this was the dream last night

the poet, left to his own devices was nabbed by the cops

who kicked down the door to his cold water flat utilizing

extreme footwear causing it to hit the floor in a cloud of dust

making an otherworldly muffled sound as it did,–– the sound akin

to what a muted tuba might make when puffed into at the lowest register.

once inside, the cops grabbed a handful of scribblings from the messy table

and waved them with the force of authority to the undocumented poet's face

who sheepishly declared: “those aren’t mine”.

so the cops collared him for plagiarism instead.

that was the dream last night.

           The sounds linoleum makes / And Franco Hartmann’s aspiration

Who really knows the truth about one’s earliest memory

as it might be wrong / As it might simply be the first thing one cares

to think of as the earliest memory / But there’s little doubt that another

could be lurking in the twilight zone of one’s deepest imagination / Could be

that isn’t true either, although maybe it is.

 

The aspirations of man are more clearly defined as far as I’m concerned / 

If one was born into a working class family let’s say in the early 1940s

the title of this poem is what you might be searching for when it comes to

one’s earliest memory, and if one’s a guy, the answer to the question concerning

your aspirations might well be there, too.

The question is:

What’s been sprung from Meredith Monk’s / “ATLAS” / an opera in three parts?

Acknowledgments:

This poem is made possible by a grant provided by:

The Luigi P. and Carmella T. Nasone "Foundation for advanced Proboscis Research"

AND.. from contributions from readers like you.

  

                   an opinion on the photograph of Charlie Loan & Meredith Wildes

they painted pictures in the same studio designated: "C".

when the day was done they went their separate ways,

Charlie to his residence, and Meredith to hers.

there’s no proof they ever kissed.

they shared a brief history in the "whaling city",

lasting a few years while at art school ( the SwizDee )

where someone ( not credited ) snapped the photo-

graph after a short time of classically oriented

arrangements for the final posing of the two principals.

this is the greatest photograph of all time.

this photograph is better than the polaroid snap-

shots of Jesus, posing at the empty

tomb of Lazarus. ( else, who would've known ? )

and you can take the blistering, yelling, and

burning Hindenburg fiasco, (  film by Thomas Craven ) and

put it in your pantry with your cupcakes. ( music and lyrics by Paul Simon )

and it's even better than the still-frame:

"woman throwing a ball". ( plate 8, Eadweard Muybridge ) –– but

its status is being called into question and is currently scheduled

on the docket to be adjudicated. ( her honor, Aileen Cannon presiding )

that is, the adjudication to determine the authenticity of the photograph

of Charlie & Meredith, not the Eadweard Muybridge, which seems to be

regarded as "settled law", ( an opinion by Justice Amy Coney Barrett ) ––  and

of course, no.  I don't trust the sincerity of Aileen Cannon's jurisprudence,

let alone that of Amy Coney Barrett, so "authenticity" here lies in the province

of me, myself and I. 

  

                  Tuesday, June 20, 2023

and “The New York Times” has asked

17 of their columnists to pick one TV show,

Movie, Book or Song which in their minds

best describes America.

I’m guessing they mean the United States

and not Argentina or Guatemala.

I’m also guessing that they don’t give a shit

about what I would pick from my frame of reference,

or the pick of the guy across the street who likes to

ride his new, metallic green John Deere across his lawn

every freakin’ morning at sunup.

the ear-piercing machine has headlights.

It turns on a dime and mows any patch

of dirt in its way to an expanding cloud of dust.

he sits high in the saddle.

his balding head bends according to the direction

his rattling John Deere goes with the slight turn of its wheel.  

I hate that guy, but I’ll bet he has an opinion.

many of the picks by the learned columnists

were centered on movies and television shows

because, well, that’s entertainment.

and aren’t we all seeking to be entertained?

as for my pick it will be a poem.

specifically, one of my poems. a recent poem.

a poem about mass murder on an escalator going up,

and I submitted a photo of the massacre in progress

for the rubbernecker’s enjoyment. horrible situation. horrible.

that’s a fair description of America as I see it from the discomfort

of my kitchen table each morning leafing through “The New York Times”––

the national newspaper of record, cursing the racket's enabler,

sipping coffee, sometimes with plump Del Monte mango slices on the side,

sometimes with a blueberry muffin, sometimes with a .38 in my lap.

so the question is: would this exposé be classified as entertaining enough

to meet the criteria of "My America" set forth in "The New York Times" this morning?

well, sure.––  how would it not be?

                   The ferocious star / an Operetta for the common doomsayer / a libretto

Alto: ( rummaging )  What’s its name?!

Tenor: ( frantically )  It’s too damn many letters! She’s

Greek, me thinks, and... it’s a real tongue-twister!

Narrator: a mythological goddess I’d bet, and stuck-up!

Mute: ( isolated ) I can just imagine what’s going on up there!

Soprano: ( straight )  She’s bloated! That's what! She’s eating herself to death,

and when she burps we'd best not be around!

Ensemble: HaHaHa!

Coloratura: ( off stage, left ) Gotta hightail-it outta here real pronto like!

Ensemble: ( much murmuring, and much confusion ) 

Narrator: No, no! It's okay! She’s not a Texan! She's acting!

Tenor: But if the ferocious star is close enough and lets one go, we're done for!

Baritone: ( just introduced to the meaty Mezzo whilst nervously spraying his throat )

Quickly!.. Kiss me, my dear!

Curtain... ( but the curtain malfunctions adding to the tension )