what am I doing? who’s out there? where’s my stuff?

I’m moving closer to instinct;

closer to the insect; closer to the snake.

I’m moving closer to Uncle Octavio  

who puts his keys in the icebox.

at the drugstore

we find him walking through the aisle

of body fragrances suited for younger men;

men who want to smell like pine-scented cutouts

hanging from the dashboard. men still on the hunt.

Octavio's heading in the other direction.

he's smaller, but his mind says he's bigger.

when your brain is wrong your sense of direction

is wrong, and lopsided equilibrium is clearly defined. 

as for me? I’m doing well under the circumstances.

this morning I opened the icebox to retrieve

Uncle Octavio's keys, but they were someplace else.

In my opinion that’s a good start to the day ahead

for both of us.

                  -this happened on the same day-

vignette:

my check was in the mail. a small yapping dog

chased a homeless guy down the street.

the neighborhood church was deconsecrated.

after 20 years my ex wife returned my son to me

without noticeable damage.

the deconsecration of the church was due to

poor attendance and inadequate cash flow into

the chancery coffers of the local Bishop.

the "buy 3 get the 4th one free" at the coney island

joint on Pleasant Street starts at noon and the new television

arrived from "Amazon"; cable ready, 32 inch screen

measured diagonally with stereo surround sound!

freakin' amen or what?

                    In time, poetry comes to reveal itself.

where's cousin Romeo? who is cousin Romeo?

where'd he come from? what the hell's he doing

at the fringes of my family? there are people and places

better preserved to memory.

I recall the struggle to retrieve the baseball

which rolled into the sewer as though it was

a friend sinking at Reed’s Road pond between the listing

raft graced with sunbathing beauty "Bunny" Giambastino

in her one-piece as if it was the top layer of her skin,

and the raucous concession stand where burgers were grilled

and ice cold Cokes hissingly uncapped.

but I don’t remember anything about cousin Romeo

save his name and ultra stylistic powder blue leisure suit

worn at Uncle Frank’s wake, whom I recall fondly as if it was

Thursday and a scheduled pick-up of repaired shoes with new

"Cat's Paw" heels and head-turning metal "clickers" attached.

but of cousin Romeo?  nothing but a veritable hole in space.

well, a hole in space is something, I guess.

five stars for the snazzy leisure suit, though.

still, requiem I suppose.

this morning as with others

I’m “bumming”.

it’s a term used by youngsters

to describe a feeling of inadequacy.

I’ve been looking through photos

containing my image.

some are new (or dare I say: newish) others are old,

as in when I was young and pretty.

I can’t find one from the here and now which could

be displayed alongside my poems to my satisfaction

when I’m long gone and history has wrapped

its weathered hand around my neck.

other poets seem to look like poets, although they've been

pre-sighted and forever associated with their poems.

so that's that.

here's an E.E.Cummings offering:

                                  “Thy fingers make early flowers of

                                    all things.

                                    thy hair mostly the hours love:

                                    a smoothness which

                                    sings, saying

                                   (though love be a day)

                                    do not fear, we will go amaying"...

and being poet enough to tinker with that old,

cantankerous International Harvester yonder.––  I’m

“bumming”.

 

 

                   after living it seems 

for a limited time

the body’s skin is Grumbacher

Flesh oil-colored and pliable

to a degree which is

enough to get started.

the director prepares by using

the tried and proved method

which includes

tubes and plenty of liquids.

it’s cold inside which allows

for some discomfort but

all and all the process is routine

and begins without a hitch.

radio music is playing.

it’s the soft rock station.

it's Annette Funicello

crooning “Beach Party Tonight”.

something’s draining from the slab.

Neil Sedaka’s “Calendar Girl” bops in

where each month brings its own pedigree.

clever.

it’s late and the director is very sleepy.

Doris Day sings “Que Sera Sera”

                    an examination of my left hand

now comes the skin.

softening, brightening,

the transparency a delicate sleeve.

the veins of the hand which

writes and stabilizes, which pulls

the buttons through their loops

said to be the devil’s hand

does the majority of scratching

and except for page turning

just about everything else.

the veins are a bloated deep-

blue pentimento working their deliveries

below each layer of skin, sometimes

to a minimum of three, sometimes to

the maximum of seven.

for expedience I'll split the difference.

my hand has become the hand of my grandmother.

hers, clenching rosary beads, mine an eraser.

                   the conversation

the Kramden’s had supper

upstairs at the Norton’s last night.

I woke-up this morning thinking:

sitting at the neatly assembled table,

with the good dishes in place as if

it was company, what did they talk about, or

specifically, how did they talk?

what was the tenor of the conversation?

was it uncharacteristically normal?

was it quietly reserved, and measured

with friendship’s idle chatter?

was there any hint of a scheme brewing or

some sort of subterfuge lurking on the horizon?

did Alice and Trixie veer off to their own

matters of subject having nothing to do with

Ralph or Ed?

was there smiling involved?

were there polite gestures in passing

the salt across the table one to the other?

was a toilet exposed within the frame

of the setting of the scene?