the scholar

inspired by the poet Chloe Martinez

I began to read the poems of Mirabai,

not Chloe’s prize-winning translations because,

well, I’m not elevated to her scholarship.

but I'm not unfamiliar with translations from the parent,

foreign tongue; Alistair Reid, Elizabeth Bishop, W.S. Merwin..

and have come to rely on them particularly from the Spanish.

for me, the translations have to sing in english, a hard-edged

germanic root of a tongue.

but in reading a few translated shorter poems of Mirabai,

I came to the root elements of my own brand of scholarship.

to the first floor tenement where a two-handled pot

heated water for spaghetti or for the tub–– and across the street

the ballpark glistened and alongside it the Esso station's fierce

scent in leaded gasoline and alongside that the meadow, sun-spiked;

as yellow as a long aged varnish and alongside the meadow

the 3 whacky giant billboards on Bedford, spraying, smoking, kissing,

hawking for my attention.. and alongside them––

the inebriated Marconi Club wherein my maternal grandfather

drank Port by the highball glassful until his left foot was amputated

and behind it the crazy bocce lanes where Bert Bertoncini lay dead

by the intentional thrust of a mad pallino to his temple by the hand

of Nick Fazzaro who'd had enough of Bert Bertoncini, and west therefrom

to the granite ledge which stiffened the flesh of “Pinky” Imbriglio, drowned..

the still water laying there as guilty as a neighborhood confessional and eastward

to the city dump where the best stuff waited under the stench

of everything else unwanted,–– then slightly north by west

to “Lizzy” Borden’s grave and of course she did it, then

southward not too deep toward the grammar school,

the unequaled Hugo A. Dubuque School where Bernadette Baker floated

as if upon a cloud of brushed-blue cotton candy passed my ridged desk

awakened by the scent of her mother’s “Tabu" and into this poet’s…

scholarship.

                   -meow sonata-

1st movement:

Largo / she’s lazy-eyed, and marginally curious in the morning.

2nd movement:

Fugue / she preps for the burgeoning day’s experiences.

3rd movement:

Allegro Assai / she’s ready and pounces on anything that moves.

4th movement:

Pianissimo / she sleeps stretched out like a licorice stick.

 

                  “blood of young mice extends life in the old”

the New York Times: 7/28/2023

will each of the old get his own mouse?

will an “EZ” application form be posted online?

so it’s “a chicken in every pot” except it’s a mouse”?

and how is the young mouse bloodletting performed?

are the old restricted to white mice?

are brown mice less expensive and how do I get one?

since the young mouse blood is reserved for the old

are Senior Citizen discounts still in effect?

and as a precaution should the old get rid of their snakes?

                   -novelty photographs with an array of comically bizarre carnival backdrops-

welcome to the traveling carnival where the results of a near blinding

automatic shutter will have you in stitches for years to come!

here's one in the side tent of the traveling troupe

with my face poking through a hole in the panel depicting me

in the presence of Abraham Lincoln’s assassination!

and here's a real crowd pleaser: on a clear day in November

you'll find me cowering with others

on the grassy knoll where I'll be the only one smiling!

or how 'bout the one where I'm running with a broad 

grin cutting across my face as in the backdrop,

the Hindenburg blimp ignites its hydrogen and its

thrill-seeking passengers to their only historical significance.

                   vignette / the altar boys

we knew to lift our cassocks

beyond the heels of our shoes

while kneeling during the consecration.

we knew to pour a little more water

for Father Diaferio, and a little more wine

for Father Pannoni into their respective chalices.

we knew to unbutton our cassocks

half way for easy on, easy off convenience.

we knew how to avoid serving

the dreaded “Stations of the Cross”

by claiming a knee injury while

sliding into second at least a week

before the list of servers was drawn-up.

we knew how to sneak behind the curtain

of the stage in the church basement for a little

hanky-panky with the neighborhood girls during

church sponsored dances.

and we knew when to say “enough" and skip

the proceedings, peddling to “Sambo’s Diner”

for a quick cup and a slow cruise around the block.

                   vignette / sleds, ice picks, and murder incorporated

there are those who remember

the names of the snow sleds of their youth.

Charles Foster Kane did. ("Rosebud")

I know because I saw the movie.

fatso Dominic DeCarlo did, too.

and I know because I heard him

tell his buddies at the "Marconi Club".

I forget the sled's name, but it wasn't a knockout.

I was a “bar boy” at the time schlepping ice

from the basement which I had to stab repeatedly

with an icepick given to me by Octavio Cippolini. 

I was lucky when "Nicky" Nasone was behind the bar

because he liked the ice in manageable big chunks.

still, I made a pretty good icepick kid.

Frank Nitti would’ve hired me in a minute.

(lesson one: "anatomy of the neck")

I worked Saturday mornings after confession,

in which the recounting of my venial sins

were perfected, and exaggerated for effect.

one day, “Tony” Scelsi's sled was stolen,

(a nifty "Speedway") from behind the bocci lanes,

and the fat DeCarlo twins tracked it down, and slapped

the little runt around who nabbed it.

the kid's oldman just stood there like a shivering plank,

while Dominic pointed a severe index finger to his face

without the necessity of a verbal threat.

old "Ray" Pariese, who fashioned himself as the "Godfather

of Columbus Park", told my father of this who in no-uncertain-terms,

told me to get my sled from the backyard right now, and put it in the entry.

the command was instructive, and he didn't have to give it twice.

 

                   vignette / a refreshing drink-

it’s a heat wave.

the spikes of the Sun jab my sweaty back

plastered with spent grass blades pin-

pricking my tortured 12 year old skin.

I’m mowing the backyard as I was told to do,

and not with a snazzy sit-on, rattling across the craggy

plain which is mostly patches of dirt.

this sucker takes muscle, of which mine

are still figuring out their reason for being.

the mower's fierce blades are rotating

like the fatal wheels of Caligula's chariot.

I’m a mess.

I was young and beautiful when ordered

to mow the backyard.

now I’m a sticky, smelly mess of sweat,

spent grass blades, and dirt.

now comes my sister, three years my elder,

young, pretty, and cool as a cucumber

offering me an ice-cold orangeade

from the great Frigidaire in the kitchen.

I loathe her standing there watching me drink,

prim, proper, and managed with care, waiting

for the emptied glass.

she was told to bring it back inside the moment

I was through drinking.

when I am, and after she does, I begin mowing again,

cursing both our young stations in life.

                    vignette / you’re at home

it’s uneventful.

you’re fixing a salad.

you’re slicing a carrot.

you’re daydreaming.

the blade and index finger

meet at the down-slide.

the bleeding is immediate,

but the pain takes a moment

to register in the brain.

you see, the brain was preoccupied

with the complex process of slicing a carrot.

adding to its confusion, your daydream, which

might’ve amounted to something.

the brain reacts.

the pain is real. the blood is real.

the carrot's done for.

so's the salad.

                   vignette / the fruit fly

manages its life

like most creatures.

it’s born.

it searches for food and water.

maybe fucks a lil’ bit.

its lifespan is the blink

of an eye, as is my own.

there’s one sitting

on the rim of my coffee cup.

It’s the sole reason why

I’m writing about the fruit fly.

I have little interest in it,

as it has little interest in me.

we both carry diseases

of one kind or another.

neither of us intends

to do harm, but

this is the here and now.

It can't kill me

because I’m bigger.

I dare not kill it

because it’s sitting on the rim

of my coffee cup.

waiting.

                 vignette / inside the dream, Bukowski’s not totally dead

there's a reason I’m in San Francisco.

It’s like it used to be. It’s like they said it was.

I’m in a barroom a half-block from Bukowski’s flat.

there’s a middle-age woman sitting at the bar. she’s alone.

if she’s not drunk, she’s one step closer to the abyss.

I can tell she used to be good looking. she was young, once.

but she’s been around the block. she’s rummaging through papers

without a commitment to them. It seems they don’t belong to her.

she seems angry, as if she thought they’d be worth something.

so I mosey over like I’m going to the toilet.

when I’m close enough I peer over her shoulder

at what she’s scattered across the sticky, unforgiving bar,–– 

the bar of lost nights, lost loves, and maybe a fleeting form of happiness.

on my approach the mess of papers come into focus, like driving

out of a fog just before smashing into the back of the dumpster truck.

they’re poems!

written after reading: "to the whore who took my poems"

in Bukowski's volume: "Burning In Water Drowning In Flame."