a confessional on the reposting of the poem: “five things to consider at the table”

I’m incurably impetuous.

It seems I've accomplished something, but

before its chance at redemption from elements of awkwardness,

I present it to the unsuspecting masses, and it's there I stand

on the stage of public exhibition, my pants below my knees

drawing a comical drapery.

so if you allow me a reprieve, I thank you.

understand, this won’t advance the notion you might entertain

for a mention of your kindness at my autobiographical eulogy, but

you’ll have the right to address the congregation to say with confidence:

“I was there!”–– but know that when your time comes to call,

you won't be taking your benevolent behavior with you–– as you won't

your next breath, or your money.

                   in the line of fire 

chapter one:

the omnipotent big-sky-object is shootin’ again

bobbing n' weaving behind Its cloud

of icy smoke which seems unnecessary

for an omnipotent big-sky-object.

I’m sick of not having a chance.

I’m sick of being a pre-sighted target, and tired of Its face

haunting through the wretched morning mirror.

interlude: the first part:

the television is used primarily as a reminder

to pick up a certain brand of sleep-aid capsules, and eggs.

interlude part two:

getting around the block nowadays is adventurous

with every approaching corner, (there are four of them) and along the way

I'm rethinking the hasty decision to stop smoking cigarettes.

chapter two:

remember; it was the unrepentant Nazarene who bid the carpenter, (hired

by the metal-headed Roman bootlickers) to: "make up my dying bed".. probably of

pinewood, or dogwood, and three crudely fashioned iron spikes for added stability.

well, I guess that's it for now, and.. pleasant dreams, my lovelies !

"make up my dying bed" was lifted from: "In my time of dyin'" / Bob Dylan

                   of natural causes

to the housefly

it’s the kitchen swatter.

to the opossum

it’s the center lane

of route 6 east.

to the horn of the rhinoceros

it’s the Zimbabwe poacher.

to Donald Wachowski

it’s the failure to function

of a previously used iron lung,

which seems to have short circuited 

at the last exhalation in 1951.

pshhhht…whoosh…pshhhht...whoosh and done.

with me, my money’s on Bella Stai-zitto la’Bocca 

swinging a Louisville Slugger

at my noggin as I nap between lines.

I was her man.

I done her wrong.

but I didn’t think it was that wrong.

geesh! what a grouch.

the end.

           

                   the summer before I died

the summer before I died

I drove intentionally to the park.

It was crowded with people

doing things I’d never dream

of doing in public view.

I needed to find a less occupied

space in order to perform the function

which motivated me to go to the park

in the first place;

that was to lie on my back, look

up to the sky, and imagine God up there,

what It would be doing at this precise moment,

what type of mood It was in, and what Its plan was

for the rest of Its day.

(It’s a bright sky, intense, and I have only a moment

before I’m forced to look away)

but I repeated the process, and each time

I went back it became more and more spectacular.

soon, I was inside the sky and face-to-face with God.

holy shit! what’ve I gotten myself into?

me and God? holy shit!

It didn’t look like me.

It was not made in my image, nor

the image of anyone known to me.

I sensed Its omnipotent power, Its

fatal instinct for any living thing.

I asked: “why”?

God said: “because I can” with a voice

which thundered across the park’s activities

leaving everything and everyone dead in its wake,

except for me.

I drove home shivering with cold sweats only to find the cat

sitting on the formica counter next to the kitchen sink with its

all too familiar lunchtime expression.

                   it happened one day perhaps in your hometown

I walked into a room a standard room and

by that I mean a floor, four walls, a window,

a ceiling,–– and the door I walked through.

and there's a sink with running water, but I can only imagine

the toilet is somewhere out of my sightline.

––nobody has been in this room so nobody has died there.

no flies no pets no television not one man save me and being

my self-centered self, the guy who won't leave well-enough as it is,

I'll welcome guests.

––but who? who would I invite into this unblemished room

this virgin room innocent of heaven and hell and all their demons and saints?

–– priest? ah, yes, of course it’s priest. he's long dead but still feels

I disrespected the institution by dismissing his advances for a secret

sacristy fondling episode below the hemline of my surplice.

Tony Scelsi, benchwarmer, served as my replacement.

but I’ll offer priest a taste of cheap rosé with faucet water chaser,

and take his full confession to exacerbate his historical awkwardness.

––and maybe a friend from the old neighborhood. the drowned friend,

or the one with a self-imposed cancerous lung, or the sweetest girl-child

stricken by the grace of God with a fatal blood.

––or perhaps the personage of Mr. Wally Cox would be a tantalizing invitee,

although his selection may seem unreasonable to others submitting applications.

that's a distinct possibility, but did you know––

this sheepish little guy, this meek Mr. Peepers with the mannered, high-throated

contralto was one of Marylin Monroe’s closest friends?–– so, maybe Wally Cox

might spill-the-beans on some juicy Hollywood gossip, so to speak, and as I see it,

a distinguishing element to fill-out his showbiz resumé for inclusion into the room. 

but of course that "tell-all" would be well before Joltin' Joe stepped-up to Marylin's plate.