the reconstruction of an accusation

the whereabouts of Rene Beauchemin,

unpublished poet on the lam from proper

authorities was reported to the local cops.

they busted into his cold-water flat with a stern

flat-footed kick to the door causing it to collapse

in a cloud of dust ending strangely in a muffled

sound akin to the deepest register a muted tuba makes.

inside, after the cops poked-around, they grabbed

a bunch of poems from the table and waved them

accusingly in clumsy Rene Beauchemin’s face

who sheepishly declared: “those aren’t mine”.

so the cops collared him for plagiarism instead.

 

                   the greatest gift I've ever received 

Christmas, and visiting home in 1970 something.

I’d been away for a while finding myself, or retreating

from myself, or searching for the balance between the two.

I came bearing gifts;

for my father, a gas card for fifty bucks at any Esso station

in the lower 48, and for my mother, a fifty dollar

gift certificate to “Cherry & Webb” department store on North Main.

my mother gave me a shirt and tie combo which I would never wear.

but my father, knowing I liked teeshirts with a message such as:

“Write-in Eldridge Cleaver For President”

or: “Unite Ireland” or: “Impeach The Cox Sacker”

or:“Champaign Don’t Drive Me Crazy / Cocaine Don’t Make Me Lazy”

one of the great ones, silkscreened by my buddy John Copley at

“Crow Quill Graphics in Ann Arbor, Michigan,––

gifted me with a teeshirt which read: “Kiss Me I’m Italian”

printed below a set of voluptuous, red female-looking lips.

yessiree bob, it's the greatest gift I’ve ever received, which

like the shirt and tie combo from my mother, I would never wear.

                   because he had time to reflect

because he had time to think

because the time to rationalize 

was fast coming to an end

as the white cell count of his blood

rose-up to claim its cruel intentions

did

Charles Bukowski see

the great dichotomy

the fool-heartiness of

an immediate decision

to

pose for a snapshot relaxing on his side

one arm elbowed to the ground

the other hand holding two fingers high to the wind

in victory for living at the headstone of

someone else.

dead, now, too.

but this was also the way of Browning and Paz

and the cranky old prick across the street and

Lorca and Glück and luckily, (at least for an instant)

for the plant-eating duck-billed Edmontosaurus,

Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  

4 SALE!

one, Donald Trump Squishy Doll.

life-like and pliable 

filled with exotic

horsehair, the kind found behind

the plastered walls of the tenements.

not a voodoo doll !

not advisable for pin-sticking !

complete, extensive, like-new

ear restoration.

 9.5 inches tall.

(width being calculated)

stand not available.

realistic hairdo, hand painted

and spray-fixed with famous

semi-gloss brand Krylon, used

extensively by draw-ers

of compressed charcoal masterworks

such as D’Elia’s "crawling woman" !

(universally noted for its visual tension, in that

she never reaches the far edge of the newsprint)

Squishy Doll comes complete with the scent of its model

behind and below the horizontal circle of the belt-line.

(the creators of the Donald Trump Squishy Doll

are not responsible for its external flatulence. )

 

1.

It’s a quiet morning,

a very quiet morning.

the usually cranky sparrows

are nowhere to be found and

the dogs are napping, but

the silence awakens them

and even then, with their

long snotty snouts pointing outward

and their ears as vigilant as Zulu

spear heads, they are silent.

2.

I stepped out for an ice cream cone

last night when a speeding car

on Essex Street nearly ran me down.

It was a close call.

I should follow my instincts

and stay put.

I haven’t had strawberry in

a long time, so

I had a hankerin’ for

a strawberry ice cream cone.

but in the end I chickened-out

and ordered chocolate, one scoop.

3.

walking home, I licked the sweet,

chocolate ice cream from its dark,

brown dome and then,

licked the dribbling ice cream

as it melted downward.

now tell me why

life is not worth living.

                    study of a found object on the trail through the Reservation

ah! little stone!

you have your father’s eyes!

or has he grown so old

he now resembles you?

what is it you've learned

on your impossible journey;

the language of the Wampanoag?

the measurement of rainwater on the Watuppa?

when you drifted southward with the northern

ice-sheet with others of your kind, into

a new world, why is it here that you came to rest?

ah! little stone!

allow me to introduce myself.

I’m from the gang of meandering usurpers

who took charge of the Earth.

and if I toss you into the great Atlantic, tell me.

will you call for me to take you back?

ah! little stone!

                   critical appointments (and other notations)

my son, half my age or thereabouts

is living 40 years or so from the precipice

of “critical appointments”.

on the other side of the continent, mine are

stuck neatly in cadmium yellow notes upon

the door of the icy refrigerator.

“call Dr. what’s-his-face asap”!

 "add "Polident" to list"!

“return item today”!  (the one you thought was vital

 to your personal appearance, but now is nothing more than an eyesore)

some things are more imperative than other things, such as:

“oil the squeaky gate”, as opposed to: “plug-in the iron lung”.

If you have such a refrigerator door, turn to the next page

under heading: “how to have a nice day”.

If you have no such door,–– please wait.

 on permanent loan from “Zelig”

I’ve witnessed the burning of the Hindenburg, and saw

the ponies tossed to the deep Sargasso in the doldrums

of the Horse Latitudes.

I was there when "Teddy ballgame" hit one into

the right field stands at Fenway during his last at bat,

and saw them carry Marylin Monroe to the hearse, where

I touched the hem of her pall.

I defined the last time I saw the face of God

as not in my image nor the image of anyone I know or have known.

I held the line of the pulley which hauled “Pinky” Imbriglio

from the black waters below the granite ledge on the outskirts of mill-town,

where this morning I sat with Garciá Lorca, chatting on the merits

of a meditating lizard.

in the beginning I confessed to Priest whatever I thought

would be titillating to both of us.

I have no external warts nor moles to report, but someday soon

something will show-up worthy enough to be reported by someone else.

I write poems, not because it's a devoted vocation, but because,

well,–– I don't know why.

  

                    a life of one's own

1.

the apartment is comfortable;

good light from the east, spacious,

and the working set-up is perfectly utilitarian.

It’s an apartment complex, and I only lost my way twice

during the beginning days of my residence;

trying to key 403 when I should have been keying 503.

2.

twilight beautiful, with loaded trailers

and their gleaming tractors revving-up

on their way to points west and south.

I enjoy the big rigs in their late afternoon departures;

It's like watching the gang of older kids in '51, straddling

their heavy American bikes to discover the unknown territories

before I became the same as each of them.

–– sundown, and continuing a life of one's own.