The opening of an exhibition of our stuff at the time of our demise

1.

We’ll be extinct someday.

There’ll come a time when our goods are displayed
inside controlled atmospherics, with cool, blue-

lighting, high ceilings, and reasonably tight security.

Gawkers will question how it was we survived the elements
surrounded by such meager shelters, and behavioral ridiculousness.

On display:  The heavy tools of our blood-centered medicine,
the oily mechanics of our politics and our industry, and

our blockheaded, insistent struggle for steam.

What cartoons they'll make of our digital expressions, standing 

alongside our loved ones and our pets,–– nearsighted, stubborn, clumsy.

2.

Against the far wall behind the last display case exposing

our battery powered "clap on, clap off" lighting instruments, 

hangs a curtain with a red neon sign above reading: "Adults Only"

                    -Honorable Mention-

The universe is far too vast to consider in totality overnight.

My neighbor agonized over this, failed, and went crazy.

So I’m considering the home galaxy, the “Milky Way,” the one I live with.

It’s a disk-shaped object, spiraling around its nucleus, crowded

(but not really crowded) with stars, gases, nebulae, dark matter, and whatnot.

Don’t get me wrong, the galaxy’s holdings are precious, and

there's plenty to consider in its grab-bag of wonders, and there's this:

It's big. traveling from one edge to the far edge at light speed

would take some 200,000 years,–– unless you book the local, in which case

the journey would be substantially longer.–– I don't advise it.

Also,–– by now you're probably aware that the center of the galaxy

would have the scent of raspberries, and the taste of rum.

Chemically, there’s some truth to this, which is why I’ve decided

to consider the home galaxy for exploration this morning.

I just want a quick sniff, and a little taste of the stuff.

I know. I know. ––That's the kind of thinking that killed Lenny Bruce.

But I'll take reasonable precautions employing established standards

in moderating consumption.

sniff some raspberries, slurp a lil' rum, and fly back home

before my crazy neighbor's let loose upon the world again.

                    forchrissakedon'ttellmethisisanothergoddamndreampoem!

well, yes it is. but in this one there’s food.

allow me to explain.

there’s a function of sorts going on.

the place is crowded with chattering people who are well-

dressed and appear to be appropriately disoriented.

weaving among them are younger women carrying trays

of hors d'oeuvres which they offer to the people in attendance.

well, actually they don’t “offer” what’s on the trays to anyone.

their jobs are to remain anonymous which explains why they’re required

to be dressed like nuns at the postulant stage of their development.

when Thomas or Jacqueline want something from the trays, the servers

are to stop, let them pick an item, then continue working the crowd

like participants enclosed in an ant farm.

as to the contents of the serving trays, it seems that the smaller, stinkier,

and more visually upsetting the item is,–– the better.

so I wake-up, take another eventful morning piss, then otherwise

refresh myself before coffee.

                   reconstruction of an accusation

 the whereabouts of Rene Beauchemin,

unpublished poet on the lam was reported to the cops.

they busted into his cold-water suite with a stern

flat-footed kick to the door which caused it to collapse

in a cloud of dust ending strangely in a sound

akin to the deepest register a muted tuba makes.

inside, after the cops poked-around, they grabbed

a bunch of poems from the table and waved them

accusingly in clumsy Rene Beauchemin's face

who sheepishly declared: “those aren’t mine”.

so the cops collared him for plagiarism instead.

                   -a journey between the two eyes of man-

I’m searching for Bach;

the one and only Bach

even among the Bachs,

scrolling down from the top

reading left to right across

the spines of the jewel cases

the way god intended,

and hovering above Bach

there’s only space, space

like heaven, an empty space

unoccupied but for squatters,

the dead priests, who’re

left to themselves,

to abuse themselves

by their own sour hands..

–– but I digress.

I’m searching for Bach,

anticipating the opening “Kyrie”

of the “Messe in h-moll”––

and I'll crank that sucker out full-blast,

loud enough to shake-up

the sensibilities of nosey neighbors, whilst

eating two scrambled eggs

with coffee chaser;

one hand for the plate, the other hand to fork,–– but

Bach’s impatient;

Bach wants me to hurry-up because

he says he wants the world to know

the righteousness of his opinion, and

the importance of his calling, and

what?  so I don’t?

                   Inside the first half of another birthday.

there’s another half to go.

If I split the halves into quarters

It becomes the second quarter

of the first half of another birthday, or

the 2nd quarter of 4 quarters of another birthday.

If the length of time in this birthday had, let’s say,

a fly traversing its length never stopping

flying forward and backward this birthday will never end.

people will tire of sending best wishes under its title.

others will die long before the end of the event.

soon enough all will vanish from the physical world.

but the fly lives on, zipping between the beginning

and the end of the birthday, which closes in on itself,

but is never ending.

In other words, I’m screwed.

           -observational notes taken during yesterday's physical checkup-

02/06/2023

I should be failing more often during measurements of physiological things.

I feel my respiration is clearer (as detected by the stethoscope) than it should be.

my sensibilities are under control, but I decide to keep my mouth shut about this.

he wants me to squeeze his hand so I do.

I squeeze to the point where I'm transported to the carnival booth squeezing for a prize.

my hand grips with force, but the force required to grip with this kind of physical zeal

knocks the ever-lovin' crap outta me. I decide to keep my mouth shut about this.

his preference is to assist in keeping me alive for another 5 years which is commendable.

my concern is that the mechanism which drives his office will not change its utilitarian attitude during that time.

the inverted is an introduction to a kinder more gentle

addition remastered in glorious 

quality so everybody can see clearly

an alternative account of fatal injuries sustained by gunfire

there, in the doorway he almost made it through and besides

in the end the inverted is a standard woulda-coulda-shoulda

'cause ya can't take it with you, can you now.––– but

where do we think he’d be if he hadn’t been assassinated?

nearing the plateau occupied by the lucky man who made the grade?

and were we ever really as beautiful as in the once-upon-a-time

which told us how so we were?

end the inverted

 

                   -travelogue -

this morning I'm considering U.S. route 6 from east to west;

east from gay, surfy Provincetown, Massachusetts, west to Bishop, California.

Bishop's also a small town and looks real pretty what with the mountains out back.

no particular reason for this Bishop, but I guess one's as good as another.

but first, we'll stop at the banks of the Taunton River at the foot of my home town.

refresher:

on our journey, the route 6 tentacle moves southward then turns westward

from the Cape across the Sagamore spanning the canal through Buzzard's Bay

eventually cutting a path between the house of my birth in Fall River,

("Quequechan" as the Wampanoag called it which translates to "Falling Water")

and the ballpark running parallel to the first base line.–– but first it cuts its way

through the Narrows between the fresh-water ponds of the great Watuppa nation,

into the exhaled lung of the Wampanoag where settling English land-grabbers,

––"Coat-men" they were called,

made war against the indigenous Wampanoag people and their fierce

warrior princess, called "Weetamoo", the heart of the Pocassets, on the run for her life.

but the English hunted her down while Weetamoo clung to a raft on the river,

where the "Coat-men" found her and drowned her then fished her out

of the Taunton, and due to her rebellious––"how dare you"!–– attitude,

sliced-off her head, fetched wood for a pike and brought it to a point,

then set the pike fast into the dank river soil and there, pushed her head

from the neck of it into and through the point of the pike and pressed down hard––

hard down into the skull of Weetamoo, still drenched by the Taunton waters,

so the Wampanoag under her command would see what’s become

of their Sachem, heart of the Pocasset band of the Wampanoag Nation,

and her head stayed there for a long time, guarded by "Coat-men" sentries 

so that no Wampanoag could dare lay claim to her.

this happened in the mid-to-late 17th century at the banks of the Taunton,

a short, down-hill bike ride west from my earliest house.

now onward! west to Bishop!

travelogue

                  Where can "Shorty" be? / Exposé No. 2

Elizabeth "Shorty" Fensterbau, who at 16, used me

as an early experimental barometer (with my acquiescence)

scooted from my father’s used Pontiac Chieftain, leaving the quick

scent of "Topaze" in her wake along with her underpants.

––I wasn’t confronted with the goods presented in evidence

until the next day when the oldman had his Pontiac washed

and vacuumed at

“Theo’s Shell Station” on the corner

of Bedford and Oak Grove Avenue.

A full-service provider.

I was barely a car driver at the time, but fully engaged

in searching for examples to the secret meaning of things.

 

What next?

––Maybe a romanticized recounting of a glassy-eyed Fensterbau

gazing into the firmament of the Pontiac’s fuzzy headliner.

––There’s more to be said of this sweltering beginning of young romance

on the run, a monumental event which isn’t as cut and dry as it might seem.

                                                 -O-

––“The secret meaning of things” is nabbed from Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s

volume of the same name.

––“Where can "Shorty" be”? is a paraphrase from Pablo Neruda’s

searing, unrequited love poem to“Guillermina” in the volume: “Extravagaria”.

––"What next?" is gathered from the title of Elliott Carter's brainy one act opera.

Notation:

I'm not ethically obliged to acknowledge "What next?"–– because it's a phrase

common enough without having to give credit to someone a lot smarter'n me

using it for the title of his opera,–– but as evidenced herein, I'll drop a name whenever

and wherever I have the opportunity to do so.

                    an introduction without natural borders

intrada:––

I came to this world a standard issue white man;

white,–– but not as the driven snow, or a fine Italian linen;

not blue-eyed and lily-white like the extant Polaroids of Jesus, but

a white man nonetheless.

no one can accuse me of being uppity. I'm not striving.

I’m born into this.

tonight, reality showed-up at the door grinning like a lunatic.

I said: "whoa! slow down, reality!"

It spoke of the Sun.

It said: "you're in the deep-end to all of it, my boy."

I slammed the door in its face and went dizzily to bed.

a proposition of dreams:––

If only for the sake of the outliers of consciousness,

should we not allow senselessness to occupy our dreams?

a jibber-jabber fragment:––

I've been accused of being a "chip-off-the-old-block."

as I grew into adulthood I took umbrage in order to defend

the property of my self,  but

reality, sneaking through the bedroom window whispered:

"William, isn't it true that the root drinks for the sake of its tree?"

"for chrissakes!" I screamed from beneath the sheets.

"who the hell can keep up?!"

which leads me directly to here.

 

 

                    ain’t got no time for nothin’

loading the page this morning

something’s on tilt right now.

what normally takes 1.3 by the time

now takes 1.7 by the time.

you check the space on your disc

your spyware

your malwear bites

you know what you got?

you got the cold sweats, my man

you got yourself

under your skin, my good fellow

you got no reason for 1.7

you got no rhyme for 1.7

you got ants in your pants

that girl from Bermuda

the rockin’ pneumonia

and the boogie-woogie flu

the suavé of Rico

the heebie & the jeebies

the shimmy shimmy ko ko bop

you got the sun in the mornin’

and the moon at night

but you ain’t got no time for nothin’!

 

                   -Sparks-

Drew Sparks drinks poems

like the Jack-

Daniels she downs at the bar

at "Mr. Flood's Party" on West Liberty.

She smokes poems like unfiltered cigarettes

employing the same facial expressions.

The poems aren’t mine;

they belong to e.e. Cummings.

Drew Sparks was born

in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I was two at the time, living with family

in Fall River, some 60 miles to the south.

Cambridge is where e.e.’s father had a house

and once taught a few sleepy subjects at Harvard University

and I mention these things considering life's six degrees of separation.

But as young adults with different arrivals to the wild midwest,
me, with my drawings in tow which were better than my poems,

even though my drawings weren’t very good, ––and her,

with her weathered good looks, and passion for e.e.–– so,

I was fortunate that she considered me an object of interest.

Could be because I had a few bucks in my pockets, and

I’d buy her drinks when we crossed over to the "Del Rio"

during those wee hours of night when both of us had a free hand.

Sometimes we’d stumble

over to the "Flame" bar on West Washington

where slender young men kissed one another on purpose,

with open mouths over watered-

down highballs and chilled Chablis,

slow-dancing cheek-to-cheek

across the sticky linoleum which made

the rubber soles of their tennis-shoes snap.

It’s easy-going this morning in Fall River

with decades in time and many miles travelled between us

when Drew Sparks read from page 63, fitting it justly

into the blonde-

headed incandescence of the sweltering Flame:

“Jimmie’s got a goil

                                 goil

                                        goil,

                                                Jimmie

‘s got a goil and

she coitnly can shimmie...”

 Ann Arbor, 1969

Fall River, 2010