endorsed by participants

moderate grief. conversations

are respectfully hushed. he looks

horrible Agatha says. he’s been sick

Julia says. Agatha says the news came

directly from his wife. Julia says

Rocco Corigliano called her.

Agatha repeats her claim that his widow

called her directly, adding a measure

of status to her standing within the funeral

home community. both women wear earrings

F.W. Woolworth sells.

                    historic explorations

the possibility remains plausible

that I went to the beach in May of 1989.

If so, the weather would’ve been hot, but overcast

with visibility at a reported 5 miles, making it

easy enough to read the “Tern Nesting Area” warning signs.

we know from historical documents that Ferdinand Magellan

began to circumnavigate the watery part of Earth in 1519,

but on that day in May of 1989, a woman crossed my path

at Horseneck Beach, wearing a red bathing suit, a one-piece,

looking out across the ocean, and at the same time,

the NASA probe designated: “Magellan” was rocketing

its way to Venus.

I snapped a photo of the beach scene with

a “Flexorama A-500” still camera utilizing the application:

“Look like a Watercolor”

and was not too disappointed with the results.

  

                    sprung from the great mundane

"Bill" Williams (his closest friends called him "Bill")

but…William Carlos Williams

wrote a short one concerning a wheelbarrow,

16 words, but he makes 4 stanzas of them,

–– and he seems dependent on the wheelbarrow,

a red one, for its simplicity in the light of day, and

I'm assuming rain has fallen upon it because

he uses the verb "glazed" to define its predominant

visual characteristic, leaving the decision

of a current or recent rainfall up to me. so maybe

the sun broke through, maybe not, he doesn’t say.

now chickens are closing in on the wheelbarrow,

he says they're white chickens; he doesn’t say how many chickens.

(but that's the way of it with chickens; it's always:

"going to the coop to feed the chickens" and never:

"going to the coop to feed the 13 chickens")

so Bill's got a strong point in his favor right there.

–– anyway, I'm not sure what to make of it; but as always,

whatever's defined or undefined of this little poem

is left to my discretion; I'm the one who has to deal with

all of it this morning. and you thought you had problems.

   

                   from my iPhone

I received a message from

“Viking Stump Removal”

reminding me that “Mike”

will be doing a “stump job”

in the neighborhood tomorrow morning

and I should schedule a time

for “Mike” to remove my stump;

to come over and get that blasted

stump outta here;

to bring-in the heavy equipment

necessary for “Mike” to do the job;

so that I can rest without worrying

about that damn stump; christ,

even the squirrel’s ignore it, and the bugs, too,

who’d rather have a better stump to scurry round in.

thing is.. I don’t have a stump.

I haven’t seen a descent stump around these parts

since “Viking Stump Removal” called me last year

to remind me of the other stump I didn’t have.

“Viking Stump Removal” has a slogan:

It says they’ve been in business for

50 years: "for all your stump removal needs"

and I'm beginning to believe them.

I’m getting on, you see.

maybe I do have a stump problem. I forget.

                    we'd have to wait

the pattern has staying power; that bizarre

illumination which introduces me to the public forum.

I put it up about a year ago, replacing...  

I think a South Beach scene on Martha's Vineyard

as I approached a dead, beached pilot whale.

I don’t know what motivated me to change-up to the pattern,

but I remember its significance as a kid.

from the television screen it meant we'd have to wait,––

wait for the morning broadcasts to begin.

the pattern emitted a crackling static, a soft humming, or slight

hissing sound which I later found out a percentage of which

was the sound of the early universe being born, an echo

of the primordial space declaring the presence of itself.

the television pattern told us to wait for a guy named Dave

Garroway, as it hummed along keeping company with the family

scurrying around the kitchen like seven..well, seven of anything

placed in motion preparing for the day ahead, none of us aware

that with the pattern, the early universe was saying "good morning"

long, long, and long before Dave Garroway would.

 

                   why Bukowski

during the early years when they told me the Earth

spins on its axis, I accepted their findings albeit with reservations.

there was romance to the motionless planet, like a water drop

suspended at the faucet's mouth, or

a battered baseball when the game is done.

do the forensics and you'll find each mark of the hide

a testimonial of the game between the red-threaded hemispheres.

so why Bukowski.

well, there he stands, flat-footed on the shelf, cursing, drinking

red wine, exaggerating the final syllables, and getting fat on poetry.

it's only when the title page is turned that he's put into proper motion;

sober and calculating, clear-eyed and scheming, and tonight around here,

that's the simple, menacing way of things.

 

                    how to swallow a whole indictment

1.

a few days before the proceedings

expand your throat muscles by swallowing

things wider than your throat.

2.

brazenly warn the prosecutors that truth,

justice, and righteousness will be an albatross

wrapped around their scrawny necks.

3.

submit that secret video, the one where you're actually seen

squeezing Ivanka’s ass.

you’ll find it in your sock draw under the pile of socks, marked: “personal”.

this may indicate to the prosecution that it's within the natural order of things

for a loving father to squeeze the ass of his daughter.

4.

surreptitiously nab the pages of the indictment, stuff them into your mouth

then down your gullet as nonchalantly as you would 98 Big Macs.

5.

finally,–– and this is important:

wear an orange jumpsuit.

they can’t prosecute what they can’t see.

 

  

                    once rejected then collected ultimately selected

that’s how it goes with me sometimes.

sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes what the hell.

aggressive publishers knock feverishly at the door,

they make intrusive inquiries of friends and relations,

and stake-out the Chinese eatery across the street

anticipating the possibility that I'd pen a new one

on the backside of a menu.

I try to be pleasant and understanding, but

yesterday a young aggressor from “New Directions”

impersonating a majorette from the local junior college

pretending to seek a donation for a phony event, appeared

standing in the middle of my bathroom floor.

but with keen observational awareness I saw through his deception,

and reached for the bullhorn I keep at the ready:

“your knees my good fellow! they’re not chubby enough!–– basta”!

alone, I resumed the pleasure of my refreshing bubble bath, and although

it was Wednesday an image began to take shape in my head when a sudden

sense of foreboding came over me and I thought: “oh, no. not that again”!

                    –an erotic dream recalled in vivid detail–

she said: “DM me" so I excused myself

and slipped into leather.

she was plump and quite appealing,

a cocktail waitress at the "Surf Club" in Newport

so I assumed she meant business.

but she excused herself at the sight of me

and climbed out the bathroom window

noisy enough to startle the gulls.

I should keep-up with today's communicational lingo.

the night air was warm in Newport and the scent of the stern-

fisher's catch of the day clung to the atmosphere as I unzipped,

and slithered from the suggested eroticism before going to bed.

In the morning I scratched out the "Surf Club" from my address book

before remembering it was all a dream, but I left the book in its

revised state without the Club's entry because

at this point in my life I'm not jumping to any more conclusions.

                    the brown spot

there it was, staring back at me

from the foggy morning mirror.

I wiped the glass clean for a closer look

thinking it might be a smudge, or a little bruise

from that frantic handball game at the racquet club, or maybe

a newly discovered birthmark, a never before seen item.

and why not? It happens with dinosaur bones in New Mexico,

and certain particles like Quarks or the Higgs Boson.

damn it! there it is, below the temple

just above the zygomatic process. the brown spot!

the mirror’s telling me something. or God. shit!

there it is, brown and unyielding, sticking to my head

like the grouping on uncle Louie’s chrome dome.

I'm in the ozone of the here and now

during closing arguments, as naked and damp as Adam

save for the brown spot made in my image!

there's no way in hell to spin this toward a more favorable outcome.

damn! that's it. the brown spot! I’m done for.