H.W. Longfellow called me last night from a phone booth

somewhere in the downtown area.

It was rainy and cold and as far as I could tell he needed

a place to stay for the night. I said I was busy and hung up.

but he called back saying: “let me come over and I’ll tell you

what a poem is.

I've never taken the time to read his stuff outside of grade school,

but he's well-known and I saw this as an opportunity to get in on the action.

“ok. come-up.–– but wipe your feet.”

Longfellow was drenched, his hair was a natty mess and he smelled

like a damp kitchen sponge after a month’s use.

“so gimme the goods, Hank! what’s a poem?”

he stared into space for a moment and murmured: “anything writ which ends in:

“my feet show it, they’re Longfellows” is a poem.”

I kicked his ass out into the cold rainy night and an admirable sociological history. 

the end.

                    

                    five things to consider during my time at the table

1.––  the vinegar-fly, or fruit-fly, as it appears zigzagging

over my quartered cantaloupe seeming to will itself against

landing on a hard surface like a flying Wallenda before the fall.

2.––  the glaze of the compact disc where music plays

when spun to its manufactured function.

3.––  it’s Bruno Maderna’s “Satyricon” where we find Fortunata,

Trimalchio’s wife, complaining of one thing or another.

this is expression personified, where italian gestural exaggerations

are deemed necessary to compensate for the stiff angularity

of the recorded language. 

4.––  and because it's laying there every morning, the little pink

oblong-shaped simvastatin pill which helps control a high-middle

range diagnosis of my cholesterol level.

but even when sung in English I’m done-for without

5.––  the "Satyricon" libretto.

                  “and others”

there are plenty of “and others."

one could rightly say there are too many.

one could say there are multitudes of "and others".

who are the masses of those classified as "and others"?

they gather behind the aura of the famed,

or the easily identifiable.

"Mobster "Tony Six-Toes" was shot dead today

along with famous gun moll Beatrix Pitts,... and others."

one can define “and others” as unidentified

witnesses to murders, or at the award ceremonies,

in small States mingling with big States, and

within the opinion polls of the frontrunners.

“and others” are as responsible as anyone

for the state of current affairs, and can be found

in the crevasses, and beneath the stairwells

among the overcrowded "and others" of non-survivors.

“and others” escape prosecution, can never be

personally praised for being smart enough

for buying the best automobile or smoking

the safest cigarette, or found guilty of an incident.

 "and others" are in the aether, are lighter than air,

are lingering beyond the Crab, and can be found

napping beyond the hub of its veil.

and more often than not, the common folk going

about the normal routines of their day, could soon become

thrown into the mix of the ever-present "and others"

who are by far, the loneliest people in the world.

   

                   Of an early altar boy with Bella Lanzaserra in a supporting roll 

When the craft's pious modus operandi begins to fade, but the tabernacle holds

its internal interests and the Mezzo of the church choir is in radiant bloom

with a nice rendition of the Agnus Die, the grill-man at "Tiny Jim's" 

is scraping last night’s remnants of meat and potatoes to an oily sheen.

–– Priest nods at the chalice drunk first of wine then chased with water

and you’ve nabbed a girlfriend from the corner for the day's enlightenments

where each of you serves at the pleasure of the other, but you’re not quite sure

what to do with her and there she is kneeling in the front pew with her father,

a red-knuckled boiler-tender at the Sagamore Textile Mill who knows precisely

what you shouldn’t do with her, –– but

there’s always a chance given Bella's sleight-of-hand performances.

So you ring the harking bells of the Liturgy while Priest nods-off at the tabernacle

with God's own Holy of Holies locked-up behind its door, and I'm telling you,––

if it was me on the inside I'd be screaming!–– But all-and-all I'd say that this is a fine beginning to a very pleasant Sunday.

 

                   Miss Shay, a Remembrance, a degree of Retribution and Requiem

teacher! O, teacher!

the run in your stocking

looks like a rayon roadway

running parallel to the seam

leading downward to the heel, then

over to the five peninsulas of your toes

then backward and upward to who-knows-where.

the red, red lipstick you’ve applied

this morning is running amuck

across the top plates of your teeth

which clack to the bottoms when you speak.

It’s a tactile sound which I look forward to listening to.

chalk dust smears your dress, and

powders your face like 18th century

French aristocracy, and I can’t understand

what you’ve scribbled across the blackboard,–– but

the tips of the chalk tapping the surface

is another sound which intrigues me.–– listen.

you're wearing sensible shoes; a worn black

leather, heavy-looking, and the kid stationed

at the open door hears you coming.

you have kids, and the kids have a big dog

as the orderly exhibition of your desktop presents them.

your husband has departed for parts unknown

without the saving grace of being killed in Korea,

and the chain around your neck is clinging to the earbuds

of your eyeglasses, holding them tenderly to your breast

like the polished arms of marbled Mary (Batjacob) mourning

the head of descended Jesus, and how forlorn she seems,

like you, Miss Shay.

but perhaps I digress from the true nature my recollections,

and it's not within the realm of possibility that you'd be living today,

so what I mean to say is, I guess–– rest in peace.

 

                    the “floor boy” in the needle trade

“skinny pickle” is what the guy

sitting behind the desk called me.

he asked: “how old are you”?

I said: “15, and I play left field".

he gave me the slow-raised eyebrow once-over

then said: “okay. follow me”.

we walked through a long, narrow

corridor leading to a cavernous,

constantly droning space where

women, as far as the eye could see

were stationed at their sewing machines,

and at their sides were large bins of

textile material, sewn precisely as prescribed.

he said: “grab that bin and follow me”.

I rolled the heavy, fully stacked bin

to another station as far away as time

would allow, where more women

sewed more thread to another end

of the fabric stacked in the bundle.

he said: "they'll call to you when they need you".

then he left, and for one working day

of three weeks to come, I did what he said,

moving material, and keeping my usually

busy mouth shut inside the walls of the sweltering

“Kerr Thread” textile mill in the summer of 1958.

note:

the "Kerr Thread" mill was phonetically referred to 

throughout the neighborhood as: the "Kerr Tread" mill.

                   the poem-writer's understanding of primary colors

the preschool child with its first

set of crayons will try to eat them.

red was a primary choice and blue

to smear the trees and animals.

as with the Fauves

the child’s a wild beast!–– its hyperactive

attraction to the uncommon placement of color

has a tendency to breach the lines of logic.

ah! the recurring

birth of the open-form!

the question is:

is this a couplet?

                   Glück

60 miles to the north from where I live.

25 inches to the right from where I sit.

627 pages set upon the table.

80 years in the building of a life.

years hauled-out as witness to her vision.

impossible to say "the end" ––and wrong.

                   addendum to: "the ferocious star” / an operetta / behind the closed curtain

the floor-sweeping man: “ain’t enough money for me t' go through this.”

stage manager: “shut yer yap, and clean this shit up”!

the meaty mezzo, pointing toward the baritone: “that beast stuck his tongue in my mouth”!

stage manager: “what? when? where? how could would should”!?

the meaty mezzo: “I’m gonna be sick”!

the floor-sweeping man: “no, sir. ain’t enough money for me t' go through this.”

newspaper-boy rushing in from the wings: “you’re all done for”!

ensemble: “huh? where’s our money”?!

newspaper-boy running out: “ha ha ha”!

stage manager: “get back here you little prick”!

first monetary-backer: “where’s that freakin director”?

a gunshot!

first monetary-backer: “uh..never mind”.

ensemble: “shit”!!

the curtain opens to turmoil.

the sweeping-man: “no sir. ain’t enough money for me t' go through this”.

sirens in the distance, but closing in.

second monetary-backer: “it’s the cops! lemme outta here”!

newsboy from the wings: “extra! extra! read all about it”!

Variety: “the ferocious star” shoots wad! backstage carnage”!

fade to a progressively greying stage before an empty house.