buy

and the more we’ll eat!

let’s pool our loot because we’ve learned

that sharing is a good thing,–– and then

each of us will build our stash of goods to our liking 

searching our pockets for what we know is never there,––

and let's ask Mr. Leo "which ones might be free".

 

                   It's unlikely that some sort of retribution awaits

I quivered at the early sound

of the voice of God, spoken

through the mouth of Priest.

It was heavy, a thick, menacing

sound which pointed its slimy

tongue directly into my face.

so I killed him.

I killed God, re-inventing it as

a genuine wholly ghost.

Priest said I was made in "His" image

and I didn’t like it.

I wanted to be taller.

but I liked "Bunny" DiCorpo

who lived on the second floor 

of a three-tenement house on Bedford

across from Marzilli's Bakery, and I liked

the little “Nite Owl” diner on the corner

of Pleasant and Eastern Avenue, where

I received mouth-watering kisses from the former,

and delicious hot cheddar cheese sandwiches

served on steamy hamburger buns from the latter.

"all poetry is all truth all the time."

I said that. 

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Russia, Russia, Russia. 

 

                  Not necessarily meant to be a self-disparaging treatise,   

But when I look at certain photographs of myself

I appear to be a normal sized man; as if I could walk

into a room of people gathered to celebrate something;

It's as if I could stand among them at eye-level and join-in

on their conversations mouth to mouth.

There, women needn't bend their knees and

drop their torsos when greeting me.

It’s all as it should be in the landscape of physical normality.

Now stones are thrown at my image. Stones thrown by me.

I’m small by comparison. I’m pallid when compared to

a naturally born Hawaiian, although not so much when

compared to Johnny Winters or "Lurch".–– And I'm Puny by the standard

of those who dwell among the "correct size and weight for their ages".

Basta! I shouldn’t complain. ––I was beautiful, once.

I had hair as thick as a southend accent which curled

in all the natural places, and I fit-in as much as any young man

among the young women on the weekend hunt.

My daily costumes draped naturally.

There was a time when I didn’t have to try on various teeshirts

in order to decide what it was I could get away with.

look at me now. ––I’m small. I’m pallid. Puny by comparison to those

who dwell among the "correct size and weight for their ages".

And damn.–– I’m repeating myself again, am I not.

                   hopscotching a generation or two

in order to celebrate the day of his birth

which was officially recorded

but destroyed after a town-hall

"spring cleaning" in Lucca, Italy

of documents which “were no longer

useful to anybody”,–– my maternal

grandfather, who steamed here,

meaning the town of my birth,

with his young bride in tow,–– woke-

up one morning when I was a boy,

a child of grade school age, and

I remember his thinning mop of

grey/white hair sprouting across

his head in every direction, like

you’d see in the landscape of a

Bella Lugosi film, his eyes half-lidded

between sleep and consciousness, but

more toward sleep, and his hair looked

much the same as my hair looks now,

and he was very old, but

younger than I am now, and he moved

as if moving to the sounds of a high

mass for the dead, much the same way

I'll move in the possibly near future,–– except

I rather enjoy listening to a good Requiem

on occasion and I'm sure he did not.

now playing: "Victoria Requiem" / 1548-1611 / Tallis Scholars / Gimell, 1987

                   a confessional on the reposting of the poem: “five things to consider at the table”

I’m incurably impetuous.

It seems I've accomplished something, but

before its chance at redemption from elements of awkwardness,

I present it to the unsuspecting masses, and it's there I stand

on the stage of public exhibition, my pants below my knees

drawing a comical drapery.

so if you allow me a reprieve, I thank you.

understand, this won’t advance the notion you might entertain

for a mention of your kindness at my autobiographical eulogy, but

you’ll have the right to address the congregation to say with confidence:

“I was there!”–– but know that when your time comes to call,

you won't be taking your benevolent behavior with you–– as you won't

your next breath, or your money.