John Gamache !

You look like Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Like Cage looked like Havlicek 

Like Lollobrigida looked during

Mastroianni’s wet dream.

You look like a saint dodging Purgatory

Like an artist whose nerves are tamed

By the glass of a young dry red

And that’s what I have to say.

                  I came across this 1968-ish SOTMOFA slide in a transparent

bag before “baggies” were introduced as a “new and improved”

step forward in the trade.

I remember the drawing and my disappointment with the slide,

transferred from 8mm camera film by “professionals”.

Maybe they didn’t like the drawing and made it blurry on purpose.

As I remember, I rather liked the drawing now dwelling

with the saints in an undiscovered latitude.  

The facts of the case:

Paper:  Strathmore 400 heavyweight off white / 14”x17” (?)

Medium:  Conte crayon in various colors.

Genre:  Complete invention.

Methodology:  Haphazard, helter-skelter like the children do,

or de Kooning, or the Manson family.  

Setting of the scene: could be my place, could be her place

or in keeping with the genre of “invention”, no place at all.

 

  

     

                  “she’s so talented” / vignette

my nine year old sister

tapped for every visitor

to our earliest house.

she’d costume herself

in the latest gear,

find a spot of floor

not hidden by a rug

and began tap-dancing

with or without music,

with or without permission

and with or without knowing why

company showed up.

grandpa died and they've come

to pay their respects.

tap tap tap.

tap tap tap.

it’s the Encyclopedia guy!

tap tap tap.

tap tap tap.

it’s crazy old Agatha from upstairs!

tap tap tap.

tap tap tap.

it’s the freakin' egg man, for chrissakes!

tap tap tap.

shuffle hop step.

tap tap tap.

 

                   DRAFT !!

I know a man who packed a bag drove to the airport

landed in Rome (Italy) booked passage to enter the Sistine

Chapel, –– looked up, looked around, looked at the back wall

then hired a taxi to the airport, landed precisely at his

return destination, spotted his car without incident during

the time before location devices where put into the hands

of commoners, drove home, unpacked his bag

and took a nap.

––in the morning he confessed to his high school art class

that he was unimpressed by what he’d seen during his time

of observation under the Sistine ceiling and too, its back wall;

––that admission in and of itself was impressive; that

this man of common means and slightly above common intellect

would have considered, for a brief time, an event more complex

than anything during his usual day,  somewhere at the center of

the recollection took a nap instead.

Rework the last few lines!

 

            a fan letter to a fallen patriot during martial law in Los Angeles

Crispus, don’t show-up in Los Angeles.

you’ll be cranky no doubt.

It was you who first fell upon the streets of Boston,

sneering at the Redcoats:

“you damned rascally scoundrel lobster sons of bitches”!

man, that was a real good one, Crispus;

up there with: “don’t shoot ‘till you see

the whites of their eyes”! and

“damn the torpedos! full speed ahead”!

but what did it get you but two musket balls

to the chest where you dropped stone-cold dead

staining the cobblestones of Boston with your blood.

don’t show-up in Los Angeles, Crispus.

are you agitated at your place of death?

are you wanting for more than you have?

we know who you are, Crispus; you are forever the first blood shed.

you’re the new crucified. stay put, Crispus.

there is no dreaming there. there is no violence there.

Los Angeles isn’t burning save for the annual forest fires

and nobody films on the lots anymore.

Crispus, enjoy your realm of death in the company

of Clara Bow, Rene Beauchemin and Rosalind Russell.

man, that Rosalind, she was something.

and you are something, too, Crispus.

but the fierce blood-spilled, your black, native-

American Indian blood has long dried out. stay put, Crispus.

don't go to Los Angeles.

and, oh.––  thank you for your service.

the tortured table

some time ago in a land far from my origins

at the table with friends newer than the friends

I’d left behind save for the romance,

set with pasta, cheeses, red wine and bagged pane

from the bakery aisle not specialized in the baking of bread,

at least not like the bakeries I left behind save for the romance.

the bread on this table was pliable, from the crust inward, and soft

like a pillow, like the way the grocer thought it should be.

I’m asked to slice the pane, an honor when visiting someone’s house.

the pane was un-bagged and sitting on a cutting board made of

something other than wood, a sort of substance that could be

referred to as “anything”.

I grabbed the cool pane with my right hand, turned it on its side,

squeezed it a little, and moved the blade of the knife toward it.

it wasn’t a serrated blade. it was dull, like a comic m.c. introducing

the long awaited stripper known for her inventive routines. 

I should’ve protested. I should’ve admonish the table for being

a place where bread was treated like a clump of clay barely

good enough to produce a bad sculpture.

but I smiled politely asking for a serrated knife.

I should’ve tossed the loaf across the room.

I should’ve stabbed the cheese in the head.

I wanted to tell the gathered about Marzilli’s Bakery,

and Marcucci’s Bakery, and the pane laid upon the table

of my youth, but no. I sliced the loaf. It was an honor, you see.

 

                   The game of “Peanut”

As boy, the composer

Manuel de Falla along with his young cousin,

created a game they called: "Peanut."

I can find no evidence of the existence

of the game called "Peanut” anywhere, except for

its mention during a decades old interview with

de Falla's aunt, reminiscing on the great Spanish composer's

life as a boy in Cádiz, Spain.

The game of “Peanut” as described

by de Falla's aunt is played thusly:

Two players lay belly-down, silently side-by-side

in opposite directions on the floor of the house,

and incrementally begin to shrink in size.

As they shrink, they stop periodically to report

their visual findings to one another, of how things

appear to be from these new perspectives, and

the game continues this way until each player

shrinks down to the size of a peanut.

The game was first played by the young cousins around 1883,

and in 1886, girls were allowed to play "Peanut" without

being separated from the boys, adding elements of excitement

and titillation to the game.

Adults take notice.

There are no winners nor losers in the game of "Peanut"

and parents laud the intense concentration and blessed silence

which comes with the game, and although a game-board

of "Peanut" would be ridiculous, the game as created by

de Falla and cousin is certainly interesting in concept,

and could be introduced to rainy day kids as an alternative to...

                   everybody’s fighting.

Iran is fighting Israel.

Republicans are fighting Democrats.

the red ants are fighting the black ants.

Ali was fighting Frasier.

Ali knocked him out.

I fought Bobby Wally in grade school.

we stood face to face in the meadow.

our fists were clenched.

but we hugged instead, rolling around

the sharp meadow grass, each trying

to find a way to win the battle between

hugging grade school boys.

I got him in a headlock, the preferred

maneuver for young wrestlers.

my boney arms served as weapons

squeezing the head of Wally until

he had no choice but to quit.

we walked home, leaving the meadow

much the same way as before our arrival.

today, there’s something sitting on top

of the old meadow, I assume.

whatever is it I hope it’s worthy.

I imagine a plaque in brass alongside

its front door commemorating the “battle

of the meadow, 1953”