-the americanization

                 of the sweet

             Japanese haiku continues-

                              1.

            at the sun's side of the window

                 the sparrow is singing.

            'could be two sparrows.

                              2.

            after subtracting one sparrow

                  adding another

            would seem counterproductive.

                             3.

            on the lawn's plain, the black
                  short-haired cat

            enjoys the sparrow's song ––

                             4.

            but as the cat enlightens the sparrow

                   to think outside itself

            the sparrow sings the cat’s tune, anyway.

            2010 / 2013 / No. 2, 2022

       

                    -Marilyn’s arithmetic-                                                                                                                          

                    there seemed to be fewer poems written

                    pertaining to the death of Marilyn Monroe

                    than I assumed there would be by the time I wrote mine.

                    don’t get me wrong.

                    I'd bet every tomdick'nharry in the neighborhood

                    had one to recite whenever you went over there for cheap

                    chardonnay and a platter of assorted cheese samplings.

                    but in the realm of post-death Marilyn poems

                    far from the houses of pesky neighbors,

                    there are fewer than I thought there would be.
                    there's Bukowski’s blunt-edged account

                    written in close to real time,

                    (he hears the earthworms pant for her bones)

                    and there's one by Sharon Olds

                    which cuts-to-the-chase, written long after the fact.

                    to close-out his poem, Bukowski holds a toast to her memory
                    a full minute with a glass of, I'll guess imported beer, whereas

                    Olds goes after the coroner's attendants.

                    she follows them home when their work is done.

                    It's an unpleasant situation.
                    Sharon says the "ambulance men"

                    attending to her body were never the same.

                    of one she said,–– even his wife and kids looked different.

                    (pity the poor attendants)

                    later,–– on the frontier reserved for unabsolved poets,

                    I found myself writing one inspired after another viewing

                    of "The Seven Year Itch" on television, contributing to the pool where

                    Marilyn's elegies from all sources,–– memorials, eulogies,

                    bad jokes on the Bedford and County Bus, like-minded poems, and

                    requiem masses are summed-up to be recorded for posterity.

                   in summation:

                   this personal entry will actually be my second "Marilyn" poem,

                   and from the fundamental way I calculate such things,

                   that should be one more than necessary to add my two-cents-worth

                   to the surprisingly short column of contributors on the death of

                   Marilyn Monroe.

                                     

          -the sore shoulder and the distant dwarf-

          soon enough i’ll blame the dampness in weather.

          soon enough i’ll not be fit to work out the kinks.

          it’s the left shoulder, so i’ll cup my right hand over it

          and move my left arm in lame, shoulder-high revolutions

          like those of the distant dwarf around the frozen
          waistline of the Sun’s influence.

          this is one of the things that pushed Pluto

          toward disfavor among influential observers;

          the metrics of its sometimes awkward, unpredictable revolutions.

          we want our planets to revolve cleanly, or at the least,

          with imperfections which are scientifically excusable.

          my sore shoulder will soon be explained away by
          the fault of dampness in weather.

          the guests in the parlor will one day come to say:

          “well, it’s just the dampness, right Bill”?

          i’ll one day reply: “that’s right.
          it’s just the dampness”.

                    -beyond the backyard decks of summer-

                    1.

                    of the backyard decks of summer,

                    some are adjacent to swimming pools

                    but others overlook the landscape.
                    we have one of those.

                    come by for a cookout, why don'tcha.

                    ––we’ll play croquet and badminton, or two-hand-touch football

                    like the Kennedy’s of Hyannis Port.

                    now, Jackie’s long dead and Jack’s been shot in the head

                    on the never ending newsreel loops although the pace of its violence

                    has slowed somewhat with the passing of time.

                    2.

                    as still-frames go, I've always been most intrigued by the imagery of No. 312,

                    where the brain is jostled to be sure, but remains encased within the cranium.

                    in No. 312  she leans-in, cherry pink and apple-blossom white.

                    in No. 312 we're left waiting for the punchline.

                       "There's a signpost up ahead..."

                    3.

                   during a mid-winter afternoon as a far, far younger man,
                   retreating from the sea-silvered shale of the Newport coastline,

                   a Lincoln limousine approached slowly on the magnificent

                   winding avenue of Ocean Drive, and from the plushness of the Lincoln's

                   backseat, Janet Lee Auchincloss waved a gracious gloved hand

                   in greeting toward me, but––

                   by the time I could react her limo had passed into the greying distance

                   and from that moment to this day, I confess to a longing to have had the time

                   to return the greeting toward the mother of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy,

                   believing it would have been in some way gratifying for her to see,––

                   speaking to the passage of time.

               -Leslie Van Houten in Fall River-

               Every time Leslie Van Houten knocks at the damn door

                                             It’s after midnight.
               It’s a good thing I don’t work for a living.

               Leslie Van Houten’s nocturnal,

                                             Like a vampire bat.

               That might explain the excessive amount of blood.

               It was still dark when Leslie Van Houten got up to pee
                                              And wash her face.
               Leslie Van Houten whispered a farewell note to my ear.

               She was gone by sunup.

                “William, I've decided that you’re no "piggy”

                                                                          L’Van

               -me, once my girl, and the near death experience-

               we’ll stop by to pay our respects;

               wear clothes not too often seen by others.

               the line is long and its tension is foreign to our sensibilities.

               the bereaved, sitting silently in a deep, black row,

               receive us with grace and unfeigned smiles of recognition.

               I’ll say: “sorry for your troubles.”

               you'll follow, saying simply: “sorry…”

               (the word evaporates at your mouth before its end)

               we’re young enough not be seen as rude if we don’t stick around

               and in lieu of lighting-up on the mourner's front porch,

               I’ll say: “let’s get outta here and go to the bar.”

              (we have other friends there, and like us, they're among the living.)

               you'll nod in silent agreement, and we'll leave that place.

              

                Fall River / 70s-ish

-Thursday, January 4th, 2018-

6:33 AM, Swansea, Massachusetts.

Severe weather forecast.

Life threatening weather the advisory says.

Heavy snow. Wind gusts upwards to 70 knots.

Deep cold. Chill factor to 15 below.

Some say 20...

It’s “Bombogenesis” they say.

They say: “Bombogenesis” is coming!

I’d have laid that moniker on Aunt Levia in a minute

Had I known the term, that time long ago;

My brain was still growing they said,–– back when

Levia would come to the house for a quick visit 
In a dress too tight for the plumpness of Levia.

The hem rides high on the couch...

Wednesday, January 3rd, 2018

Got me some rock salt and bottled water.
Got me some toilet paper; 12 roll pack. Double ply.

Got me a couple of 6 packs, too. Sam, Boston Lager.

Got me a stack of one's from the bank who says I'm family.

In the here and now, in the time of heavy weather, it's 7:47 AM

And counting...