-too many words-

I should ease-up on the word count.

I should put into practice what I already know,

that words are not numerical points

to compile in order to win the big game.

to begin with, with that kind of logic,

what reasonable poet would use too many words?

I should go easy on the words.

it's true. some expose themselves as redundant

although each has some historical merit.

I'll adjudicate them as I would

wayward company when they linger too long;

those who hang around waiting to be called to dinner,

the maniacs who drop by who drive me crazy,

who throw eyes like carnival knives

when you tell them to shut-up and go home

as if it was you who dropped by and not them.

so yes. I panic when there's too much company to manage.

as I see it, it should've been "too many people are living"

and not "too many people have died".

as I see it, an investigation should be held

into the logic behind the lyric.

but yeah. I should ease-up on the word count.

                    I'll send some selected books of poetry to my son in Los Angeles

I've chosen 27 favored selections in all.

Some consist of rather short poems; one page and done;

Poems that hit like a flash of wet zinc dropped into

A vessel of molten zinc. (Don't try it.)

Others are long poems, not epic poems necessarily, but

Poems long enough to take-up 4 or 5 pages.

(Robert Browning ends his epic poem: "Fra Lippo Lippy"

With the line: "Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks"!)

11 pages for one poem! That's half a night right there.

I’ll advise my son that to read all 27 books in one night

Will be the same as not reading any.   Besides,

Nobody can, nor should read 27 books of poetry in one night.

Reading 27 singular poems will be too much to ask of a son in Los Angeles.

This poem alone for example will be excessive through a 12 hour sitting.

                   with tired blood 

looking back to where history dwells,

where pleasant dreams are inconceivable

and domesticated cats keep themselves company;

where everyone is condemned to an equal silence

circumventing their concerns of what actually is;

to where the ultimate decision has been made

and there’s no turning back leaving me to consider

the gathered who'll receive me un-clothed, un-shaven,

un-industrialized, and empty-handed?

what's that sound?–– Harpo!

what's this mist?

will I tumble to where another Hell is Hell

but by another name? –– or

should I gulp a few from the dusty old Geritol bottle,

reconsider the options and order in for Chinese? 

                

 How the empty head works

Moving on from feeling well

I took ill last night

and slipped into the doldrums.

A tickling sensation from

the back of my throat

was the start of it all and I lit out

to the medicine cabinet to swallow

a few aspirin before going to bed.

In the morning, the Sun

was in the process of exploding

some five billion years before expectation.

Even so, I felt a sense of relief.

I was no longer alone in my misery.

My fever spiked to nearly

ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit,

causing me to wait for the Kelvin report

which I understood as being somewhat cooler.

And in the end, I was right.  It is.

                   Meet the candidates

1.

Bonnie n’ Clyde

on the lam

for shooting the proprietor

and taking-off with the loot.

2.

Bill n’ Annie

for snatching a loaf of "Tip Top" bread

and slipping out the backdoor 

slicker than a couple of pistons.

Vote now! But vote early!

 

                    leisurely on my way while officially sponsored 

onward to stranger lands walking across a small-stoned coast,

I came upon a boat whose bow was barely on land and whose

hull to the stern lay in the water, one could say: "up to her ankles".

a heavy-looking smack, all 9 feet of her, a workaholic, exhausted

through her history, a true toiler of the sea.

the coast was unspoiled by man’s empty-headed beautification

and as for the water, it was an estuary to a larger body of water, sitting

at the southern end of a small village nestled to the hillside, dotting

structures like random jewels, dreamy from a distance, but poor enough

to be defined as something else up close.

walking the waterline, the overpowering scent of fish, living and dead,

of quahogs, of moss, surround me and if rope had a distinctive scent

it would be here, and if the interior of your home smelled this way

you’d rush downtown to purchase "Febreze: Linen Fresh Odor Eliminator"

the clear choice among the many products available, and by this time

you'd have certainly opened the windows to air the house, flies or no flies.

but at the water’s edge, the atmosphere seems appropriate.

the estuary's calling is the Wampanoag name meaning: “I am here”.

("Febreze" is available locally and is distributed by

the "Procter & Gamble" Company)

 

                   Lone wolf at the beach 

Each wave is as drenched as the other;

That is: one wave is never drier than the preceding wave,

Nor wetter.

This wave might be taller than the next which will be high enough.

Each wave dies the same death as the wave before it.

The notion that each wave contains the same amount of salt

Is under consideration, although

I'll be voting "nope" before the decision is made at the table.

I almost drowned, once.

Some people play games with waves.

They ride them like bucking broncos toward the shore,

Sometimes drooping all ten toes beyond the nose of the board.

I understand there’s a technical phrase for this ridiculous procedure.

What's worse is that they zig and zag like Karl Wallenda in a gust of wind.

I enjoy seeing the waves curl over the boys and girls like an igloo

As if protecting them from dryness.

The boys and girls are applauded when this happens,–– but

I think it's the wave which deserves most of the credit.

Katsushika Hokusai's long distance wave serves me better than

The homebound waves at Horseneck Beach.

That's only because it's drier.

I’m usually dry.

I’m a dry person.

It’s my intention to remain as dry as possible throughout the day

And especially through the night, but most especially at the beach.

                   final examination

                  Studebaker v. Huffy

a baseball game is in progress and just beyond the left field fence

and a gradual upward grade to the facade of the church,

Alfonso Gasperini driving his ’57 “Sudebaker Golden Hawk”

bumped Angela DeCorpo riding her “Huffy" radio bicycle.

It seems the right front of Gasperini’s sleek machine,

tapped Angela’s Huffy on the back fender, causing

her to lose control and Angela, with her Huffy went

tumbling down the slow-rolling grade of the park

coming to rest in the middle of it, half way between

the left field fence and the church where both Angela

and Gasperini attended mass on Sunday mornings.

40 years would pass before funeral services were held at the church

for Gasperini, and some 15 years from the moment of contact

leading to Angela DeCorpo’s wedding to Antoine "Mitts" Rondello.

construct an argument cobbling elements of the case

presenting a dissenting opinion.

                   The Sad Sack

I woke up to a sort-of rumbling sound;

An unrecognizable sound, a nondescript roll

Of muted, haphazardly cobbled sounds as if God

Was clearing his lungs from a long night’s build-up of phlegm.

That’s it. Blame God. A reasonable start to the day’s events.

Event number one:

Piss. Check the color. No blood. That’s good.

Event number two:

Water the night’s dry flesh.

Event number three:

Perfume thyself.

Breakfast is prepared by strangers wearing transparent

Latex gloves, and delivered to my door by those who are stranger still.

The outcome is tepid and damp;

A scramble of something-or-other in yellow ochre.

Interlude:

A friend three blocks southward drives a fast car.

It’s snazzy. Onward!

I don’t drive anymore.

It’s estimated by the Bureau keeping such statistics

That between four and sixteen lives are saved yearly

Because I don’t drive anymore.

Heroic!

The Sad Sack