from my iPhone

I received a message from

“Viking Stump Removal”

reminding me that “Mike”

will be doing a “stump job”

in the neighborhood tomorrow morning

and I should schedule a time

for “Mike” to remove my stump,

to come over and get that blasted

stump outta here,

to bring-in the heavy equipment

necessary for “Mike” to do the job

so that I can rest without worrying

about that damn stump! christ,

even the squirrel’s ignore it.

thing is.. I don’t have a stump.

I haven’t seen a descent stump around these parts

since “Viking Stump Removal” called me last year

to remind me of the other stump I didn’t have.

“Viking Stump Removal” has a slogan:

It says they’ve been in business for

50 years: "for all your stump removal needs"

and I'm beginning to believe them.

I’m getting on, you see.

maybe I do have a stump problem. I forget.

                    we'd have to wait

the pattern has staying power; that bizarre

illumination which introduces me to the public forum.

I put it up about a year ago, replacing...  

I think a South Beach scene on Martha's Vineyard

as I approached a dead, beached pilot whale.

I don’t know what motivated me to change-up to the pattern,

but I remember its significance as a kid.

from the television screen it meant we'd have to wait,––

wait for the morning broadcasts to begin.

the pattern emitted a crackling static, a soft humming, or slight

hissing sound of which, I was later informed was partly the sound

of the early universe being born, an echo of the primordial space

declaring the presence of itself.

the television pattern told us to wait for a guy named Dave

Garroway, as it hummed along keeping company with the family

scurrying around the kitchen like seven..well, seven of anything

placed in motion preparing for the day ahead, none of us aware

that with the pattern, the early universe was saying "good morning"

long, long, and long before Dave Garroway would.

 

                   why Bukowski

during the early years when I was informed that the Earth

spins on its axis, I accepted their findings albeit with reservations.

there was an innocent romance to the motionless planet, like a water drop

suspended at the faucet's mouth, or

a battered baseball when the game is done.

do the forensics and you'll find each mark of the hide

a testimonial of the game between the red-threaded hemispheres.

so why Bukowski.

well, there he stands, flat-footed on the shelf, cursing, drinking

red wine, exaggerating the final syllables, and getting fat on poetry.

but it's only when the title page is turned that he's put into proper motion;

sober and calculating, clear-eyed and scheming, and tonight around here,

that's the fundamental way of things.

 

                    how to swallow 34 felony counts in one sitting

1.

a few days before the proceedings

expand your throat muscles by swallowing

things wider than your throat.

2.

brazenly warn the prosecutors that truth,

justice, and righteousness will be an albatross

wrapped around their scrawny necks.

3.

submit that secret video, the one where you're actually seen

squeezing Ivanka’s ass.

you’ll find it in your sock draw under the pile of socks, marked: “personal”.

this may indicate to the prosecution that it's within the natural order of things

for a loving father to squeeze the ass of his daughter.

4.

surreptitiously nab the pages of the indictments, stuff them into your mouth

then down your gullet as nonchalantly as you would 34 cheeseburgers.

5.

finally,–– and this is important:

wear an orange jumpsuit at the trial.

they can’t prosecute what they can’t see.

 

  

                   once collected then selected then ultimately rejected

that’s how it goes with me;

sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes what the hell.

aggressive publishers knock feverishly at the door,

they make intrusive inquiries of friends and relations

and stake-out the Chinese eatery across the street

anticipating the possibility that I'd pen a new one on the backside

of a menu. I try to be pleasant and understanding,

but yesterday a young imposter from “New Directions”

dressed as a drum majorette from the local junior college

in a phony baloney attempt to nab an exclusive, appeared

in the middle of my bathroom floor, but I saw through

the limitations of his awkward scheme and kicked his ass out.

alone again, I resumed the pleasure of my refreshing bubble bath, and although

it was Wednesday an image began to take shape in my head when a sudden

sense of foreboding came over me and I thought: “oh, no. not that again”!

                   

                an erotic dream recalled in vivid detail

she said: “DM me"

so I excused myself

and slipped into leather.

she was plump and quite appealing,

a cocktail waitress at the "Surf Club" in Newport

so I assumed she meant business.

but she excused herself at the sight of me

climbing through the bathroom window

noisy enough to startle the gulls.

I should keep-up with today's communicational lingo.

the night air was warm in Newport and the scent of the stern-

fisher's catch of the day clung to the atmosphere as I unzipped,

and slithered from the erotic suggestion before going to bed.

In the morning I scratched out the "Surf Club" from my address book

before remembering it was all a dream, but I left the book in its

revised state without the Club's entry because

at this point in my life I'm not jumping to any more conclusions.

                    the brown spot of 2016

there it was, staring back at me

from the foggy morning mirror.

I wiped the glass clean for a closer look

thinking it might be a smudge, or a little bruise

from that frantic handball game at the racquet club,

or maybe a venial sin which lost its way to the soul,

or a never before seen item. and why not? It happens

with dinosaur bones in New Mexico, and certain particles

like Quarks or the Higgs Boson.

damn it! there it is, below the temple

just above the zygomatic process. the brown spot!

the mirror’s telling me something,–– or God,

who by all accounts should be busier than chasing me around. 

I'm in the ozone of the here and now during closing arguments,

as naked and damp as Adam save for the brown spot made in my image!

damn! that's it. the brown spot! I’m done for.

                    -In closing-

they tell me

I'm a member of a lawfully

protected class.

they say

nobody’ll beat me up.

well,–– that is they shouldn’t.

those younger and less advanced

bring things to me–– nice things

like sticky buns,

and tickets for free passage

on the Bedford and County.

I'm celebrated

when certain dates come around

gifted with

trinkets of all shapes and sizes

and items to assist in my comfort. 

I’m like Pharaoh.

alls I gotta do is sit around

holding my crook

in the palm of my hand.

c.BC/AD

 

                   Lawrence in paradise

with age and usage,

The Secret Meaning of Things

is nearly torn asunder–– mold dots

its pages like the face of a freckled kid.

the water has long evaporated, but

its death mask lingers.

the title page is illegible; looks like a map

before the continental shift.

here lies Ferlinghetti, raw and unrepentant,

the human being as poet,–– well,

this fragment of what’s left of him.

sure, a new copy might be in order.

they say the words will be the same.

it's shiny and respectable.

they tell me nothing's changed of its substance.

but a glossy new one lacking the personal history

of being in the same room at the same time

through half a century and countless goldfish,

women and parakeets? I say no thanks.–– and besides,

there’s a genuinely warm romance going on in here.

Mim Summerfield in paradise

It’s the mid 70s on the early side and revolution is in the air.

Mim was a regular at the Bluegrass Saloon on West Liberty,

where our contemporaries gathered to exchange money for beer.

Mim was smart, active in the politics of our time, and overwhelmingly desirable.

her grandfather was Postmaster General in the Eisenhower Administration,

adding a sense of political intrigue to her persona.

We had a short-lived, but fast-lane affair which took us from West Liberty,

to East University, to the banks of the Huron, then to a little one bedroom

place nestled at the tree line behind the Diag. 

On the last night of our union, we found ourselves

inside the saloon's back room where the proprietor held an inventory

of the quick sellers; the rack whiskey, bar scotch, and cheap tequila,

stationed near the stairs to the basement where the aluminum

kegs were kept cold and ready to tap.

It was mid-June and sweltering.

Mim was slick and mobile, a counterweight to my clumsy aggression,

and although we were both perspiring, hers was a sweet perspiration,

an anisette extract with a dark rum additive which when applied,

evaporated on the tongue, and–– well,

not solely because of, but largely due to the indelible imagery

of another time, in another place, this dedication is proffered.