Romeo notations:

Romeo, sort-of uncle. French, after all. Married to cousin Edith,

eldest daughter to Antoinette (housewife) and Frank Toni.(cobbler)

A half century plus twenty years to a sum,–– has slipped by since your demise,

and yet I sense the remnant draft of Aqua Velva smearing my nostrils. 

I was curious back then of how something with such pungent density

could move outward, unencumbered, powered by nothing more

than its own mechanics.

But the smell of "Ice Blue" can freely pall an otherwise restricted space.

I was too young at the viewing,–– your viewing, to be a sincere mourner,

and I didn’t want to get too close or cause a commotion, and besides

at ten years old, I was told not to touch anything, so the thought of sticking

my thumb through your eyelid was quickly dismissed.

Behind me people were murmuring, some were chatting aloud, others

were seen back-peddling to the front porch as if no one would notice,

taking advantage of an always open invitation to light-up.

As I recall, an alternative thought did occur to me, Romeo,

that I could’ve inserted an aluminum rod up your ass,

attached the rod to a base, and plop you in the showroom

window at the “Cherry & Webb” department store downtown.

Who’d’ve known?–– Well, that cheap polyester suit might've been

a dead giveaway at the hoity-toity C & W, I guess, but

well, Romeo, uncle, sort-of. French, after all.–– It was then decided while

standing close to the undertaker's clever tongue-in-cheek interpretation of you,

that I get myself cremated, because

I can’t trust anybody left living to spruce me up to the standards

necessary to meet the requirements I've set to my satisfaction as

I slide-on-down the river of no return... 

fini  

 

approaching the epilogue

––I'd say

I’m more a conspirator  

than I am a poet

more a pathologist of the written line

than rhymer of the final word.

––I'd say

I’m more a sounding-board

than I am a confessional

that the measure of my standing
is well below that of, let's say, Ross Gay.

but cash money says it's measurably higher
than that of the lunatic in the garage across the street.

I continue my commitment

to the reporting of certain incidents.

––I'd say

nobody left living knows the world I know as I know it.

  

                   -untitled and far from it-

1.

Is it the lowly leech which

pants for my blood or the long suck of God?

did I fall from the tree like a ripened fruit, smeared

by a cunning tongue, cloaked in the breath of a snake? or––

did I slither to dry land from the water’s edge,

a curious fish?

these important questions have been answered to my satisfaction.

how else could I know what I know about what's going on;

through the good works of others?

by reporting on time to the authorities?

by the recognition of certain body parts?

interlude:

I hear tell that upon the mount, Moses was perplexed.

he nagged God for a name of God other than "God"

in order to satisfy the people.

but God, without official papers, (WOP) wailed a name

which caused the flappable Moses to piss himself:

“I Am That I Am!–– Tell the people: "I Am" Has Sent Me To You"!

this wailing would later be translated to:“I yam what I yam an’ that's all I yam!”

to be found in the new leather-bound edition of: "The Book of Popeye.

end of story

 

                    -interpretations of the commotion during the “Foote Street” sessions-

strange things are happening off to my left.

maybe a deranged lunatic is hopping the fence to a new territory.

maybe the calico cat next door has found its way over the top

seeking another non-nutritious snack.

could be a different painter is coloring a different guy who looks like me.

maybe our wives are back there planning to "sap and impurify

all of our precious bodily fluids"–– could be the wives have fallen in love,

each testing the warmer waters of the other.

something's going on off to my left beyond the fence.

I'm alone within the delirium of my own intervention. 

I’m the subject standing on a lawn neatly mowed to community standards.

one could say I've simply landed here between critical appointments.

––behind me the artist's kids are splashing in their wading pool.

the dogs, Daisy and Daphne are running around like maniacs,

their broad, pink tongues flapping before the wind of their own making.

maybe the childhood friend who drowned at the ledge in 1953 is behind the fence

beckoning me "to come" like Ahab, hog-tied to the broadside of the whale!

––I'm the subject standing for a portrait of myself painted by another's hand.

I appear to be clothed, or am I naked below the hemline? or am I nude?

(there is a specific difference between the terms, you know.)

"Foote Street Portrait" / Leonard Dufresne  / May, 1974.

The "bodily fluids" line is nabbed from Sterling Hayden's, whacky,

phenomenal performance as Brig. General Jack D. Ripper

in Stanley Kubrick's "Dr. Strangelove."

 

                   irretrievable / an advisory 

a disheartened young poet

was hiding under his bed when

suddenly the thought occurred to him

to apply for part-time work at the 24 hour XtraMart,

take-up odd jobs around the neighborhood, save some money,

and "self-publish" a book containing his best poems.

six months later with five hundred bucks

in hand, the young poet ordered 5 books

from "Acme Bookbinders" on Roberson Street,

to be manufactured in his name, and by his authority.

In four months time, the books were delivered

to his home by the U.S.P.S., and he tore into the package

to behold his poems in print.

wide-eyed, he held the first copy as he would a first romance.

the slipcase was exactly what he had imagined;

its glossy paper formed to his desired weight.

the inside flap praised his accomplishments as he dictated them

with just the right smear of embellishments to approach believability, and

the flap's photo was presented at the requisite, dramatically skewed angle.

seeming to approach paradise, he swept his palm across the sheen

of the jacket, "My Poems" and wept, whispering: "thank you, Jesus,"––

and then he opened the book.

                                                *

epilogue:

expecting an influx of company, his mother straightened-up the house.

three days earlier, two cops stopped by after lunch to cut the rope.

the neatly scribed note pinned to his favorite sweater,–– no, the blue one––

read simply: “far....   too....   many....    commas.”

Paradise

the "Paradise Novelty" store

called: "the joke shop"

on North Main street

astonished with every visit.

inside, one could purchase

fake dog poop which looked

like the real thing, and fake

vomit, called: "puke"

which was so authentic-looking

it seemed to sour the atmosphere.

also on display

were old standards such as

big black rubber spiders,

all kinds of pliable snakes,

stuff resembling bubble gum,

but chewing it would turn

your teeth blue, and your tongue, 

sets of Groucho-esque horn-

rimmed frames, perched on long, false noses,

some with mustaches, some without.

(I always opted for the non-mustachioed offering)

also, finger-fitted "shockers"––

the taut-spring mechanics of them, hidden in the palm

of one's hand which would tingle the groins of the prankster

as well as the hand of the recipient, and––

the piéce de résistance: freaky whirlpool-hypnotic

see-through anything "X-Ray Vision" eyeglasses,

and although these miraculous spectacles

were "not guaranteed to perform as advertised,"

mine did,—

and wearing them just before twilight,

I'd sit with my back against the chain-linked fence,

the one on the corner at the right-field line,

quietly observing the young women walking home

from the bakeries in their summer dresses, the warm,

crackling-crusted Italian pane held like buntings in their arms.

 

Quequechan / c.1952

 

                   On reading Amber Dawn’s “How I Got My Tattoo”

Of late, I’ve been drawn to lesbian poets, or

in the metaphysical realm, they to me.

I don’t seek them out, they’re not my singular intention,

and my MacBook doesn't beep when a lesbian writes a poem.

  

But in seeking-out poems generally, they seem to show-up,

and when they do they take over, captivating my sensibilities.

It’s not surprising that this revelation is happening now, after reading

Dawn’s fiery glissando of time, and its struggles with her beloved Valentine.

I welcome the periodic phenomenon, and my approach is determined,

but cautionary, and I admire the confessional sincerity and the ferocity

of conviction.

Notation:

When I chose to use the above "glissando" as a description of the poem,

I was reaching for an example not directly tied to poetics, so

when I spotted it, (even though it's sort-of a stretch) I jumped on it like

a bloodthirsty tick to an unlucky capillary, and–– well,–– I guess that's that.

7/12/22

            why uncertified alternates?

          

          you may have inadvertently knocked at the door to the wrong house.

          could be you've run headlong into the wrong man regardless of location devices.

          even so, I'll regard your arrival as a positive response to an invitation.

          nothing said here so early in the morning

          will encourage you to rise up from the edge of your bed.

          there’ll be no revelations or titillations,–– and to be clear,

          counter-storytellers of the subject matter either living or dead

          or easily distracted busybodies or nincompoops,

          should've written their own damn poems.

          sure, there'll be deep-throated grunts of disapproval and

          sure, the antagonists will demand peer review documentation and

          sure, Marciano, broken and bleeding would've clocked Ali in the 14th,

          but goddamn! I'm just daydreaming for christsake!

         

                   -finished-

the vacated screen seems restless now

like a ballpark at the break of dawn.

everybody's someplace else,

there’s nobody around to high-five, and

punching the atmosphere with a self-gratifying grunt

only manages to frighten the cat.

so that’s that until I return with my goods

to an empty screen waiting for something...

                   A.C.B.

even her alphabet’s

skewed.

stripped of her princely

robes she stands bare-assed

naked,–– not like Venus,

righteous from the quahog,–– but 

plopped from the tube

in a flawed appearance.

she comes sweet-tongued upon the palette of the nation

in the spirit of the biblical serpent she's aligned herself with; 

a radiant

duper ––

harboring a mortal blotch

only her God can remove.

"so help me God" she sang slithering on the branch of congress.

"paint me with all my warts and moles"?

you bet, A.C.B.

it’s done.

  

                  a dream about a man much like another man once known to me

                  outside the realm of dreams

    

I happened upon a man,

a tall skinny-looking fellow wearing

a time-worn trench-coat, wandering

the vacant streets after a fierce downpour.

I tried to mind my business, but

he looked at me mumbling

something indiscernible, but sounding

somewhat like lines from Shakespeare.

I asked: “are you talking to me?"

(although without the menacing inflection of Travis Bickle.)

I was curious, but he moved on,

mumbling: “beware the ides.."

(non-discernible) ..beware..” as he walked

toward a rain-glistened diner across the street, which

was sitting upon a burning hydrangea bush, where

he was abruptly struck by a commercial jetliner

landing on a runway at an airport I seemed to be

somewhat familiar with. –– there, the dream ended.

this happened on the last night of a three night stand

at the home of Tom and Marley Joyce

in Saint Louis, Missouri. –– the year was: 1971.

It was cold in Saint Louis.

James Phelan, a man once known to me,

much like the man in the dream, died restlessly

in his hospice bed at his mother's house

in Fall River, Massachusetts on March of 1971.

writ in 2022