psalms.

I'm rich, some with less might say

and to some degree, warm-hearted.

maybe. it sounds distant. I don't know.

and not to nitpick daydreams, but

from time-to-time I've been known

to lift the head of God from the table

to the level of my eyes as if God's head

had eyes to see me.

my saints are ––

the liquor salesman on the road

and the inner-hatband stitcher

and my sister and my brother

and all my lost loves and loves lost.

if I bleed beneath the barber's

errant straight razor,

some might say I had it coming.

but when I die, the undertaker

will fold my arms, hopefully,

just the way I would have.

                  Manuel Alphonso writes:

Dear William.

What ever happened to

the “Woman in the Landscape”?

Well, Manny,–– she passed away.

She entered the scene and sat on the little stool

which I’d placed for her in the landscape.

I asked her if she would like some water

or a glass of vodka and she said: “No, thank you.”

She didn’t fuss with her clothing.

She didn’t ask questions.

She instinctively knew her mission.

I took out my fine point pen and a graphite stick

and began transferring her likeness to the page.

Eventually, I wrapped things up: “Well, I guess that’s it.”

She got up from the little stool, collected her twenty bucks

and vanished into the night like the angels do from our dreams.

                    midmorning overcast gave way

to low-lying clouds.

the breeze was a 5 knot

drift from the southeast.

a light surf broke at the shoreline

to the delight of waders and colorful

inflatable paddlers.

the forecast was for sunlight to break through

before noon with clear skies to follow.

nearby, a man found a nearly whole crab shell 

and washed it in the surf.

he used it to frighten the kids.

his wife yelled at him and the shell

disappeared from view of the family blanket.

from the chaos I considered their wood-woven

picnic basket and fantasized what was in it;

sandwiches. soda pop. juice. potato chips, bananas…

and when the day is done this family will change

from their bathing suits to more functional clothing

in the parking lot on the driver’s side of the car.

the doors will be open. the subterfuge is perfectly timed. 

for me, six days will pass before another trip to the beach.

it’ll be on that day when “Spindrift dream girl”

will walk across my sightline, alone and aloof and memorable.

     

 

                     

"Screwed"

as in

I’m screwed.

man, you’re screwed.

un-truncated form:

I’ll screw you up, motherfucker.

alternative:

“Toast”

I’m toast.

we’re toast.

you’re toast.

proper usage:

pumpernickel toast.

"Toke"

as in toke-up

toke-down

gimme a toke.

“Screwed”

the planet is screwed.

"screwed" (at the movies)

Claire Standish

when asked about

the status of her parents says:

“they’re both screwed”

as in: “screwy”.

it’s inventive. I rather like it

and I like Claire Standish, too.

next up: “hot”

as in: “I’m hot for Claire Standish”

                    the dreaming

buffa:

It was a fractured dream.

one thing then another.

Newport, Rhode Island

and Bob Dylan’s electric guitar

short-circuited at: "I ain't gonna..."

and the folkie gathered there

called for more as he kicked the amplifier.

then the Hindenburg docked

without a hint of heat

and the rich people went to the opera.

( John Adams: "Death of Klinghoffer" )

they didn't like it.

well,.. time passed or so it seemed and I sat-up stiffly

from a cold nap as if being startled by a loud clap

or a screaming junkyard cat and the undertaker yelling:

"Oh, for chrissakes! Stop being such a goddamned prima donna"! 

wow!–– what a freakin' dream!

                    the interior / 1956

there seemed to be something burning

inside the big Zenith television.

and from the doilies the multi-

colored mints within their cut-glass

dishes couldn’t mask the acrid scent.

my sister’s room smelled like

the perfume counter at the swanky

Cherry & Webb department store.

from the hallway I spied her pal Edwina Mello

dabbing the slopes of her neck

with the scent of "Tabu" and her wrists

and the back of her knees

and the interior walls of my brain.

                   the non-renowned poem-writer

I shouldn’t write long poems.

whether I’m good at it or not

is not the question.

the questions is: who’ll take

the time to read them?

everybody’s busy with their own devices

and time spent with mine means less time

they’ll have to spend with their own.

makes sense.

Robert Browning doesn’t have this problem.

I just read "Andrea Del Sarto" after reading "Fra Lippo Lippi"––

not epics by any standard, but two very long poems nonetheless,

with lots of words and intriguing hills and gullies to navigate.

problem for me is; I’m left to mourn the poems I left behind

in the non-retrievable distance of Browning's dust.

it's all in the timing you see.

Zooks!–– fuckin’ Browning.