the Seidman sisters

known as the Vodka twins

deserved a life of their own.

sure they were smelly.

but they dressed-up very well

and there’s a soft quality to them

when their legs are exposed

beneath the slits of their gowns.

they seem out of place, and yet

they’re desirable.

I was told by an innocent bystander

that they were hired to be on-stage

bodyguards for Lydia Lunch who

by the looks of her didn’t need bodyguards.

one kick of those nyloned legs and the perp

would be out cold on the dance floor.

I haven’t made up my mind whether or

not the Seidman sisters could be referred

to as eye-candy.

I’ve seen photos of my younger self taken by others

and I wonder if I would've been eye-candy

to the Vodka Twins.

that is before they killed me

after having their way with me.

                  witness to an event

while standing on the corner

watching all the girls go by

(a song sung by the Four Lads,

not the Four Lads of Liverpool

but the silly, harmonic Four Lads

dressed neatly in pressed

chino slacks and matching

cardigan sweaters)–– there were screeching breaks.

“the screeching breaks” should be the name 

of a rock n’ roll band, a punkish sort-of band,

a no wave band, a band of lunatics who'll

stop you on the street, ask for a smoke

then turn your life into a living hell.

but what’re ya gonna do. you state an opinion

then run for cover. that's what. anyway,

who listens anymore? who gives a shit nowadays?

but the screeching breaks of a fast-

moving vehicle were immediate.

then the thud of fatal contact. then the screaming,

curbside onlookers, then the settling of commotion,

and finally the setting of the scene.

I like the setting of the scene. I enjoy the setting of the scene.

the setting of the scene is the preamble to completion.

the setting of the scene means something beyond the scene itself.

snapshot: having a beer on the couch is a scene.

snapshot: having an argument with the wife is a scene.

snapshot: looking down at the Cape Cod Canal

from the highway far above is a scene.

but when someone takes the normalcy of a scene

and creates the setting of the scene, that’s what I like.

the problem I'm having right now is, I can’t remember

where I planned to go with this. so..goodbye.

                    a thought of Crispus Attucks

well, what do you think?

was it worth two musket balls to the chest

for a measly couple of hundred years

plus half-a-hundred in change?

I don’t believe you’re rolling over in your grave.

I don’t believe you hear me now.

this isn't for you.

this is for me, once again invading

the setting of a scene.

Boston was hot, Crispus;

all that commotion about revolution, the birth of nation,

the one now dying at my feet but unlike dying

on the cobblestones of Boston.

this isn't a crime scene, Crispus.

it’s the vulgarity of petty theft.

I know it's not what you had in mind when you hit the street

and although I know as surely as you are dead and that the dead stay dead,

Crispus Attucks, I would've wished only the best for you.

  

                   Who is the first person you knew, besides a relative, who died?

Antonio “Pinky” D’Ambrozio.

He dove from the ledge

hit something other than water and in a few days

came up floating more violet than pink.

How well did you know this “Pinky”?

Only by the recognition of his face.

How old were you both when "Pinky" drowned?

About the same age. However old we were in the 9th grade.

Did you witness the drowning?

No. Somebody told me the day after.

Who told you?

Cousin Delores Pieroni, older sister to the knuckleballer.

You said: the "knuckleballer"?

Okay. Did you attend “Pinky”s wake?

I don't think I did.

But I'm not sure I didn't.

How could you forget a thing like that?

As I said. I knew "Pinky" only

by the recognition of his face and I was told

it would be a "closed casket".

Oh. Okay. That makes sense.

                   that reminds me

from a balcony high enough to cause apprehensions,

somewhere on Earth, someplace in the World, while contemplating

the vastness of the landscape, I walked to the refrigerator to nab a cold beer.

I like beer, but unlike many old friends (living and dead,

in paradise or H-E-double hockey sticks, around the time when

John Lennon mentioned John Sinclair (who?) in a song before

he wrote a whole song dedicated to Sinclair and his incarceration

in 1969 for selling two joints to undercover cops.

back then, I "knew" Sinclair slightly with the assistance of 3rd party

encounters, yet to this day still feel a remote connection to Lennon,

simply by the mere mention of Sinclair's name in a song.

now, under a moony night sky but stars enough to discourage counting) –– 

I don’t “love” beer. I like it, but I can live without it and like me, it's just

another link in the seemingly infinite chain of experiences.

In the company of weeds

I haven’t spent the time studying tombstones as others have. 

some look for names they might recognize, and when they

find such a stone, a sense of wonder and mystery surrounds them.

others search for memorable quotes etched into the stone,

transferring the quotations to paper from rubbing crayons.

other stones incorporate images of angels on the wing,

all vying for a look-see from future earthly relations, or

to nab the attention of a disinterested God.–– I don’t know.

it’s hard to reconcile one’s life with that of a tombstone;

that place of earth restricted to narrow eternal borderlines.

when my ash is collected during the big sweep

it'll be on its own without the body which produced it.

it'll be scattered somewhere,–– somewhere near the ocean,

near the foot of the mountain, or adjacent to the railroad tracks

keeping company with weeds and occasional young lovers.

with its body, the ash used to know a lot of things.

but it won't know where that final place will be without its body

and with or without its body it won't know how it will get there.

 

                    John Gamache!

You look like Lawrence Ferlinghetti!

Like John Cage looked like John Havlicek! 

Like Gina Lollobrigida looked during

Marcello Mastroianni’s wet dream!

You look like a saint dodging Purgatory!

Like a painter whose nerves are tamed

By the glass of a young dry red!

And that's my two cents worth exclamation mark.

                  I came across this 1968-ish SOTMOFA slide in a transparent

bag before “baggies” were introduced as a “new and improved”

step forward in the trade.

I remember the drawing and my disappointment with the slide,

transferred from 8mm camera film by “professionals”.

Maybe they didn’t like the drawing and made it blurry on purpose.

As I remember, I rather liked the drawing now dwelling

with the saints in an undiscovered latitude.  

The facts of the case:

Paper:  Strathmore 400 heavyweight off white / 14”x17” (?)

Medium:  Conte crayon in various colors.

Genre:  Complete invention.

Methodology:  Haphazard, helter-skelter like the children do,

or de Kooning, or the Manson family.  

Setting of the scene: could be my place, could be her place

or in keeping with the genre of “invention”, no place at all.