-on the beach with Jean Cocteau-

see how he struts his stuff across the sand

smeared in saltwater, sporting a flat-

top fedora, stylishly suited, but bare-footed in the way

he makes it seem how it should always be done,

his flat-top skewed toward the sea.

but of Jean Cocteau?

It's the zaniness of his Dada which makes me aware

of his persona even after decades of its side-swiping

introduction in 1963 art school. 

the elegant "King & Allen" single-breasted beauty flutters

in the wind, pulsating across the seascape of Jean Cocteau,

and although the wind blows also upon the flesh of onlookers,–– 

one would never know it.

today, the will of the wind knows only the name

of Jean Cocteau, walking the edge of an incoming tide.

now it happens that among the hovering gaggle of gulls

there appears to be one who knows what it means to be a seagull

who seems intent on dropping the remains of its intake upon

the shoulders of the flawless "King & Allen" suit of Jean Cocteau,

but it doesn’t and I don't know why it doesn't.

but this much I know:

beyond my shortcoming knowledge of the salt of his life

and regardless of seagulls, moon-tides and the sewn cloth of man,

I obviously enjoy the sound of the name: "Jean Cocteau,"

and as far as the sightline of this poem is concerned, that's enough.

 

 

                   January / the early years

7:47 PM / meet with me, friends.

the backyard is open to our preferences.

It’s cold, and the space between objects is clear.

come with me.

I’m traveling through a challenging

distance.

look.

the waning moon is a sleeping eye!

we’ll get away with murder.

look.

Jupiter hangs its bulb on the front

porch of the firmament.

It’s a sign of welcome meant for us.

It’s cold.

the atmosphere stiffens the flesh.

the heavy materials crack under smears of ice.

look.

the tangled grapevine hibernates from its early

autumn labors under the cover of winter.

behind us

our cloistered families have abandoned the frantic

supper tables

and televisions are warming-up.

7:48 PM / It’s late, my friends, and there’s trouble brewing.

I’m called to the indoor part of life without an offering of terms.

Inside, the dry heat of burning kerosene will surround me.

wait here.

I’ll return when the galaxy’s pinwheel comes back ‘round.

 

                   the woman in the dream

I’m in a hurry.

It's the top of the 5th

knotted at four.

I need eggs and milk,

and approaching the register

our eyes connect as if wired between

both ends of an electrical extension.

I slow the pace down to a cowpoke’s mosey.

…oh, and bread.

three people at the register become six

as others close in with their goods.

I don’t know what the dream would’ve amounted to.

I woke-up instead.

this was three weeks ago, with time wizzing

by like a tsetse fly late for lunch.

It’s now the bottom of the 7th

with Boston and Chicago knotted at three.

I’m fresh out of Lay’s potato chips,

low on Narragansett lager beer,

and the nasty White Sox just scored another two

in the top of the 8th.

It’s three weeks into the rest of my life,

and except for the score, as fulfilled a life

as any man could hope for, and yet I've got

a recurring urge to know if she’s still dreaming.

something far too big to become something far too small

1.

I began the drawing with delusions of grandeur,

ensconced in the bowels of the printmaking department.

below me, the foundation of the building.

below that, serpents and dragons dwelled.

the preliminaries seemed plausible to the undisciplined mind,

but more than a few onlookers gathered around me.

I smeared charcoal over the surface and went

‘round and ‘round, and up and down across

the plane this way, and that way, from middle-tones 

to the darkest edge of reason.

those gathered soon began to drift to their upper level studios

two by two, then three by three they followed, until my time

of reckoning had come, standing alone and naked with what

was thought to become the singular image of my young artistic life.

2.

the picture plane was a misspelled word, irretrievable;

an indelible ink spot and not the crooning kind.

 

the picture plane was the old man jitterbugging at the reception

to the joy of revelers before the crack of his bones and his awkward

fall from grace.

It was neither one way nor was it the other way.

It was the winding road devoid of light, where

the road was the wrong road to begin with.

the SwizDee / 1963. 1964?

 

                    this was the dream last night

the poet, left to his own devices was nabbed by the cops

who kicked down the door to his cold water flat utilizing

extreme footwear causing it to hit the floor in a cloud of dust

making an otherworldly muffled sound as it did,–– the sound akin

to what a muted tuba might make when puffed into at the lowest register.

once inside, the cops grabbed a handful of scribblings from the messy table

and waved them with the force of authority to the undocumented poet's face

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

so the cops collared him for plagiarism instead.

that was the dream last night.

           The sounds linoleum makes / And Franco Hartmann’s aspiration

Who really knows the truth about one’s earliest memory

as it might be wrong / As it might simply be the first thing one cares

to think of as the earliest memory / But there’s little doubt that another

could be lurking in the twilight zone of one’s deepest imagination / Could be

that isn’t true either, although maybe it is.

 

The aspirations of man are more clearly defined as far as I’m concerned / 

If one was born into a working class family let’s say in the early 1940s

the title of this poem is what you might be searching for when it comes to

one’s earliest memory, and if one’s a guy, the answer to the question concerning

your aspirations might well be there, too.

The question is:

What’s been sprung from Meredith Monk’s / “ATLAS” / an opera in three parts?

Acknowledgments:

This poem is made possible by a grant provided by:

The Luigi P. and Carmella T. Nasone "Foundation for advanced Proboscis Research"

AND.. from contributions from readers like you.

  

                  an opinion on the photograph of Charlie Loan & Meredith Wildes

they painted pictures in the same studio designated: "C".

when the day was done they went their separate ways,

Charlie to his residence, and Meredith to hers.

there’s no proof they ever kissed.

they shared a brief history in the "whaling city",

lasting a few years while at art school ( the SwizDee )

where someone ( not credited ) snapped the photo-

graph after a short time of classically oriented

arrangements for the final posing of the two principals.

this is the greatest photograph of all time.

this photograph is better than the polaroid snap-

shots of Jesus, posing at the empty

tomb of Lazarus. ( else, who would've known ? )

and you can take the blistering, yelling, and

burning Hindenburg fiasco, ( film by Thomas Craven ) and

put it in your pantry with your cupcakes. ( music and lyrics by Paul Simon )

and it's even better than the still-frame:

"woman throwing a ball". ( plate 8, Eadweard Muybridge ) –– but

its status is being called into question and is currently scheduled

on the docket to be adjudicated. ( her honor, Aileen Cannon presiding )

that is, the adjudication to determine the authenticity of the photograph

of Charlie & Meredith, not the Eadweard Muybridge, which seems to be

regarded as "settled law", ( an opinion by Justice Amy Coney Barrett ) ––  and

of course, no.  I don't trust the sincerity of Aileen Cannon's jurisprudence,

let alone that of Amy Coney Barrett, so "authenticity" here lies in the province

of me, myself and I. 

  

                  Tuesday, June 20, 2023

and “The New York Times” has asked

17 of their columnists to pick one TV show,

Movie, Book or Song which in their minds

best describes America.

I’m guessing they mean the United States

and not Argentina or Guatemala.

I’m also guessing that they don’t give a shit

about what I would pick from my frame of reference,

or the pick of the guy across the street who likes to

ride his new, metallic green John Deere across his lawn

every freakin’ morning at sunup.

the ear-piercing machine has headlights.

It turns on a dime and mows any patch

of dirt in its way to an expanding cloud of dust.

he sits high in the saddle.

his balding head bends according to the direction

his rattling John Deere goes with the slight turn of its wheel.  

I hate that guy, but I’ll bet he has an opinion.

many of the picks by the learned columnists

were centered on movies and television shows

because, well, that’s entertainment.

and aren’t we all seeking to be entertained?

as for my pick it will be a poem.

specifically, one of my poems. a recent poem.

a poem about mass murder on an escalator going up,

and I submitted a photo of the massacre in progress

for the rubbernecker’s enjoyment. horrible situation. horrible.

that’s a fair description of America as I see it from the discomfort

of my kitchen table each morning leafing through “The New York Times”––

the national newspaper of record, cursing the racket's enabler,

sipping coffee, sometimes with plump Del Monte mango slices on the side,

sometimes with a blueberry muffin, sometimes with a .38 in my lap.

so the question is: would this exposé be classified as entertaining enough

to meet the criteria of "My America" set forth in "The New York Times" this morning?

well, sure.––  how would it not be?

                   The ferocious star / an Operetta for the common doomsayer / a libretto

Alto: ( rummaging )  What’s its name?!

Tenor: ( frantically )  It’s too damn many letters! She’s

Greek, me thinks, and... it’s a real tongue-twister!

Narrator: a mythological goddess I’d bet, and stuck-up!

Mute: ( isolated ) I can just imagine what’s going on up there!

Soprano: ( straight )  She’s bloated! That's what! She’s eating herself to death,

and when she burps we'd best not be around!

Ensemble: HaHaHa!

Coloratura: ( off stage, left ) Gotta hightail-it outta here real pronto like!

Ensemble: ( much murmuring, and much confusion ) 

Narrator: No, no! It's okay! She’s not a Texan! She's acting!

Tenor: But if the ferocious star is close enough and lets one go, we're done for!

Baritone: ( just introduced to the meaty Mezzo whilst nervously spraying his throat )

Quickly!.. Kiss me, my dear!

Curtain... ( but the curtain malfunctions adding to the tension )