five things to consider during my time at the table

1.––  the vinegar-fly, or fruit-fly, as it appears zigzagging

over my quartered cantaloupe seeming to will itself against

landing on a hard surface like a flying Wallenda before the fall.

2.––  the glaze of the compact disc where music plays

when spun to its manufactured function.

3.––  it’s Bruno Maderna’s “Satyricon” where we find Fortunata,

Trimalchio’s wife, complaining of one thing or another.

this is expression personified, where italian gestural exaggerations

are deemed necessary to compensate for the stiff angularity

of the recorded language. 

4.––  and because it's laying there every morning, the little pink

oblong-shaped simvastatin pill which helps control a high-middle

range diagnosis of my cholesterol level.

but even when sung in English I’m done-for without

5.––  the "Satyricon" libretto.

                   homage to: “and others”

they're found gathered behind the composition of the identifiable.

("Mobster, Tony "Six toes" Gnocchi was shot dead today

along with infamous gun-moll Beatrix Pitts... and others.")

one can define “and others” as unidentified witnesses to a crime scene

or those congregating on the sidewalks at the Award Ceremonies.

“and others” can never be personally praised for being smart enough

for buying the best automobile or smoking the safest cigarette

or adjudicated guilty of a felonious incident.

"and others" can be found lingering behind the glossy yellow tape,

whose names are inconsequential when the sightseeing bus

topples from the mountainside killing the Pope's special envoy.

then there's this:"and others" are those assigned to the last car

of the procession containing third cousins of the dearly departed

who are the busiest tagalongs in the world.

   

                   True tales of an early altar boy with Bella Lanzaserra in a supporting roll 

When the vocation's pious operandi begins to fade, but the tabernacle holds

its internal interests like a secret word and the Mezzo of the church choir

is in radiant bloom with a nice rendition of the Agnus Dei, the grill-man

at "Tiny Jim's" is scraping the late night remnants of meat and potatoes to an oily sheen.

–– Priest nods at the empty chalice drunk first of wine then chased with water

and you’ve nabbed the best girl from the corner for the coming day's enlightenment

where each of you serves at the pleasure of the other, but you’re not quite sure

what to do with her and there she is kneeling in the front pew with her father,

a red-knuckled boiler-tender at the Sagamore Textile Mill who knows precisely

what you shouldn’t do with her, –– but

there’s always a chance given Bella's sleight-of-hand past performances.

So you ring the harking bells to draw attention to the goings on while Priest

nods-off at the tabernacle with God's own rendition of the Lamb locked-up

behind its door, and I'm telling you,––if it was me on the inside I'd be screaming!–– 

But all-in-all I'd say that this is a fine beginning to a very pleasant Sunday.

 

                   Miss Shay, a Remembrance, a degree of Retribution and Requiem DRAFT

teacher! O, teacher! the run in your stocking

looks like a rayon roadway running parallel to the seam

leading downward to the heel, then over to the five peninsulas

of your toes then backward and upward to who-knows-where,

and the red, red lipstick you’ve applied this morning is running amuck across

the upper plates of your teeth which clack to the bottoms when you speak.

It’s a tactile sound which I look forward to listening to.

chalk dust smears your dress, and powders your face like the 18th century

French aristocracy, and I can’t understand what you’ve scribbled across

the blackboard,–– but the tips of the chalk tapping the surface is another

sound which intrigues me.–– listen.

you're wearing sensible shoes; a worn black leather, heavy-looking, and

the kid stationed at the open door hears you coming.

you have kids, and the kids have a big dog as the orderly exhibition

of your desktop presents them.

your husband has departed for parts unknown without the saving grace

of being killed in Korea, and the chain around your neck is clinging

to the earbuds of your eyeglasses, holding them tenderly to your breast

like the polished arms of marbled Mary (Batjacob) mourning the head

of descended Jesus, and how forlorn she seems, like you, Miss Shay.

but I digress from the true nature my recollections, so what I mean to say is,

go screw yourself and rest in peace.

 

                    the “floor boy” in the needle trade

“skinny pickle” is what the guy

sitting behind the desk called me.

he asked: “how old are you”?

I said: “15, and I play left field".

he gave me the slow-raised eyebrow once-over

then said: “okay. follow me”.

we walked through a long, narrow

corridor leading to a cavernous,

constantly droning space where

women, as far as the eye could see

were stationed at their sewing machines,

and at their sides were large canvas bins of

textile material, sewn precisely as prescribed.

he said: “grab that bin and follow me”.

I rolled the heavy, fully stacked bin

to another station as far away as time

would allow, where more women

sewed more thread to another end

of the fabric stacked in the bundle.

he said: "they'll call to you when they need you".

then he left, and for one working day

of three weeks to come, I did what he said,

moving material, and keeping my usually

busy mouth shut inside the walls of the sweltering

“Kerr Thread” textile mill in the summer of 1958.

                  Glück

60 miles to the north from where I live.

25 inches to the right from where I sit.

627 pages set upon the table.

80 years in the building of a life.

Years hauled-out as witness to her vision.

Impossible to say "the end" ––and wrong.

                   addendum to: "the ferocious star” / an operetta / behind the closed curtain

the floor-sweeping man: “ain’t enough money for me t' go through this.”

stage manager: “shut yer yap, and clean this shit up”!

the meaty mezzo, pointing toward the baritone: “that beast stuck his tongue in my mouth”!

stage manager: “what? when? where? how could would should”!?

the meaty mezzo: “I’m gonna be sick”!

the floor-sweeping man: “no, sir. ain’t enough money for me t' go through this.”

newspaper-boy rushing in from the wings: “you’re all done for”!

ensemble: “huh? where’s our money”?!

newspaper-boy running out: “ha ha ha”!

stage manager: “get back here you little prick”!

first monetary-backer: “where’s that freakin director”?

a gunshot!

first monetary-backer: “uh..never mind”.

ensemble: “shit”!!

the curtain opens to turmoil.

the sweeping-man: “no sir. ain’t enough money for me t' go through this”.

sirens in the distance, but closing in.

second monetary-backer: “it’s the cops! lemme outta here”!

newsboy from the wings: “extra! extra! read all about it”!

Variety: “the ferocious star” shoots wad! backstage carnage”!

fade to a progressively greying stage before an empty house. 

                   William's "The Fierce Menagerie"

It’s a joyous occasion, 

the act of driving the car with family in tow

to William's "The Fierce Menagerie".

come one come all

to William's "The Fierce Menagerie"

and enjoy vicious animals calmed by captivity

and jailed local incorrigibles found guilty of disrespecting 

our wonderful community standards, set in place for the common good.

but fear not!

those are tempered steel bars set deep in concrete,

and each semi-trained attendant is armed with a fast-

shootin’ semiautomatic weapon same as you’d find

at any theater of carnage, from your local grade school

to the random shopping mall escalator.

don't worry. neither man nor beast can penetrate

the boundaries of William's "The Fierce Menagerie"––

and since your arrival,–––  neither can you.

                   -the smiling girl in '35-

the smiling girl stands at the trunk of a tree between

the hanging man and a space of air but one time her width.

the bark of the bough creeks like a weathered boat, the wind

becomes a breeze, becomes a whisper and the swaying slows its pace.

the hanging man is rootless, save from the top, his tattered

overalls attesting to his station, the warrant fast-tracked and irretrievable,

unstoppable and eagerly accomplished.

––I'm left searching for the smiling girl on the day before the tree's incident

who may be found tucked quietly behind her school desk most likely wearing

the same summer dress.

––I'm left searching for those who retrieved Rubin Stacy cut from the tree

and dropped to the earth when all is done and the curtain is drawn.

 

dwelling above the joy of gardening

It’s best at five floors above the ground,

and it’s best if the weather is pleasant, and by that I mean

a smear of sunlight, and high cirrus clouds.

below, someone tends a community garden, a vegetable

garden, a quiet place of reflection with a work ethic.

this time it's the mother starling who clings at the tangle

of her nest, woven between the garden and me.

she feeds her squawking nestlings, fighting for a taste

of the succulent earthworm.

it's as much as if going to war,–– sibling against sibling, and if one

is pushed from the nest, there it will be, eyes half-lidded,

blanched and naked, to remain on the ground until nature takes it in. 

the little garden continues while being

tended to its necessities without a war of attrition,

each element of all these goings on, ignorant

of my presence because it's my job to let it all be,

to be indifferent, to realize the isolation of my residence,

and the part I play in the natural order of things.