the crybaby

there was a time

when the crybaby

beat fatso Bruno Mezzatesta

in a fistfight.

the victory was unexpected.

he was accused of being

a "scaredy-cat"

and Bruno paid the price

for his close association

with those who said so.

the place was a meadow,––

not the neighborhood meadow

adjacent to the Marconi Club,

but the meadow behind

the "Quequechan Housing Project" 

which we passed through

on our way home from school.

there were seven people

in attendance to witness

the fistfight, which to everyones  

chagrin turned out to be

more of a wrestling match.

but one late punch

to the back of his head

and fatso Bruno Mezzatesta

began his hasty retreat.

there’s an older snapshot 

taken at a family outing

where our young hero-to-be

is seen clutching a bag of

what appears to be

variety store popcorn,

rubbing his crybaby eyes

because he wanted potato chips instead. 

this final entry to the story is proffered

so that you are thoroughly informed.

                  -piano-

my daytime clothes are laid-out

at the foot of the unmade bed.

the drapery is noteworthy.

too bad I’m not a painter.

on the wall adjacent to the doorway,

hangs a Picasso drawing.

It’s a fake, but still nice to look at.

I leave all of it for breakfast.

here, decisions are made.

where to go, what to do, should

I carry more than twenty bucks?

robbers don’t ask that sort of question.

they just bop you on the head and take

what you have.

so why fret over the amount at breakfast?

take the twenty and that’s that.

wash-up, put the clothes on. tidy-up.

remember to take the keys. 

walk outside where the world doesn't give a shit.

 

 

disclosures of interruptions

mid-afternoon and the kids are running

around the house like a band of lunatics.

somehow they’ve found the old Gillette single-edge razorblades

I keep in the bottom drawer for sentimental reasons.

I should tell them to be careful, but

I’m busy.

the fatso across the backyard is mowing again.

his lawn looks like the scalp of a 14th century haircut.

the freakin’ kids are driving me nuts!

but there’s no bleeding, so..

as the old astronauts used to say: everything’s “A-OK”!

 

                  the experiment 

my young wife collected her daily requirements, the tools

used for teaching public school children, and left the house

leaving me in charge of our three year old son.

he was in the process of eating a nourishing breakfast

prepared by his mother, which resembled something

from an all-night diner on the wrong side of Mars;

a grey, globular concoction of protein, minerals, vitamins,

and whatever else was pre-determined to be “good for him”.

looking at his round, angelic face, I began to question

whether or not this breakfast was to his liking.

I bet he’d like a bowl of vanilla ice cream, or a sprinkled, chocolate-

frosted donut, or a handful of granulated sugar from the labs at “Domino”––

born from the sweltering cane fields of the sun-scorched West Indies,

or perhaps Yonkers, New York, 10706.

I tipped a teaspoon of raspberry jelly, and slipped it into his mouth

and he lit-up like a 1000 watt bulb during a full solar eclipse.

I panicked, pacing the kitchen, mumbling: “my god! what have I done”?

I splashed cold water from the faucet into my face like a man on fire,–– 

but there he was, busily munching on the concoction prepared by his mother.

I cleaned-up the incriminating evidence like a frenzied forensic scientist

guilty of committing a crime against humanity, wiped his cherub-like face,

and in time recalibrated my life, such as it was, on a recurring roll.

Wellston, Ohio  

 

                  

-a poem-writer's understanding of primary colors

and the fundamental structure of the couplet-

the preschool child confronting 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!

but the question remains:

is this a couplet?

                   Antoine makes preparations for the Presidential debate of 9/2024

boarding the bus to the Xtra/Mart wasn’t necessary as

the Xtra/Mart was across the street from Antoine’s cold-water flat.

but he boards the bus anyway, pays the fare,

asks the driver to open the door, disembarks, and walks across the street.

all Extra/Marts are the same. the one in Boise looks like

the one across the street, sans the scent of bison.

It’s the same with tinsel-faced ultra glamorous movie stars, and

diner meatloaf.

that aside, Antoine will find everything he needs to watch the televised

Presidential debate.

what’s this? brightly colored plastic key fobs employing

a fascinating knob which when activated with the thumb,

releases the ring of keys into the palm of your hand?

Antoine takes two.

for $1.99 each, how can anyone of good conscience pass it up? 

Antoine takes a red one and a blue one, exhibiting his ridiculous,

empty-headed undecided attitude.

a 2 liter plastic bottle of root beer soda, one family size bag

of low salt potato chips, 2 packs of mini candy bars, one

Mounds and one Almond Joy, one Red Sox pennant, and although

remnant packs of Twinkies are nowhere to be found, here’s a nice party pack

of 20 cream-filled cupcakes, expiration date: 9/23/2052.

ah ! c’est fini !

at the curb, Antoine boards the downtown bus, pays his fare, asks the driver

to open the door, disembarks and walks across the street to his cold-water flat

anticipating the televised Presidential debate of 9/2024.

remembering Carol Fizzarro

for some reason, from out of the ether,

she flashed into my brain

as the refrigerator door

was closing in that slow, deliberate pantomime:

“let it close by itself with a little push” attitude.

a small victory when it works.

every conceivable preparation

for the morning’s activities was

completed without a playbook

as the new order of things

was the same as the old order of things;

this goes here, that goes there,

turn this on, turn that off and pour.

I remember Carol’s father, Nick Fizzarro,

a big guy, power-loom mechanic, whose prowess

at the bocce lanes was well known in the neighborhood.

Jannette Fizzarro, Nick’s wife, was...for the lack

of a more accurate description,–– 

a genuine Italian beauty, lying somewhere between

Virna Lisi and Monica Vitti, although to measure

that distance, higher mathematics would be needed.

the refrigerator door nearly made it to closure, and a slight

nudge was applied to seal the deal.

but beyond her perfectly round face,

I couldn’t remember anything about Carol Fizzarro.

  

     

                   forensics of a death scene

the deceased was found

face-up near the toilet bowl,

an American Standard product.

authentic porcelain.

it’s a dark scene.

an unusual presence permeates

the atmosphere.

the decedent was reported to have said:

“I just want a little taste of the stuff”

but that is unconfirmed.

what’s confirmed is that nothing

is funny anymore.

what’s official is the deceased

can’t even be arrested, although

in a technical sense a crime was committed.

the cop bending over the body has kids.

well,…maybe it’s a little funny.

it’s all in the timing.