sometimes industry is the answer

I struggle to cobble words

to maintain a disciplined long sentence.

they seem to lose their momentum.

but I like what I’ve done with the place.

during the winter months, the view from the balcony

resembles the “Ashcan School” of painting.

I should tend to my own affairs.

It wouldn’t hurt if I should become

a little more like them.

                   to the guy who doesn’t like me

look at it this way:

I don’t live in your house.

I live in my house.

you live differently than I do.

I’m not saying that’s bad.

I’m not saying that’s good.

I’m not feeling sorry

for you or for me.

these are our own circumstances.

your walls hang different pictures.

your mantle is strange to me;

like another planet filled with

otherworldly beings.

you know these people.

you’ve loved them, too.

I struggle to maintain long sentences.

they seem to lose their momentum.

I question every comma.

If I was a comma I’d be homeless.

I like what you’ve done with the place.

the view from the window

resembles the “Ashcan School”.

remember those guys?

I should clean-up.

I should vacuum the rugs.

I should mind my own business.

you should be more like me.

                  posing positions

the nude model’s name was Mary.

heavy-set, mid-40s I’d say.

any younger and somebody

would call an ambulance.

she was more the flavor of Rubens than Modigliani.

a good poser, though, for the less angular

art students holding charcoal sticks

ready to mark their pages in her image.

a sea shanty to define her would be

“hill and gully rider”–– because

to catch the whale the harpooners

and their oarsmen closed-in riding whaleboats

over and down the waves of the sea.

“whaleboats”..that’s the proper name given to these boats.

but one might think because of what they did,

which would be,.. chasing down the great sperms

often in high seas, sometimes resulting in the deaths

of a boatload of whalers, a more romanticized name

for these boats would be in order.

a “hill & gully” would be a good one.

a “spear-header” would be nice, too.

or a “blubber-dubber ”.––

hey! wait a minute! 

what the hell happened to Mary?

friend

friend lives in London

is warmer than London

is brighter than

is lovelier than

as damp as

as foggy as

sings and acts the vamp

if the script wants her that way

and sometimes

even without the script.

                     

from one who long ago loved her

I recently met someone who said he knew her

although he’s probably lying.

maybe long ago from a distance he had a boner for her

as it seems many young men had.

to break the ice he might have told her he had a dream about her

but he would have been lying.

In order for him to dream of her he’d have to pass through my dream

which is indelible and impossible.

                  from the folder to be determined / 1962 to 2026

I dreamed

of Elaine San Marcos last night

sent to me from Hillside Manor

the brick and mortar housing project

down by the river

delivered there from Sao Miguel

surrounded by water.

 

little poem

my MacBook is running late.

It’s old and stained.

I should track the stains down,–– 

down to from whence they came,

down to their origins, down to the errant

slips of the tongue caused by

the fork’s inadequacy to hold on to its goods.

the little plops upon the silvery platform are dark

stones dropped to a glistening snow.

this is a poem of stains because something of note

had to become of them.

 

   

how to experience a sudden downpour as happened in 1958.

hunch your shoulders.

keep your head down.

find an entryway––

preferably one leading

to the interior of a department store.

Cherry & Webb had a good one

spacious enough to set a table for two.

(she’ll follow your lead.

no need to go inside.

tuck yourselves in.

face the weather

bending forward holding hands)

this little love song is a remembrance to honor

a moment in time with Noreena Fareria.