in a sense a confessional 

I’m incurably impetuous.

It seems I've accomplished something, but before a chance

at redemption from elements of awkwardness,

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

drawing a comical drapery.

I understand that my indulgences might advance to my eulogy,–– 

but if luck has its way, maybe not.

I won't be taking my credentials with me

or one more tomorrow, or the loves of my life, my indulgences or

my opinions, or my money.

but I've informed my mortician in writing, notarized and delivered

by registered mail that my pants be belted and well secured.

                   in the line of fire 

chapter one:

the omnipotent big-sky-object is shooting again

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 more 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 laid down to: "make up my dying bed".. probably of pinewood, or dogwood, and three crudely fashioned iron spikes

hammered 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 dying'" / Bob Dylan

"my lovelies" is partially attributed to: the Wicked Witch of the West". 

                   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 my cat was nominated for: "cat of the month"

I drove 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

to lie on my back, look up to the sky

and imagine a God up there.

soon enough I was inside the sky

face-to-face with something

who called itself God.

I settled down giving it the once over.

it didn’t look like me.

I was not made in its image, nor

the image of anyone known to me.

but I sensed its omnipotent power,

its fatal instinct for any living thing.

I asked: “why do you insist on killing us"?

God, maybe a lone wolf or one of many,

answered: “because I can! because

it's you who came to me!

because I was busy and you were lazy"!

satisfied, I drove home with traffic

smearing my windshield.

I arrived out-of-sorts only to find

the cat sitting on the formica counter

next to the kitchen sink with its all too

familiar lunchtime expression.

I told it of my bizarre interaction with God

but the cat meowed with a serious intent:

"chicken and liver bits in a savory sauce"!

and I mumbled: "well, okay then".

"Crayola" by: Rosalind Coloratura, age 7 / 2021

                   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.