-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 have yet to 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.

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. 

I can’t get halfway through in one piece, and after nearly

40 years I'm questioning why I quit smoking.

I grow weary of documenting dreams.

They’re cluelessly fragmented and unreasonable.

I’m someplace floating in a cool mist, and then

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

And I never know anybody in the dreams.

I only think I recognized them after I wake up.

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, and sure, it’s always up to me to make

decisions as to whether or not to document them.

But of dreams, like poetry when they begin to surrender their 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 part two-

I’m in space

where rockets go

where the moon is

where dark matter

waits for its discovery,

and where God keeps a childless,

retribution-filled house.

I’m standing upon a solid structure

which is not the Earth.

It’s a platform

the way Earth used to be

before complicating itself

with its spherical enlightenment. 

Why it is I'm jumping

up and down at a fever's pitch

is anyone's guess.

Suddenly I'm female.

I'm young.

I'm black, jumping

as if I’m in the middle

of a double dutch, and then..

swiveling my tired, old-man, hairy

white feet out of bed

I take comfort in knowing

there is an up and down to space

if only within the space of a dream.

                  -Priest is priest, as god was God, as we were we,..

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.”

                  -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 they do it?)

who knows why priest went scurrying from the sacristy 

during the commotion caused by his parishioners?

or which, among the proprietors,

murdered the gentleman by smoke alone?

and who presented the gift of potted herbs

wrapped in the audacity of glistening aluminum?

 and tell me now, which among the poets mined 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.

(this poem is structured after Neruda's "through a closed mouth the flies enter")