runs northbound in the near distance.
"Chessie Systems" –– glow cadmium
yellow on metal-ribbed
fields of cobalt blue.
as if the Ohio is to pull them down.
the child below
the hollow pits.
and the child
sways as he would in a hammock latched between
http://williamdelia.blogspot.com
the crybaby
there was a time
when the crybaby
beat fatso Bruno Mezzatesta
in a fistfight.
the victory was unexpected.
he was accused of being
a "scaredy-cat"
and Bruno paid the price
for his close association
with those who said so.
the place was a meadow,––
not the neighborhood meadow
adjacent to the Marconi Club,
but the meadow behind
the "Quequechan Housing Project"
which we passed through
on our way home from school.
there were seven people
in attendance to witness
the fistfight, which to everyones
chagrin turned out to be
more of a wrestling match.
but one late punch
to the back of his head
and fatso Bruno Mezzatesta
began his hasty retreat.
there’s an older snapshot
taken at a family outing
where our young hero-to-be
is seen clutching a bag of
what appears to be
variety store popcorn,
rubbing his crybaby eyes
because he wanted potato chips instead.
this final entry to the story is proffered
so that you are thoroughly informed.
-piano-
my daytime clothes are laid-out
at the foot of the unmade bed.
the drapery is noteworthy.
too bad I’m not a painter.
on the wall adjacent to the doorway,
hangs a Picasso drawing.
It’s a fake, but still nice to look at.
I leave all of it for breakfast.
here, decisions are made.
where to go, what to do, should
I carry more than twenty bucks?
robbers don’t ask that sort of question.
they just bop you on the head and take
what you have.
so why fret over the amount at breakfast?
take the twenty and that’s that.
wash-up, put the clothes on. tidy-up.
remember to take the keys.
walk outside where the world doesn't give a shit.
disclosures of interruptions
mid-afternoon and the kids are running
around the house like a band of lunatics.
somehow they’ve found the old Gillette single-edge razorblades
I keep in the bottom drawer for sentimental reasons.
I should tell them to be careful, but
I’m busy.
the fatso across the backyard is mowing again.
his lawn looks like the scalp of a 14th century haircut.
the freakin’ kids are driving me nuts!but there’s no bleeding, so..
as the old astronauts used to say: everything’s “A-OK”!
the experiment
my young wife collected her daily requirements, the tools
used for teaching public school children, and left the house
leaving me in charge of our three year old son.
he was in the process of eating a nourishing breakfast
prepared by his mother, which resembled something
from an all-night diner on the wrong side of Mars;
a grey, globular concoction of protein, minerals, vitamins,
and whatever else was pre-determined to be “good for him”.
looking at his round, angelic face, I began to question
whether or not this breakfast was to his liking.
I bet he’d like a bowl of vanilla ice cream, or a sprinkled, chocolate-
frosted donut, or a handful of granulated sugar from the labs at “Domino”––
born from the sweltering cane fields of the sun-scorched West Indies,
or perhaps Yonkers, New York, 10706.
I tipped a teaspoon of raspberry jelly, and slipped it into his mouth
and he lit-up like a 1000 watt bulb during a full solar eclipse.
I panicked, pacing the kitchen, mumbling: “my god! what have I done”?
I splashed cold water from the faucet into my face like a man on fire,––
but there he was, busily munching on the concoction prepared by his mother.
I cleaned-up the incriminating evidence like a frenzied forensic scientist
guilty of committing a crime against humanity, wiped his cherub-like face,
and in time recalibrated my life, such as it was, on a recurring roll.
Wellston, Ohio
-a poem-writer's understanding of primary colors
and the fundamental structure of the couplet-
the preschool child confronting its first
set of crayons will try to eat them.
red was a primary choice and blue
to smear the trees and animals.
as with the Fauves, the child's a wild beast,
its hyperactive attraction
to the uncommon placement of color
has a tendency to breach the lines of logic.
ah! the recurring
birth of the open form!
but the question remains:
is this a couplet?
Antoine makes preparations for the Presidential debate of 9/2024
boarding the bus to the Xtra/Mart wasn’t necessary as
the Xtra/Mart was across the street from Antoine’s cold-water flat.
but he boards the bus anyway, pays the fare,
asks the driver to open the door, disembarks, and walks across the street.
all Extra/Marts are the same. the one in Boise looks like
the one across the street, sans the scent of bison.
It’s the same with tinsel-faced ultra glamorous movie stars, and
diner meatloaf.
that aside, Antoine will find everything he needs to watch the televised
Presidential debate.
what’s this? brightly colored plastic key fobs employing
a fascinating knob which when activated with the thumb,
releases the ring of keys into the palm of your hand?
Antoine takes two.
for $1.99 each, how can anyone of good conscience pass it up?
Antoine takes a red one and a blue one, exhibiting his ridiculous,
empty-headed undecided attitude.
a 2 liter plastic bottle of root beer soda, one family size bag
of low salt potato chips, 2 packs of mini candy bars, one
Mounds and one Almond Joy, one Red Sox pennant, and although
remnant packs of Twinkies are nowhere to be found, here’s a nice party pack
of 20 cream-filled cupcakes, expiration date: 9/23/2052.
ah ! c’est fini !
at the curb, Antoine boards the downtown bus, pays his fare, asks the driver
to open the door, disembarks and walks across the street to his cold-water flat
anticipating the televised Presidential debate of 9/2024.
remembering Carol Fizzarro
for some reason, from out of the ether,
she flashed into my brain
as the refrigerator door
was closing in that slow, deliberate pantomime:
“let it close by itself with a little push” attitude.
a small victory when it works.
every conceivable preparation
for the morning’s activities was
completed without a playbook
as the new order of things
was the same as the old order of things;
this goes here, that goes there,
turn this on, turn that off and pour.
I remember Carol’s father, Nick Fizzarro,
a big guy, power-loom mechanic, whose prowess
at the bocce lanes was well known in the neighborhood.
Jannette Fizzarro, Nick’s wife, was...for the lack
of a more accurate description,––
a genuine Italian beauty, lying somewhere between
Virna Lisi and Monica Vitti, although to measure
that distance, higher mathematics would be needed.
the refrigerator door nearly made it to closure, and a slight
nudge was applied to seal the deal.
but beyond her perfectly round face,
I couldn’t remember anything about Carol Fizzarro.