-The one-liner and the closing night of the experience-

I found my way to the Little League double-
header at the ballpark a few blocks from the house
and later I opened the door to darkness.

I switched-on a naked table lamp standing

alone in the middle of the hardwood floor
and the light was enough to empty an entire room.

She took the time to prosecute my residence

by leaving my drawing of her "stepping from the bath"

hanging on a barren wall like an exposed crime.

We lived on the upper westward-facing slope

of the hill overlooking the river, and during times

of compatibility, ate our dinners tucked into an alcove

at the triptych windows facing the twilight.

She was a student in the behavioral sciences.

I usually got up late in the morning.

Over time we began to speak of things

irrelevant to the other, and she told me

she’d been unnerved

by how loudly I slurped my soup;

that it reminded her of her grandfather,

and I told her

she should ease-up on the wine,

and that's the one that did it.

That's the line which emptied an entire room.

                   

                       

                   In memory of Betty Ready (full of spaghetti) in paradise

1.

this was your rhyme.

this is what they gave to you,

those of your kind from the corner

of Bedford and Stinziano, which in time

would be passed down to me and those of my kind.

your hair, I recall, was red as a simmering marinara!

hence, the rhyme from both your names, and what

two names cobbled as they are would serve you better?

Betty Ready Full of Spaghetti:

did you see it back then, graced by the active

romance of your youth?

was it clear to you from the inside, the deep

affection of a nickname which spoke to only you?

your friend, my sister, informed me of your death

in 1993 after your fierce battle with demon cancer, and it was then

that the seed of this poem was planted in my brain,––

I guess,–– but as with most of my sister's friends I knew you

only from afar, and it's taken its own wealth of time to surface,

and I'd wish for you now a far better poet,–– but 

2.

you're Irish in the eyes of your father as he stands in astonishment

from behind the viewing glass.

you're Italian as they place you in your young mother's arms,

and as you'd discover dearly along your journey in life,

it's all about time, Betty Ready (full of spaghetti)–– and so

now you're here.

1940 / 1993. Quequechan

                 Chernihiv: room with a view

new listing

recent vacancy

open ceiling plan

sky light

low floor

fixer-upper

water not included

heat not included

no access to food

no children

no pets

despair a must

no inquiries, please

must see

new listing

room with a view

                   by contract, the poet Jorie Graham is allowed to tether her cow in Harvard Yard

               

this is stated in the original contract which

dates back to John Quincy Adams

as a chaired professor of "rhetoric and oratory".

(freakin' Harvard)

I didn’t think I was actually forbidden to tether my cow

in the famous yard, and Harvard's just up the road apiece.

you'd think I'd have a claim of residence or something.

but why would Harvard deny me this perk of citizenship?

could be her cow is better than my cow, born and raised

from the finest patches on the right side of the tracks.

maybe her cow gives more milk per squeeze, a sweeter,

vitamin rich milk, a smoother, creamier milk, a milk she can be proud

to serve her kids along with their strawberries and coconut macaroons in the morning,

whereas my kid eats OREO cookies and he's lucky to have them, and my cow’s

just a regular ol’ cow you might see in the field during a pleasant drive

through the countryside, (I'm thinking Westport) and all she does

is quietly wonder about the things around her because she's beautiful,

and maybe Harvard's full-of-shit about Jorie Graham 'cause I'll bet

a dollar to a donut she ain't never even got no cow, nohow. spit. plunk. 

                   how to properly flush the toilet when the water is shut off

we came from water, slithering from the primordial soup.

l.

fill the holding tank with water

panned from a pre-filled tub.

this takes a measure of anticipation.

do not fill over the tank pipe's opening,

and when the holding tank is filled,

the toilet will flush.

remember, pets need water, too,

but they can lap it up from the tub.

so can the Oligarchs and Popes.

2.

last night I caught myself gawking

at a still-frame of a young Anita Ekberg.

(gawking is longer than a glance 

and with a more malleable attitude)

I gave the room the once-over

to make sure of the vacancies.

Anita was enchanting in “La Dolce Vita,”

a rare beauty, prancing around the pool at Trevi Fountain.

apologies for gawking,–– but I need water, too.

do not pour the tub water directly into the bowl !

that process requires a heavy drench of water poured

all at once causing unwanted splashing, and it's disgusting.

epilogue:

well, the wife nabbed the kid and fled the scene under

peculiar circumstances, so I'm well aware of how to embrace the isolation,–– 

and I don’t need no busybodies snoopin’ around here no more !

love the double negatives. now..where'd Anita go?

 

                  while considering a saga to one hell-of-a Viking, I pause to consider..

Jane’s legs:

Jane's wearing the skin of an animal

Tarzan had misgivings about.

the skin is short at the jagged hemline

and rises temptingly with her movement.

she’s sitting without cause for distress

on the highest limb of a tree that best belongs in Maine,

while one leg hangs freely, swaying gently like

a succulent pendulum.

later, Jane's taking a swim in the clear water near the falls.

she appears to be naked, but it's just an illusion.

she's naked.

earlier, in the treehouse, Jane makes breakfast for Tarzan

consisting of various fruits and berries.

Tarzan eyes his meal thinking: "what've I gotten myself into?" but

adjusting quickly to his new station he eats what's put in front of him.

Jane's trapped and the lion is coming.

Cheetah informs Tarzan who beats on the lion and stabs it

with a knife God himself has fashioned for the confrontation.

but throughout, the lion appears to want to cuddle with Tarzan.

Jane's rescued, and counts another skin for her wardrobe. 

oh, look! It's daddy!

yes, her father shows-up with an entourage of white folk.

the natives carry the heavy luggage and aren't allowed to have rifles.

(why do the natives always appear skittish in their own country?)

on the way to camp, some of them have fallen off the treacherous cliff

from the narrow pathway taking with them their loads of whitey's goods,

but there's no remorse coming from whitey who

enjoys the evening sitting by the campfire smoking his pipe.

Jane's happy to see her father, but tells her tagalong boyfriend

to scram because she's staying in the jungle with Tarzan and the apes.

fuck the 5th Avenue penthouse!

dad hugs his little girl for finally making a decision in her life and

departs on a heading north by west to the big city and its own set of apes,

thus ending any hope for the resurrection of the saga:

"Ragnar Hairy-Breeks, the Viking of Norway."

                  I hear tell Priest daydreams of uncovering the God’s penis

as for pages, I'm off dog ears. it's a clean break. I'm off cigarettes, too––

and self abuse, largely discouraged by the term.

I didn't understand until Priest spilled the beans in 1953.

––psalm one:

the God has a penis It won’t use. I guess that makes sense.

just 'cause I'm made in the God's image doesn't mean

it has to use it according to the book of: "how things work".

but why one dick? a twin alongside is like a reserve tank

in case the first one runs out. makes sense.

––the second psalm:

the God could kill me right now––or blow-up the Sun,–– or

swallow a whole spinning Milky Way in one sitting!

––interlude:

It should confess to Its own mortal sins.

It should spend some time in the Children’s Wing, or plant another tree

with an apple that won’t detach from the branch so easily.

( picture Eve struggling with a cantankerous granny smith!

and bare-ass, to boot! )  I like to fantasize as much as the next guy.

––the psalm of ages:

Adam's a stroonz.

and why does the God continue to struggle for my soul against the Beelzebub?!

and why put me in the awkward position of spending valuable time between these two lunatics like I'm some kind of damn wishbone?!

oh, of course! It's back to the ever-present original sin!

well, the original sin can kiss my original old geezer's ass!

and while I’m at it,.. what the fuck's going on around here?!

 

                  -?$@&*#@!!-

I thank my good friend

for reminding me of a poet I shouldn't 

have forgotten or more accurately, overlooked.

so in guilt or penance or both––

but in that order, I purchased two

Jorie Graham volumes and placed the cost of them

on a bloated credit card. a real climber that one.

(I don't possess the good fortune of Felix the Cat

who gets blasted by the old farmer’s shotgun

then takes a drink of water and the water squirts

out of the holes in his body and Felix

walks away whistling in the wind, the notes

of the tune ballooned above his head while the old

farmer’s eyes strain outward from his withered skull,

vibrating in astonishment!)

in other words, there are consequences.

gotta pay-up at the end of the month.

did you know that the professorship's chair

Jorie Graham now occupies at Harvard, was Seamus Heaney's

before her, and is one of the oldest chairs at the university, and

it allows her, by contract, to tether her cow in Harvard Yard?

so I’m searching for closure, but nothing's working.

you’ll have to pull the plug.

go on. It deserves an honorable end, even though

the experience has become a sort-of cartoon of itself.

A travelogue:

Although penguins seem to like it, there's only

one insect species native to Antarctica.

And there are no Polar bears on Antarctica.

Not that it's too cold. It's a question of migration.

The requiem mass isn't meant to be cold.

But to the dead it is.

The high mass for the dead isn’t sung on Antarctica

because it’s too cold for the organ's pipes, and besides

it's a problem to manipulate fingers beneath such mittens.

For a brief moment she was cold as ice.

This was largely due to my awkwardness.

She was young and so was I.

This happened behind the billboards

next to the bocce lanes of the inebriated Marconi Club.

I remember her dress patterned with butterflies

and her black sneakers. We were bike riders.

We dressed for the occasion.

We went to mass on Sunday's because it was expected of us,

and although I entered the ranks of neighborhood altar-boys 

she was out. No girls allowed, and you'd be hard-pressed

to find a girl who had an interest,–– and besides, 

it wasn’t their time. It was the time for Priests and confessions

and rebellious explorations, and during an afternoon on a cloudless day

from behind the billboards among the stiff meadow grass,

we were amused by the old-timers betting in their Italian excesses

at the rails of the bocce lanes, and in the far distant future the backlit 

screens of the frantic machines would come to announced to the world:

"William is with Christina Bellaragazza".

                 -an advisory to the chronically unpublished poets-

stop trying so hard to stick the ending.

you figure skating?

you shootin’ at something in Texas?

don’t let them con you into "sticking the ending".

I know what I’m talking about.

I’ve stuck the endings to more poems

than Donald Trump has lunatics.

all it’s gotten me is a rotation of guilt and penance !

get off you knees at the feet of the kingshits of poetry.

let loose your word groups to shit their own ice cream !

fuck the fucking ending.

let’s get back to poetry's beginnings where the titles are.

you remember the titles, don't you?

remember how the titles gave you birth,

let you suckle the breast warmed with the sweet

milk of your own tongue?

we can't all be Emily of Amherst !

what's that? you think the way you end a poem

will get it published? Whassamatta U ?!

look. listen to me.

the snazzy ending kills the poem, murders it,

slices its throat !

and it's going to lay there like a plank

at the bottom of the column anyway, no matter

what you say, or how you say it, or how much

you agonize over it. so screw it !

fuck the ending ! just end the freakin' thing for chrissakes !

(however, please keep in mind

that I could be wrong about all of this.)

 

                  -from the lineup-

so this morning it's

Charles Simic.

c’mon out, mr. Simic from your slip

nestled between Robert Pinsky and Ross Gay

cloaked in your glazed winter jacket the color of –––

butterscotch mousse !

let’s see what you’re up to this Monday sunrise,

aromatized by a pot of dark, French Roast coffee from ––

Sweden ! ahhh..!  but wait.

your mother was a braid of black smoke, you say?

christ !–– and now I see you, a suckling child stolen by ––

gypsies? christ !

who'm I kidding?

I’ll never get to Sweden, let alone France.

but I've got my hands around the spine

of your zany run at the world, Charles.

and what’s this?

you’re in New Hampshire ?

why, that’s no more than a hop, skip, jump, and

three hour tram ride up the mountainside !

so let's get together next weekend, Charles,

and we can discuss the merits of all my poems,

which after this effort on my part on your behalf,

I'll presume, with assertiveness, you'll owe me.