biographical snippet before it's too late
I have a son.
he wasn’t adopted
or born of a virgin mother.
he hasn’t suffered,
not that I've noticed,
or died. he’s living.
what else?
oh, yes.
he looks like me
during the time
when I was pretty.
I’m not childless
but so far he is.
he wants it like that.
I don't wonder why.
his girlfriend
is as beautiful
as mine during
the time when
she was pretty.
that would be
his mother.
thus ends this
biographical snippet
before it's too late.
Dear Delcy,
Well, what the hell.
Share your Prize if you dare believe
it would remain half yours for long.
But it won’t matter.
It’ll be a cheeseburger.
Let him eat it.
Watch him digest it
through his wormy intestines
passing through his bowels
above his quivering loyal subjects.
Do what you have to do
as you face a strongman who
would squash you like a grape
at the hint of provocation.
I understand.
I would fare no better.
And when he jerks-off at night, maybe,
just maybe he’ll be thinking only of you.
in the morning I was told
I was drunk last night
that I fell from the car’s
open door into the gutter
in front of my house
that I cursed my station in life
that my friends laughed
rather to lend a hand and
it rained an hour before the fall
and I was drenched with rainwater
and whatever the gutter surrendered
to my pants, which stuck there
as the flow down the artery looked like
a vein filled with puss and other yucky shit.
I threw-up making more of a mess
struggled to gain my balance, tripped
over the curbstone and landed
on the little grassy strip
in front of the mailbox.
that’s where I woke up.
that’s when I was told that
I was drunk last night
by someone I don’t know or
at least don’t remember, just happy
to be among the living.
examining the mail from the mailbox
I questioned my desire to keep living.
1953 / Saturday and a man sits at the table waiting for the bills to come in the mail
mid-afternoon and the kitchen table is set.
something is placed in the middle of the table.
could be anything as long as it’s something placed in the middle.
an empty vase. a vase with pussy willows.
something borrowed from the parlor. a figurine.
something of an afterthought. a bowl from the pantry.
and at the edge of the table a man waits for the mail.
he smokes a cigarette. could be Lucky Strike, could be Chesterfield.
an ashtray smudged with an ash-burned image of “the old man in the mountain”
a souvenir from New Hampshire, sits upon the table and at the edge, the man
smokes another one, could be Camel, waiting for the bills to come in the mail.
vignette
1953 / Saturday and a man sits at the table waiting for the bills to come in the mail
mid-afternoon and the kitchen table is set.
something is placed in the middle of the table.
could be anything as long as it’s something placed in the middle.
an empty vase. a vase with pussy willows.
something borrowed from the parlor. a figurine.
something of an afterthought. a bowl from the pantry.
and at the edge of the table a man waits for the mail.
he smokes a cigarette. could be Lucky Strike, could be Chesterfield.
an ashtray smudged with an ash-burned image of “the old man in the mountain”
a souvenir from New Hampshire, sits upon the table and at the edge, the man
smokes another one, could be Camel, waiting for the bills to come in the mail.
vignette
what’s up?
just when I’ve settled-in to this century
the “Big Bang” shows its lyin'ass mug.
a new telescope is peering into deepest space
and the light its captured isn’t supposed to be there.
the word is out: “that galaxy detected is older than the universe”!
so there it is, all red and smudgy far beyond our sensibilities.
It’s okay. soon enough a new theory will arrive.
It’ll arrive on silver wings sprinkling fairy dust
across the new and improved universe.
I liked the absurd romance of the old Big Bang.
It was like a kid finding an old copy of "Sunbathing Review"
under the porch stairs. now everything’s on hold.
everything’s like a wrong number, where
the only thing to do is apologize and hang-up.
they should invent an event so ridiculous, so sublime,
that 9 year olds would be delighted and let it go with that.
It would become the latest flatulence of God!
dream or not
this could be his last Thanksgiving,
his last Christmas, his last new year.
this could be his last Halloween.
(his best was when he dressed as a pimp
and his sister and friend Robin
dressed as hookers, looking fine indeed.)
but this could be his last birthday, his last recollection
of the Hindenburg in flames.
(christ, all that yelling!)
to be sure, this could be his final scent of history, of naugahyde,
of crinoline, her eyes half-lidded in sweet perspiration...
he may have flown for the last time over the chicken coop
into the clouds to greet the dream of an old friend and his great alligator.
December 30, 2025
roll sound and action
Rene walks through the opened door
and into a make believe house.
make believe people are there to greet him.
Rene is make believe, too.
the heavily-flowered wallpaper conceals
the guilt of horse-hair plaster.
its history is real enough.
the participants speak in false notations
and all is as it should be.
a curious on-looker coughs-up a lunger and
someone yells “cut”!
everyone seems overly disappointed.
it’s what is expected of them.
another “take” is called for.
Rene walks out into the night closing
the door behind him.
alone, Rene is thankful that it isn’t raining.
his line is easy to recall but it runs through his head.
soon everything will be as it should be with take 2.
scene still: “Below the Hill” 1963.
Fall River.
