-Come up to my place-

It’s east-facing at the extreme north end of town.

There's a sense of isolation here, and the river

at this location is wide, but less travelled upon

than its southern leg. Here, you'll also sense the end of the river

and at the same time, its beginnings, and while both

senses seem reasonable, one is less reasonable than the other.

You'll be left with a keen notion of this dichotomy if

you come up to my place. There’s industry all around;

international carriers, florist wholesalers, abandoned

textile mills converted to numerous specialty retail stores,

and niche, gluten-free pâtisserie nooks, and so on,

something rarely, if ever seen when when I was a child,

as the mills were active and powerful and ever-present.

From the fifth floor balcony, and with the hill rising slowly eastward,

the weight of structures are stepping stones to this man's eye,

from river to hilltop anchored to ground by those who came before me.

The commercial structures have become increasingly interesting,

and you'll notice everything is clearly defined, but the light

penetrates as the sun rises, –– and I should add, disturbingly so.

I’m moved to blind the windows in order to read the illuminated screen.

It’s a process, readjusting things laying in the early sunlight's path, but

in doing so you'll gain a deeper respect of the solar pathways.

Those facing westward follow the same procedures between

the evening hours of seven and whatever, but it's far less intense.

To sum-up,–– you'll sense that the river ends and begins in the moment

when viewed toward the north, that the sun will set in the west

with a different degree of authority, and from the east, what was once

an intrusion of industry into the landscape has now become an irresistible romance. 

So, come up to my place.

 

                   there are procedures to consider when preparing to write poems

It's best when the brain’s sensory receptors are stimulated,

and the body’s muscular structure is accommodating. The point being

that all sorts of things will pop up in the middle of the doldrums.

Approach the writing table as you would a disinterested lover.

Consider the latest published poet of note.

Consider the reasons why this poet is, and you are not.

Slip a disk into the player. Erik Satie's attitude might assist, but

if blankness persists, consider the writing table sitting in the distance

as if it holds the answers to everything you think you know.

 

                   Kim Addonozio and me, with "What Do Women Want?"

for this poem, sure, I’ll support you.

but I won't promote you as "Bukowski in a Sundress."

I want you as you were when you wrote about that little red dress.

that's my take.

sure, your book’s expensive, at least as books written by poets go.

excuse my flashback into your poem, but look, this is your fault.

I've been considering you wearing that red dress, the dress

your younger self panted for, shimmying into it, slinking around 

the streets of San Francisco like you shit ice cream,–– and sure,

you did, and you drove me crazy, but it’s all in the crooked way

I look at things, and if I’m living, and if you’re dead and buried,

(unlikely, because I'm 12 times your age) and you've turned to ash

draped within that damn red dress, which by the way, was what

you said you wanted, you'll still be haunting me, fantasizing over

how you were, the sound of your words, the length of your throat

rising deliberately from the neckline.

you were younger, then.

I wasn't. this is your fault !

your walkabout through San Francisco was like a visual horror hunt.

along your way we pity the pigs slapped on the loading dock's dolly

as naked in death as they were in life, and along your way we pity

the harried Wong's who laid-out trays of day-old donuts, but

honest to their core, promoted them as such.

why'd you make me pity the Wong's now that I know them.

this is your fault !

you and that goddamned red freakin' dress !

you make me nervous, even now that I'm old with a bad ticker.

look. there are three things I know about the universe:

one: the Sun will explode in five billion years.

two: you’re the one who wrote the poem about the little red dress.

and three: I'm the guy who paid money to read about it.

                Requiem for poet / February 22, 2021

                The meadow is arching

                Downward toward the western banks of the river.

                The meadow wants a drink of cold, running water.

                If the river's top-sheet appears

                To run northward, it's due to the strength

                Of the southerlies as they move across the water.

                The weight and depth of the river runs

                From north to south and it’s always been that way.

                Well, that is, for as long as I can remember.

                Across the river looking eastward, the city's textile mills,

                And church steeples rise from the hillside, but have lessened

                Dramatically in their numbers, victims of the machinery's oil-soaked floors, or

                The welder's wayward spark, careless fires and icy closures. The light

                Remains translucent, transitional, and––  steely-grey.

                I'm impatient for sundown lest I begin singing like Ferlinghetti,

                "Afflicted with observation fever,"–– just another crazed, love-sick canary.

                Writ in Swansea, Massachusetts, 2009.

                Altered and re-published to this date on the occasion.

The capybara as reassigned by Sandra Beasley

in her poem “Unit of Measure,” sent me into hysterics,

a sense of wonderment, and the usual feelings of inadequacy.

She says she knows where to find them, but doesn’t say

she’s actually seen a capybara. I'm sure she has.

She mentions the arbitrary length of the king’s foot

way back in the day as becoming the unit of measure

of a foot for the entire kingdom, and based upon that,

she uses the capybara as a new, arbitrary unit of measure,

rationalizing that "everyone is lesser than or greater than

the caybara." or: "everything is mistaken for a Brazilian

dance craze more or less frequently than the capybara." and so on.

clever. but she evades the things which are equal in size to the capybara,

which some readers might find disconcerting.–– I don't.

Also, she doesn’t say how the king's unit of measure affected

the daily comings and goings of the kingdom's peasantry,

although it was probably helpful to the king's war machine.

Further, the king had two feet, and standing like the Egyptians

pictured on hieroglyphics, lacking the illusion of depth,

the unit of measure could well be reimagined (given a small

space between them for future adjustments) –– as

one foot directly in front of the other foot as a foot.

loved the poem, "Unit of Measure" by Sandra Beasley

not found in the volume: "Made To Explode" but you can

listen to her read it on the "Poetry Foundation" site, and if you do,

you'll take your heart medication and thank me in the morning.

 

  

                  -the wakeup in a bad mood with a closing from Kerouac- 

there’s lots of piano players.

you got your classical

you got your honky tonk

you got your jazz and yer blues

and unfortunately the piano-pounding kid across the hall

who thinks he’s alone on the floor, but he's not, and he stinks.

but the Big Sky Object decides to pluck

Mihaela Ursuleasa from the crowd because..

what? Biggie needs another piano player?

this seems unfair.

sort-of like the highest bidder who takes his Vermeer

to a Himalayan mountaintop retreat.

fucker.

pisses me off.

and this coming from a guy who's never seen a Vermeer up close.

not a woman around this morning

to tell me not to take it personally.

not a woman around this morning

to tell me she understands.

not a woman around this morning

who plays the piano.

I got a friend who lectured me

on the virtues of long relationships with women.

I love you, but fuck you, man.

I like the short ones;

the lightning bolts of relationships.

It's all in the burning before the snuffing, you see.

take this young piano player right here for example:

total playing time: 60 minutes 25 seconds, then snuffed

faster'n jazzier than anybody! 

"wham wham the true blue song of man."

or Mihaela Ursuleasa for those taking notes.

                   

                  -The one-liner and the closing night of the experience-

I found my way to the Little League double-
header at the ballpark a few blocks from the house
and later I opened the door to darkness.

I switched-on a naked table lamp standing

alone in the middle of the hardwood floor
and the light was enough to empty an entire room.

She took the time to prosecute my residence

by leaving my drawing of her "stepping from the bath"

hanging on a barren wall like an exposed crime.

We lived on the upper westward-facing slope

of the hill overlooking the river, and during times

of compatibility, ate our dinners tucked into an alcove

at the triptych windows facing the twilight.

She was a student in the behavioral sciences.

I usually got up late in the morning.

Over time we began to speak of things

irrelevant to the other, and she told me

she’d been unnerved

by how loudly I slurped my soup;

that it reminded her of her grandfather,

and I told her

she should ease-up on the wine,

and that's the one that did it.

That's the line which emptied an entire room.

                   

                       

                   In memory of Betty Ready (full of spaghetti) in paradise

1.

this was your rhyme.

this is what they gave to you,

those of your kind from the corner

of Bedford and Stinziano, which in time

would be passed down to me and those of my kind.

your hair, I recall, was red as a simmering marinara!

hence, the rhyme from both your names, and what

two names cobbled as they are would serve you better?

Betty Ready Full of Spaghetti:

did you see it back then, graced by the active

romance of your youth?

was it clear to you from the inside, the deep

affection of a nickname which spoke to only you?

your friend, my sister, informed me of your death

in 1993 after your fierce battle with demon cancer, and it was then

that the seed of this poem was planted in my brain,––

I guess,–– but as with most of my sister's friends I knew you

only from afar, and it's taken its own wealth of time to surface,

and I'd wish for you now a far better poet,–– but 

2.

you're Irish in the eyes of your father as he stands in astonishment

from behind the viewing glass.

you're Italian as they place you in your young mother's arms,

and as you'd discover dearly along your journey in life,

it's all about time, Betty Ready (full of spaghetti)–– and so

now you're here.

1940 / 1993. Quequechan

                 Chernihiv: room with a view

new listing

recent vacancy

open ceiling plan

sky light

low floor

fixer-upper

water not included

heat not included

no access to food

no children

no pets

despair a must

no inquiries, please

must see

new listing

room with a view

                   by contract, the poet Jorie Graham is allowed to tether her cow in Harvard Yard

                   an addendum

this is stated in the original contract which

dates back to John Quincy Adams

as a chaired professor of "rhetoric and oratory".

(freakin' Harvard)

I didn’t think I was actually forbidden to tether my cow

in the famous yard, and Harvard's just up the road apiece.

you'd think I'd have a claim of residence or something.

but why would Harvard deny me this perk of citizenship?

could be her cow is better than my cow, born

and raised from the finest patches on the right side of the tracks.

maybe her cow gives more milk per squeeze, a sweeter, vitamin

rich milk, a smoother, creamier milk, a milk she can be proud to serve

her kids along with their strawberries and macaroons in the morning,

whereas my kid eats OREO cookies, and my cow’s just a regular

ol’ cow you might see in the field during a pleasant drive

through the countryside, (I'm thinking Westport) and all she does

is quietly wonder about the things around her because she's beautiful,

and maybe Harvard's full of shit about Jorie Graham because I'll bet a dollar

to a donut she ain't even got no cow nohow. spit. plunk. 

                   how to properly flush the toilet when the water is shut off

we came from water, slithering from the primordial soup.

l.

fill the holding tank with water

panned from a pre-filled tub.

this takes a measure of anticipation.

do not fill over the tank pipe's opening,

and when the holding tank is filled,

the toilet will flush.

remember, pets need water, too,

but they can lap it up from the tub.

so can the Oligarchs and Popes.

2.

last night I caught myself gawking

at a still-frame of a young Anita Ekberg.

(gawking is longer than a glance 

and with a more malleable attitude)

I gave the room the once-over

to make sure of the vacancies.

Anita was enchanting in “La Dolce Vita,”

a rare beauty, prancing around the pool at Trevi Fountain.

apologies for gawking,–– but I need water, too.

do not pour the tub water directly into the bowl !

that process requires a heavy drench of water poured

all at once causing unwanted splashing, and it's disgusting.

epilogue:

well, the wife nabbed the kid and fled the scene under

peculiar circumstances, so I'm well aware of how to embrace the isolation,–– 

and I don’t need no busybodies snoopin’ around here no more !

love the double negatives. now..where'd Anita go?

 

                  while considering a saga to one hell-of-a Viking, I pause to consider..

Jane’s legs:

Jane's wearing the skin of an animal

Tarzan had misgivings about.

the skin is short at the jagged hemline

and rises temptingly with her movement.

she’s sitting without cause for distress

on the highest limb of a tree that best belongs in Maine,

while one leg hangs freely, swaying gently like

a succulent pendulum.

later, Jane's taking a swim in the clear water near the falls.

she appears to be naked, but it's just an illusion.

she's naked.

earlier, in the treehouse, Jane makes breakfast for Tarzan

consisting of various fruits and berries.

Tarzan eyes his meal thinking: "what've I gotten myself into?" but

adjusting quickly to his new station he eats what's put in front of him.

Jane's trapped and the lion is coming.

Cheetah informs Tarzan who beats on the lion and stabs it

with a knife God himself has fashioned for the confrontation.

but throughout, the lion appears to want to cuddle with Tarzan.

Jane's rescued, and counts another skin for her wardrobe. 

oh, look! It's daddy!

yes, her father shows-up with an entourage of white folk.

the natives carry the heavy luggage and aren't allowed to have rifles.

(why do the natives always appear skittish in their own country?)

on the way to camp, some of them have fallen off the treacherous cliff

from the narrow pathway taking with them their loads of whitey's goods,

but there's no remorse coming from whitey who

enjoys the evening sitting by the campfire smoking his pipe.

Jane's happy to see her father, but tells her tagalong boyfriend

to scram because she's staying in the jungle with Tarzan and the apes.

fuck the 5th Avenue penthouse!

dad hugs his little girl for finally making a decision in her life and

departs on a heading north by west to the big city and its own set of apes,

thus ending any hope for the resurrection of the saga:

"Ragnar Hairy-Breeks, the Viking of Norway."