his foundational position:

create an interior then populate it.

outside, the human form dominates the street scene.

there they are at the pond’s edge. she steps out nude and wet.

and then...there we are witnessing the hotrod’s right hand turn

heading towards death. and so it goes.

take cover! the assassin smokes a cigarette

the trail of smoke from its tip like a burning fuse.

oh. and there are dreams to interpret.

dreams of unaided flight and in one dream

liftoff and climbing and an alligator flies along.

these are things dreams do.

what's this? he’s off to war. well, the war is over

but maybe there will be a new one.

oh! that’s me standing for a portrait.

rare are the portraits of individuals!

I’m one of them and I can prove it.

look closely at his newer pictures.

the depth is convincing without the use

of two-point perspective.

just horizontals and verticals and angles are enough.

ah!..luminosity hangs like an attitude.

of course he occasionally pissed me off. maybe he pissed you off, too.

but wasn't it fun?

do you know what I mean?

   

                    early morning chronicle in one-liners 

“Jesus Christ I only need the one key”!

there's a cardigan sweater draped over the bedroom chair

and that’s enough to call it a wardrobe.

the little stain of spaghetti sauce seems permanent

and the hamper’s a mortal sin. 

the good news is.. the urine stream is blood free.

but listening to John Lennon pining: “go to a show, you hope she goes..”

brings an immediate image of Gina Scelsi.

there are times, although growing fainter, I'll fantasize a girlfriend

of the distant past to appear the same way now as she did back then

and when isolated to the brain's narrow corridors it is often true.

that alone is a good enough reason to become a poem-writer.

 

                    the art student’s left leg

In “the art student’s left leg”

we find a paralysis; an absence of motion;

a cold form element of a specific anatomy.

Its immediate creator is the hard pencil.

Its initial creator is the being, the human being

who creates then wanders off to the history of art

where everybody’s clothed and chatty

with prescribed books of art on their laps.

These books will assist in the conversation

inside the studio where art history is taught.

Yesterday it might’ve been the renaissance;

the Italian one. There are others.

The art student sits among his peers

with two legs, although the amputated

left leg sits on a page in a large pad of paper:

Strathmore. A lightly textured heavy mil.

Good stuff from the finest stand of trees

cut-down from the far-side of the world.

Possibly. Could've been Maine or Oregon.

Next time I’ll draw the right cheek of my ass.

I’ll call it “the art student’s right cheek of his ass”

and soon I’ll have a whole man made in my image!

I’ve been told this is how the God worked the form of man.

But his man is formed in clay. A messier medium, unless

the student artist is left-handed and working in charcoal.

  

   

                    

                   during the otherwise scheduled regular order

during the early years, Roseanne D'Spirito,

in a crisp-white Sunday morning dress

fell from the rapidly spinning merry-go-round

in the little, tar-smeared playground across from the church

while those of us who didn’t fall, spun-on in our glee

passing her as she struggled to recover her equilibrium 

in an almost freeze-frame event.

there she is! there she goes! there she is again!

as Roseanne D'Spirito, angel of the bleeding knees,

readies herself to latch-on to the first appropriate

handlebar and when it arrives, Roseanne D'Spirito, eight,

grabs the bar and runs with the speed of the platform

then leaps aboard with the grace of an Ali Shuffle!

damn the bleeding knees! this girl's no shrinking violet!

‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round spinning through what is now

herein considered to be an enlightenment to the scheduled regular order.

1951 / Columbus Park

               the accelerated reader

he came over for coffee and muffins

and I slipped a book of “Selected Poems”

by William Carlos Williams toward him

from across the table.

I asked him to turn to the opening poem

and read "January Morning".

the accelerated reader opened to the page

and as quickly closed its cover.

“okay. I read it.”

he began eating the muffin at 9:15

and finished eating it at 9:22.

his body took whatever time it takes

for the digestive system to process the muffin.

an hour before the muffin's incident, my friend

drew a picture of Carles Casagemas drinking wine

at a gathering in Paris, I think.–– anyway,

it took 20 years for Casagemas to kill himself.

it took God 6 days to create the firmament before he took a nap.

it took nearly 7 years for me to murder Santa Claus

and an eternity for my hand to reach Sandra deCosta's breast

on the rolling twilight grounds of the Ponta Delgada.

as for the accelerated reader,–– a tsetse fly would’ve

taken longer to read “January Morning”.

 

 

 my dream was like a Hollywood production with Picasso and there was a sandwich involved

 

I had hoped Marilyn Monroe would drop by

and we would spend the dream together with Picasso.

but Monroe was no-show because, well..

could be she was busy.

I asked Picasso about his profiles with both eyes placed on the same

side of the head which he ignored as if I didn't belong.

but he followed me into the kitchen where

I fixed him a sandwich.

the dream didn’t say what kind of sandwich, but

it laid there on the plate uneaten for the length

of our stay in the kitchen which ended the dream.

sunup and I thought about the sandwich.

but Marilyn? I don’t know. who can say. here's my take.

I think JFK’s mafia buddies filled her sleeping mouth

with barbiturates, closed her jaw and pressed a fluffy pillow

over her face which surely did her in. the goons might’ve tidied-up

after the heinous deed, you know, to advance the suicide bullshit.

everything in its place. no hint of murderous commotion.

the entire situation with Marilyn Monroe was very sad. very sad.

but I must say, a helluva a good excuse for not showing-up in my dream.

 

  

                   During a poetry symposium in New York City,

                   Sharon Olds was asked: "What is poetry"?

                   She answered without hesitation: “I don’t know.”

                   And man, was I relieved.

 Considering my condition

When I completed writing the poem

titled“Why Raga?” I instinctively began searching

for the book containing the poem "Why Patterns?” 

by Morton Feldman in order to be certain there was no

adverse correlation between the two poems. 

The situation lasted but a brief moment in time

as I recovered my senses.

You see, Morton Feldman isn’t a poet, he’s a composer.

And although I'm not an idiot, I am old.

  

Why Raga?

It’s the push from those on the moving train which caused you

to hit the concrete platform head first which broke your jaw.

The densely occupied car is probably replaced by now,

all new with better exits and appropriate warning signage.

At the least, one raga should be penned in remembrance of

the occasion, but––

during the crack of your bones did you come to see your short

life in review, or fantasize the beauty of your unborn daughters?

With what did you toss the extracted tooth to the tracks, pure rage?

And cursing the mad hand of God, didn’t you simply hate India?