ahoy! you painters of pictures! DRAFT!!!

friends in various degrees of palship

in a crowded, illuminated field of too many excesses!

familiarity takes me just so far, to

maybe.. six of you, but–– have you read

Sandra Beasley’s “Biloxi Bacon”?

she’s a poet, and as far as I can tell, not a painter, but

she did this thing with Marc Chagall, and

along her way, his father was mentioned

as a principal player, mostly in the beginning

as most fathers are, and the poem’s a really good read!

(“good” being a relative term same as “friends”)

I was reminded by poet Chloe Martines that

"her specialties are  

anyway, here’s a link to the poem by Beasley:

"Biloxi Bacon" / Sandra Beasley / "Made To Explode"

                  -for those of us who move on from those who suffer-

we move on from those who suffer.

we move on to the dinner tables,

to our healthy, annoying children.

we move to the MacBooks,

and newspapers for the information

we need to process the event of suffering.

those who currently suffer have

all the information they need.

we move to the ballgame on television.

we move to our daily preferences

and our daily occupations.

their suffering is not the way of things

for those not currently suffering

until the time of suffering comes

to lay its pall of grief upon us.

then our suffering, too, will be slower-paced,

lingering heavily often over lifetimes.

but today belongs to the current suffering.

for the rest of us, we have our lives to attend to,

and I think that’s fair;

I think that’s a reasonable measurement,––

the distance we apply between

those not currently suffering, and those who currently suffer.

-breaking-in the new 5-fingered glove-

bring it home

from the Gob Shops Store.
take it out of the bag.
snip the irrelevant
tags from its hide.
leave the bag on the table.
if it drifts to the floor
It's not your concern.

the life it briefly knew is done.

It's a dead bag now.
grab the slick,
heavy tin of olive oil
from the kitchen cupboard.
sit with the glove in your lap
at the edge of your bed.
drizzle the olive oil
straight from the tin
into the pocket.
use both hands. the tin is heavy.
the tin is slick.
put it on the floor.
your mother needs it
for the fried eggs in the morning.
your grandmother needs it
for just about everything. 

rub the olive oil into the glove.
use the dishrag
nabbed from the hook at the sink.
put it back when it's done.
your mother will need it
to swipe the oilcloth clean before breakfast.
oil the pocket.

spend the time necessary.

oil the pocket, not the fingers
laced tight with rawhide.

pull the thumb-tab out.

don’t be afraid.

pull it out all the way.
the tab will steady the thumb
when the game is played.
don't oil it!
move the fingers in and out.
free them from their stiff,
Rawlings charley-horses
and the brilliant Gob Shops shelf.
spend the time necessary.
rub the olive oil in.

press your old baseball into the pocket,

the one unravelling at the seams,
the one no longer chosen to play,

the ball which surrendered its sheen

for the sake of the game,

and close the fingers tightly around it.

tie the glove with twine.

tie it up.

don’t use tape!

tie a knot —

the same knot as your sneakers.

clear a space on the bedroom dresser

below the mirror

away from the spills of the frantic kitchen.

it’s okay to pick it up,

feel it,

breathe it in.
that's the scent of cowhide

rubbed with virgin olive oil.
soon it will know the scent of the game.
test the weight with the palm of your hand,
the glove hand,
the right hand,
the left-fielder's hand.
In the morning, tell them:

"nobody touch this!

leave it right here!"
In the morning, show them:

"leave it here, just like this!"

home from school.

you want to open it.
you want to cut the twine,
watch the fingers open
like the petals of roses,––
like a succulent releasing the scent of its olives.
you want to let it breathe.
you want to slip your right hand into it.
you want to bring it outside into the sunlight
across the street, ready to play,
into the park at the left field fence,—
nab the maiden flight of its first line drive.
but not yet. don’t open it. one day to go.

just one more day..

1952 (?) 1952


                 

                    -of men, in particular, naming stars as gifts to loved ones, women, in particular-

at night when we look to the stars,––

not the planets, mind you, or the moon, but the stars,–

each star appears to be not substantially larger than the others,

all possessing much the same sweltering circumstance, pathology,

physics, fatal chemistry, and life-spans when measured against

the span of our own puny Sun, that yellow dwarf which

allows us our existence, our puny human lifetimes,–– and of course

I’m excluding actual size differentials, distances, densities, and varying

luminosities here, but this is the poem I'm presenting, you see.

so when hubby or boyfriend or lover or uncle or stalker, hands you

on your special day, a "Certificate of Authenticity" claiming that

a particular star on a stupid celestial map which looks to be drawn

by the hand of Donald J. Trump, that has your name on the star,

knock his ridiculous, lyin'-ass, bullshitting block off!

                 -common sense and other dangerous territories-

who can navigate such a mad terrain?

is it priest? the guy across the street?––

the Rosenbergs? 

for those in the know, I have questions.

is the heaven-scape cloud-like and shimmering, 

with lambs all around, and great grandfathers

rocking to broadcasts of Enrico Caruso,

or is it populated by the dimwitted, perpetually

leaning on the tithing pleas of Jim & Tammy?

is the long-beard cascading from the chin of God

well-groomed, or does it stink like festering

mutton broth forced upon Lizzie by Andrew Borden?

will I be allowed to inspect the documents,

and to seek more compatible accommodations?

––and which of the Holy See's mobsters will have

their rings kissed in obedience at the gate?

so, who’s who in the land of good and plenty?

––and is the stairway to heaven built of solid materials

with the "good housekeeping seal of approval"?

––also, is the atmosphere clearly brushed in muted flesh-

tones as the Florentines have suggested, or smeared

a thicker Titian red as in the claims of angry Venetians?

lastly, if I may be so bold. –– when God made you from the snort

of his nostrils, would you say it was because he was on your side?

 

                -some spare parts-

               maybe I’ll tap-out a few chapbooks

               for the folders;

               one about the old neighborhood,

               one devoted to water––

               one about death,

               one about circumstance,

               another

               on the goings on of certain animals.

               a domestic bestiary.

               I can dissect a few of the old poems;

               cull those which get to the point

               but without using so many words.

               years ago while drawing from the figure, an art school friend

               leaned toward me saying from out of the blue:

              “if there was a bus to Paris in the morning, I’d be on it”.

               I liked the sheer absurdity of the comment;

               the unique abstraction of its message, but––

               cultivating something from the abstract

               seems somehow inside out.

                but we'll see. maybe I can get it started.

                   family / from the death notes #101

the crapshoot starts at the forming of the family.

we form a tight bond where space isn't fixed along the line.

our chances are one in three / all three / one in three.

the winner lives longest / the winner grieves twice the length of light /

the winner picks two enclosures in corrugated form, which

as fast as fire allows will come to ash.

the child, last born rolled snake-eyes leaving two to grieve.

the child, first born rolled snake-eyes leaving one to grieve, and the winner is me.

 

                    the poet the world is waiting for

he writes poems as if the auditorium's sold-out;

as if the boys in Stockholm are waiting on his arrival,

and if he's running late, they’ll wait some more.

the poet the world is waiting for is lurking in the wings,

checking-out the women in attendance.

they think he's younger than he is, a lot younger.––

still younger.–– younger, still.

this is the position in which the poet the world is waiting for

finds himself. so you see, it’s better this way;

better that he doesn't show-up hanging a false face.

his poems are scattered among the clouds, the real clouds, but

if they're languishing in the doldrums of inconsequentiality,

they're simply preparing for the day when the articles of

consequence are rewritten.

then he'll show-up with his goods, and the women in attendance

will swoon, and they won't give a damn that he's

as old as he looks, or older,–– or older, still.

and that’s the way the poet the world is waiting for

begins to write his poems, you know. . . as if.

                    dancing with grief

the dying are wallflowers

set to consider the final

steps of the dance from a distance.

it's all in the waiting.

approached by night

the dying are waning moons.

irretrievable.

may I have this dance,––

father,  mother,  sister,  brother?  listen.

the "Spaniels"

are singing: “Goodnight, Sweetheart. Goodnight"––

a slow one, and I’ve always liked

the slow ones.

                  from the death notes / #14

and now you ask that upon my death

if you should continue to read my poems. well,

how do I answer such a question?

who can answer this question to my satisfaction?

there’s a line

in Pablo Neruda’s

“body of a woman”

where he writes:

“my rough peasant’s body digs in you

and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.”

this of course is the English

translation from

the parent Spanish and

–– who was I to ask Neruda:

shouldn’t that be:  “. . and makes "the sun" leap from the depth of the earth"?

––but in the parent Spanish

it’s recorded as “el hijo” meaning: “the son.”

so, no.

upon my death

you should not continue to read my poems.

                  notations / No. 12

I'd like to see

a six foot blonde in heels and leopardskin bikini

prancing the baselines, but clockwise, holding a placard

above her head indicating the start of an inning.

I'd like to see

an end to rationalizing every nonsensical decision

by governing officials as being for "the common good".

I’d like to see

Miss Landers bending toward me with a whisper to my ear

as she did when Theodore disappointed her;  the scent

of atomized "Tabu" (by Dana) drifting along for the ride . . .

but–– well, I guess I'll stay the way I am;

slowing the pace, sulking, ashen, and

close enough to 80 I can smell it;

smells like. . .acetic acid fermenting in diluted alcohol,

and if I don’t change my attitude within a day or two, I’d best

leave a note behind pinned to my shirt.

They seemed know where we lived

"City" refers to

mail delivered by carrier within the blueprinted

boundaries of Fall River, Massachusetts.

This, before the U.S. Postal Service

zip code transition.

Example #1

Annie D’Elia

1017 Bedford Street, first floor,

City

The sympathy card
was delivered by carrier to my young mother.

She opened the envelope

and read the card of condolence

upon the death of her father.

Later,

she sent the last of her “thank you” notes

through the mail:

Example #2

Rose Sasso

37 Covel Street, third floor,

City

The “thank you” note, I assume was delivered

to Rose Sasso, which I presume she'd read
and as such, one might argue that these actions
and reactions between my young mother, Rose Sasso,

and the USPS, may well have marked the "official" end to:

Example #3

Pietro Giovanni Pieroni

1017 Bedford Street, first floor,

City

                                           

                   -Carl Sagan said:

but first, just about everything I want to talk about this morning

can be found in Bukowski’s poem: “fan letter."

there, Dora, who makes marmalade, tells us

about hubby Benny, who writes poetry.

she tells us he's got a bad temper which is okay with me.

seems like Benny keeps his poems to himself where

unknown poets usually live, wander the land, wither and die.

–– in the here and now I'm told of all things, that I’m made of "star-stuff."

others have been told the same thing. how utterly romantic!–– "star-stuff."

but I’m showing-up this morning to tell the romantics among you

that although it's true you’re made of "star-stuff," so’s your refrigerator.

and that "fishy" catch-of-the-day slab radiating in the micro?

that's made of "star-stuff," too!

and so's the dust on the mantle below the young woman

in a flowing red gown playing the piano.

she’s "star-stuff," too, and there are thousands of her, pressed

and hanging in every tenement-house in the north end! 

and so’s Benny. (he writes poems) and Dora who makes marmalade;

they're made of "star stuff" too!

and that's just about everything I want to talk about this morning.

                 the mutt / an observation with suppositions / from Essex Street

from the balcony looking downward

toward a little gathering place with park

benches in green paint placed in a circle

around a flagpole to promote patriotism

and a sense of congeniality; where close by,

a small vegetable garden struggles into Spring,––

a middle-aged woman is seen with her little mutt

who is fidgeting erratically on the grass at her feet.

as seen from a five story distance it occasionally

appears to be gagging, choked by its collar.

I imagine she bought the collar at the pet store when

the mutt was a pup and didn’t bother to make adjustments.

for the most part, the mutt seems to have adapted

to its situation; seems to feel the constriction

as an element of simply growing old; sees the reddening

tincture of everything around him as normal, and interprets

the discomforts as the way things are supposed to be,

convinced that this is the way mutts, like itself,.. transition.

the woman's non-attentive attitude toward the mutt

tells me she would rather be inside where her stuff is.

her daily shows are starting soon, and if Spencer

finally asks Delores to marry him while on their secret

vacation to Wine Country, and she misses the long awaited

proposal because of her "stupid little mutt," I fear she's going to

tighten-up to the next notch.

oy.

and I think the mutt’s name is “c’mon you.”

5/1/22