theme bar

it is, but drinks are more expensive now.

seems to be a late 1940s, to mid 1950s theme.

the interior is cavernous.

the floor staff looks confused and out of sorts.

the food’s more expensive, too.

old photos dotting the walls in an attempt

at adding "atmosphere" are lost within the space,

and when approached, seem senseless.

those places are not where I'd want to be

let alone where I'd want to eat,––  although

 

there's a stunning photograph of Ava Gardner,

reclining leisurely, drifting a slow come hither,

suitable for the wildest daydreams.

along the theme's timeline, the Korean Conflict

would've been heating up, and in short order

it would become America's war, a significant event,

but the bar's theme shows no indication of it

nor its artisans an interest in pursuing my inquiry into it.

 

In her photo, the dazzling Miss Gardner is at her best,

left to her own devices, and clearly she's the most beautiful

woman Louis B. Mayer ever graced upon the backlots of MGM.

"fella's,..when they ask you what you're fighting for,––

there's your answer."

I’ll take the two-top just below her image.

the movies aren’t what they used to be.

there's a slight wobble to the table.

cheeseburger, french fries, orangeade with ice.

25– with tip, $30.00.

at these prices they’d have run this joint outta town on a rail in 1945.

I'll bet they'd've held on to the photo of Ava, though.

I mean, they weren't crazy. 

                    derivative (?) couplet (?) from an e.e. poem or thereabouts (?)

                   e.e.'s poem: "Buffalo Bill's defunct"––                  

or–– the bottom-feeder's guide through a poem by the man who

delivered "six nonlectures" at Harvard University.

intro:

1952-(1953)

Cambridge, Massachusetts

my poem:

someday I’ll be

the handsome man

who rode a horse

a silver horse

silver–– 

smooth as water

––water smooth

who broke 5 pigeons

by the count of them he said

but I’ll have to die

before he'd say of me:  Jesus

he was a handsome man

 

                    mint

this is not Seamus Heaney’s "mint."

his grows low to the ground and has

the scent of earth in its veins.

the mint I know by heart is a mint

known by the sheer numbers of them, enough

to accommodate the interiors five times over.

these are the working class mints,

mints for the masses who labor by day,

some at the bobbins of the thread mills, others

on the road paving the way to a fundamental security.

here are the mints powered by sugar, colored by industry,

set to be seen by visitors to the house, presented there to the benefit

of its company.

Seamus Heaney's "mint" is found where he kneels to the soil

to snip it, to smell it, to present it for my benefit, but least of all

for display with the expectation of friends and relations.

                  -it appears I've nothing to report this morning,

and I'm half-way

through the second cup.

I’ll look beyond the balcony for relief

toward the treetops whose leafy crowns

weave restlessly like struggling organisms

with nowhere to go but to stay with the tree.

until such time, the wind is rolling in at 15 knots

out of the north-northwest––

it’s not enough

to push heavy objects around

but the trees

are dancing-up a storm.

It doesn’t matter what musical possibilities

come forth from the inside player; Jerry Lee, Little Richard,

J.S. Bach, the Lennon Sisters,–– the trees make no

disparaging judgments and seem to keep-up with aggregate time.

next-up? who knows.

let's look to the trees.

will we find Mingus's mellow

bass-line with the wind at 10 knots?

or Takemitsu's crystalline

sounds with the wind at 5 knots in the middle of the day?

there's time within my reach to perform certain tasks, and maybe

I can find something to report to you before day's end.

September 23, 2022

                   -an unabridged history of natural causes-

I don’t recall any physical interactions

between my maternal grandfather

and my maternal grandmother.

not even conversations related to things

which had an equal relevance to both of them.

they lived in the house.

occasionally, they were seen in the kitchen at the same time,

but with different priorities and attitudes.

he fished around for things, while she stood guard at the sink.

there was never a noticeable embrace. no kissing.

she prayed the rosary day by day out in the open.

when the Encyclopedia Britannic salesman

showed-up to hard sell the wonders located

between the impressive covers to my young parents,

she rocked in solitude, creaking in the background whispering

to each sacred bead tethered below her nimble thumbs.

she could cook just about anything authentically Italian.

he made soup, almost always of the chicken variety.

he hung the chickens pulled from the backyard coop,

against the pea-green entry wall by their feet, slitting their throats

with a paring knife which he sharpened beforehand;

the blade sliding with precision against the olive-oiled stone.

I’ve sharpened knives in my time, but never with the same

fatal intent or consequence.

even the parakeet took notice.

the chickens were plucked where they hung;

their earth-yellow feet, sliced away for the broth,

coming to a boil on the stove, the stove the size of a Peterbilt cab,

and in the end there was soup.

at the table, they ate without quarrel or pleasantries.

I'd like to believe there was a sense of companionship there,

but more noticeably, there was a silent respect for the soup,

the bowls of which serving as tabernacles of the table. 

epilogue:

with the birth of my mother, the youngest by well over a decade,

they had a total of five children,

six if you include the one who died at birth, and I sometimes

imagine what it might have been like between the two of them

(and if you include the one who died at birth) to make the six them.

Quequechan / 1949-1953? 1951

the order of the above dates although the numbers differ,

is nabbed from some closing dates of poems written in consort by:

Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady, and are found

in Kerouac's "Scattered Poems" / number 28, City Lights Books.

                  the sins left behind from the mischief / September, 2022

vignette:

the Queen is dead and personalities across the spectrum

are seen grieving to the far reaches of the extreme.

the whole extravaganza looks like a prank to avoid prosecution.

24 hour cable commentators from the U.S. are dressed, on air,

in deep mourning black, and I’m left to question the supposed

connection, or the actual sincerity, let alone the appropriateness.

happily, there are alternative listings in the TV Guide.

says here on channel 64, it’s the episode where,

on the morning before her big date,

Marcia gets bopped in the nose with a football!

In this poem-writer’s opinion that’s must see tv, and besides,

how better to honor the passing of a stuck-up Queen?

                  -reflections from the opening night of the three night viewing-

requiem:

you once asked: how could I remember that car?

I said: I remember everything.

a rare automobile on the corner owned by one of us.

a used 1950 4-door Pontiac Chieftain.

I remember Russel Silvia in the backseat

brutalizing a vulnerable, but acquiescent Albert Ragonezzi.

I remember crazy Michele Joseph

coxing a lesser kid to drink mercurochrome 

from that same backseat,

convincing him that it tasted like strawberries.

I remember Priest hearing our confessions

through the open windows

as the Pontiac idled before the white shingled rectory,

the dashboard radio crooning Lesley Gore: “it’s my party

and I’ll cry if I want to.” 

I remember the anticipation of your first real date from behind the wheel.

your track record wasn’t good, but suddenly 

you had a car which didn’t belong to your father.

I remember the morning when you turned your back on the Church,

driving to “Sambo’s Diner” on Pleasant Street with the full load of us,

and for a moment becoming our collective hero.

that first "real" date was a bust. maybe she had her reason.

reflecting, I can reason the reason why.

but you found yourself driving away from the steps, leading

to the porch of her house with the coolness of a measured attitude. 

you didn’t peel-out in anger, or linger with the emptiness of rejection.

first gear, then second, then third, each from the column

at a pace that spoke of your indifference.

a Gazarro sister as I recall. the younger of the two.

yeah. she was something. and you,–– driving from Weetamoe

to the corner of Bedford and Stinziano where we gathered

waiting for your tale of love's first experience,

and you,–– pulling up to the curb in the heavy "Chieftain" empty-handed

as if it was just the start of another night.–– like you didn’t give a shit.

what a car.

that’s how I can remember.