-From "The Last Lap" journals-

As far as I can tell, my ears haven’t grown

noticeably larger, and my nose isn’t

pock-marked like the gentleman’s in 906.

But my eyes have been occupied by “floaters”

acting like certain strains in protozoa under the lens.

Also, there's this:

Recently, albeit temporarily, I considered addressing

Anthony of Padua when I couldn't find the keys,

and although laziness hasn't tracked me down,

I’m beginning to lend weight to its virtues.

And don’t talk to me about erectile disfunction.

I’m in no mood, although I manage with modern chemistry. 

Of time? Well, it seems the years have become

passersby heading in the wrong direction.

But discoveries come my way even while I stay put.

Neruda said: "I came to live in this word."

I'd say: "I’ve simply outlived my enemies."

God?–– I dunno.

I see God as that broken, gaudy flower vase my

grandmother held on to 'till her last breath, now boxed

in the attic under "miscellaneous" because it can't do anything.

Anyway,–– now for the good news.  Oh, wait!.. Necessity calls.

                  -a journey to the backside of the world-

you’re outside. you’re at the rear, southwest corner of the house.

inside, you’d be standing at the kitchen sink.

outside, you’re standing at the approach to the backside of the world.

those who go there stand motionless, stone-faced, preparing for a snapshot.

you’re at the drainpipe.

––It’s where they all show-up sooner or later.

family, friends, questionable relations, girlfriends, boyfriends, those who've been hospitalized and those who will soon be hospitalized, all gravitate to the drainpipe

for the snapshot as if programed to do so.

––but standing there, and to the left, all who come will have a good view

of the craggy vegetable garden, which in winter becomes a weave of dryness

yielding its plot of ground to the season.

to the right, during rejuvenation, stands the grapevine’s succulent canopy, which

in winter becomes a tangle of tightly woven rope-like vines winding their way

on the march to the sun.

between these landmarks lies a no-man’s-land of unused space, save for common transport.

there’s a chain-linked fence ahead, and beyond its gate stands the frozen junkyard, whose

rusted hulks, (particularly after a summer's rain) smear the atmosphere with the scent

of dying metal. the drainpipe has given birth to these places, and

––you can’t get to them without passing through its portal to the backside of the world.

It’s God’s own drainpipe, forged in its image, who maketh all who come to travel by sight-line to the garden and grapevine, through no-man’s-land, to the fence and the junkyard, then back to stand at the drainpipe, stone-faced, waiting for the light of their image

to be shuttered, and trapped within the contraption, then documented for oncoming generations who will never, ever go there, and by "there" I mean.. the drainpipe.

Quequechan

 

                   From Raisin Bran Way, Palm Beach, U.S. of A.

I nearly missed my appointment due to dampness.

The sand was coagulating and running slow, and the local horse

hoofing to the barbershop took a wrong turn.

Lucky for me the barber had his leeches on a short leash.

He knifed my hair leaving only a few open wounds to my scalp

as the leeches sucked away my tired blood, bless their little hearts.

This guy’s the best.

Later, I purchased some six day old mutton on sale,

(not too many maggots) and horsed to my hut, finding

only three of the kids had died with the yellow-ochre fever.

It’s certainly good to live in such an exciting modern time.

Someone said: “Let them come to "Raisin Bran Way"

hence to whither and die after a soulless life.”

                   The confessional without contrition

A crescent Moon, and to its left

Andromeda's galaxy appears to be falling.

She's still a brushed silver smear in the sky,

but tonight appears larger and more clearly defined.

This is the dream, and I can’t get halfway through in one piece.

I grow weary of documenting dreams and their impossibilities. 

They’re cluelessly fragmented and unreasonable.

in one, I’m someplace floating in a cool mist, in another,

I’m floating someplace else equally misty, equally out of touch.

Also, some dreams appear to be on a loop, reappearing

occasionally for whatever reason.

I've thought a lot about recurring dreams and have come

to the conclusion that none of them are actually recurring.

It's one dream and done which is simply thought of as recurring,

but that unsolved mystery is best left to the surrealists.

But of dreams, (like poetry when it begins to surrender its mysteries)

if I can fish even a modicum of truth from their awakening seas,

that will be truth enough.

                     -leafing through poems found in the ether

although it may not be proper to call it the "ether,"

and it shouldn't be referred to as "leafing through."

after all, it’s not a book with pages folded,

and adhered to a spine that one can "leaf-through,"

or "fan-through" now that I think about it,

or "dog-ear" a page if one leaves the room, or place

the thing text down on the table forming a tent.

this is the twenty first century.

which brings me to the specific poem

on the screen, backlit before me.

It has a title, and the title is repeated in the first line,

which is sort-of cheating if you ask me.

and no. the poet isn’t Emily Dickinson. she’s wonderful.

and by "wonderful" I mean: filled with wonder.

she hits you with her points of view, point blank.

no messy titles whereby the reader has to

figure out how the poem meets the title by the end.

just a number. then.. POEM!

(I once wrote a poem titled: "Buick" about a "Pontiac.")

and one shouldn't "fan through" Emily Dickinson, anyway,

or "dog-ear" a page in disrespect of the page with her name on it.

use a bookmark for chrissakes.

the poet of the poem before me dedicates

the work beneath its title. it reads: “for D.B.”

the poem’s a little messy, but a pretty good read

with lots of hyphens, and plenty of adjectives,

but it offers no clue as to who the hell “D.B.” is.

If you ask me, I think “D.B.” is no longer among the living

as the poem isn’t dedicated “to” him, but “for” him,

and I say “him” because the poem has a masculine

feel to it, and whoever "D.B." is, in the end, he's no better off

than the rest of us, what with that pain-in-the-ass edict:

"for thus thou art and unto dust thou shalt return" which seems to be

a more reasonable and proper dedication for the likes of "D.B." 

 

                  -Intermezzo / the 2nd part

I’m a resident in a space where rockets go,

where asteroids make a ring of iron 

circling for a breach in our security,–– where the young

Seven Sisters gather among themselves

with arms of fire,–– where dark matter

waits for its true definition.

I’m standing upon a substantive plank which is

the circle of the Earth, a platform the way Earth used to be

before complicating itself with its spherical enlightenment. 

why it is I'm jumping at a fever's pitch is anyone's guess.

suddenly I'm female. I'm young. I'm black. I'm jumping

as if I’m at the center of a double-dutch, and then...

swiveling my tired, blanched body out of bed, I take comfort

in knowing there is an up and down to space if only in the space

between the floor to the soles of my feet.

                  -Priest is Priest, as God was God, as We were We, but a good cigar is a smoke!

Psalm:

Hop in! Let’s go for a ride!

Sometimes to "Lincoln Park," or maybe

"Macray’s Seafood Shack" for the best fried clams around!

Sometimes to discover the mysteries of other situations.

It starts at the playground,

A game of H.O.R.S.E., then

A slow ride to route 6 east, the artery of secrets.

One at a time, boys!

God’s nowhere to be found.

Priest has a free hand.

Where we goin’? Well,–– it’s a surprise.

Priest knows God is locked-up inside the tabernacle, and

Not like he usually says:... “is everywhere.”

Watch now as Priest with assured puckered lips lights-up.

                  -historic views of Quequechan, 1953(?)-

it’s impossible to get comfortable under the massive

steering wheel when the springs of the driver’s seat are exposed.

ducking beneath the dashboard for cover

is a nastier endeavor,–– what with exposed wires

falling freely upon my head, and still, after twenty years,

the scent of the cavernous radiator's glycol penetrates the nostrils.

from the inside, I can hear Petrillo at the gate counting

to 20, as Mississippi fills the space between numbers.

I push myself under as deeply as a frightened escapee,

where cancerous rust eats into the floorboard.

diseases were never an issue.

there are four of us strewn across the junkyard, invading

the cars our grandfathers once gloried in.

off the showroom floor. glistening sheetmetal worthy

of the heavens! Hudson, Packard, DeSoto and Henry J.,

once young enough to thrill, to go as fast as to frighten,

to romance beneath the moon the same as inside the Cadillacs.

I’m the new occupant, hunted down like a moose in Maine, and soon,

my head will be a trophy above the mantle, holding photos

of the Patrillo family’s outings, graduations and weddings.

Petrillo’s young mother is deeply beautiful, olive-skinned, a southerner,

“Vibo Valentia” she once confessed to me like a love song, and I hope

she’s up there on the mantle, smiling softly below my naked head.

 

 

                   -all right, who done it?.. and why'd he do it?

who can say why priest went scurrying from the sacristy 

during the commotion caused by busybody parishioners?

and which among the proprietors murdered

the road-weary gentleman and not by Chesterfield alone?

and who presented the gift of potted herbs to the population

wrapped in the audacity of glistening aluminum?

and tell me now,–– which among the poets

breached the commonness to ask:

“when did the lemons learn

  the same laws as the sun?”

I have answers to these questions, and other questions.

dial: Osborn 14050 extension 3.