the past

last week perhaps

or more likely

a less familiar last night.

a dreamless sleep.

in other words 

as death is.

what do we know

of sleep without dreams

which approach

without crossing its borders?

if we are sleeping

while plugged into

the apparatus which

keeps us living

are we not dead nonetheless?

christ. this poem’s a drag.

I need a refreshing

Hallmark greeting card

with a cartoon elephant

saying something funny

and when the page is turned

a peanut saying

something funnier.

I need the comic

awkwardness of the jitterbugging

old timer freewheeling

to the delight of

the guests at the reception

just before he

falls with a broken hip

and hits the floor like

an old shoe at bedtime. ha ha ha.

 

driving the "Grand Army of the Republic"

route 6, and my oldman drove a heavy car.

an expert on the road. no fatalities. not too fast but 

tenaciously onward! single-mindedly toward the ocean

the foamy head at the Head of the Meadow.

straight up 6... northward and eastward the sea alongside,

parallel to him,–– a true nor’easter!

(none of weatherman or weather-girl, although

weather-girls were sure alright,–– tight dresses, perfumed

and hair-sprayed pointing the way to Provincetown!)

heavy Roadmaster king of the road guzzling gas. a buck a gallon.

the real good stuff agitated by lead and the man at the wheel.

salt at the brim of his soft fedora. a sales ledger in his pocket.

knock 'em down booze to sell like a champ’s Susie-Q.

the never-ending road. –– like to kill him. maybe it did. but I’m well fed.

food in my belly and Corso’s “Gasoline” makes sense at the table.

 

                    the events of the day

It's a sensationalized morning

and the rising of the Sun is a rare event.

once a day it is pulled-up by the hand of God

to service our necessities.  it ain’t easy.

the Sun's a hot item and God seems to have

second thoughts about the usefulness of the Sun

given that it services one greedy planet.

I myself would care for the Sun, watering it

and refreshing it like I would the rare and thirsty

asphodel if one could be found in my garden.

William Carlos Williams wrote: "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"

referring to the asphodel as "greeny":

"Of asphodel that greeny flower,

                    like a buttercup

                                     upon its branching stem..

save that it's green and wooden.."

"greeny", a word which my spellcheck refuses to acknowledge.

but after a fierce battle with spellcheck I’m accepting “greeny”

as a word, as a form of green, as a value of green because

the poet said so. but––

I won’t use “greeny” in day-to-day conversations

or when corresponding with my bank due to an overdraft,

although "greeny" could work poetically when referring to a dollar bill.

"hey, buddy. can you spare a greeny for a veteran of foreign wars"?  

so the day begins with an abstract pulled from a complete

observation as with all abstractions like this one here.

 

                    "America! when will you send your eggs to India"? / Allen Ginsberg 

when I first read that line I ignored its plea.

but in the morning there it was, lingering

at my sensibilities like the overpowering urge

to commit a bunch of mortal sins and get away with it.

why not? God's always busy with something or other,

things which carry weight, occupy space and

other day-to-day human activities.

there he is now sitting on the couch at Fox and Friends

with his mouth shut while they badmouth Chelsea Clinton.

but how will I know when America sends its eggs to India?

I'd say: send some of my eggs and some from God's personal stash.

what's the problem? I've been told they’re all the same eggs.

mine are in the Frigidaire right now two short of a dozen

fresh from the coops of the backyard henhouse.–– but, christ!

who knew India was hungry for our eggs?

certainly not me that's for sure.

but it appears I know something about chickens.

who knew?

well, well, well.

the chubby fabulist George Santos is set free

serving only three months in the hoosegow,

three months shorter than William Zanzinger.

well, well, well.

 

                   In this photograph

balancing atop the “pipe to nowhere”

running parallel between 1015 and 1017 Bedford

are from left, Janice D’Elia and pal Angela DeCorpo,

younger sister to twin Rosalind–– and standing,

offering a helping hand is pal Betty Ready.

I never knew a nickname for my sister Janice

nor one for Angela. but Betty had a nickname

among the teen queens of the neighborhood

memorialized in a recent poem closing in a requiem.

the house in the background is the great

incubator of life, designated by city planners as 1017.

the “pipe to nowhere” is found on the property of 1015,

home to the Pieroni family and the great knuckleballer, Paul Pieroni.

across the street to the left we find Columbus Park, (dedicated when

Christopher was thought to be a good-natured, inquisitive Marriner)

Whitey’s Esso station, the billboards and the inebriated Marconi Club.

off the frame to the right sits the rusty remnants of Rachlin's Junkyard.

above them the impenetrable, translucent sky.

below them the indelible imprint of their residence on Earth.

this is a love poem.

so that you know.

                    at the wheelhouse of a cantankerous poem / 10/16/25

It was meant to be smooth sailing with warm southerlies,.. 

helm luffing to weather with a slight upwind chop to the sea

keeping things like navigation, interesting.

In other words, I considered the cantankerous poem

smeared on the screen, incomplete with too many words

which seemed to be yelling at one another.

I’ve been rearranging word groups like a crazed puzzle master

and I’ve had it with the cantankerous poem.

I should let it sink under its own weight.

but there seem to be passages worthy of survival

complicating the situation. the news of the day

is reporting American city invasions of masked marauders

dressed like turtles patrolling the streets with guns

and yelling at the people to: “step back”!–– but to where

do people step back from their own city?

so, I’d like to spend more time communicating the plight

of the people but the damned cantankerous poem resists sinking

and persists on being front and center in all things.

BASTA!

the more you know, the smarter I'll be.