Lone wolf at the beach 

Each wave is as drenched as the other;

That is: one wave is never drier than the preceding wave,

Nor wetter.

This wave might be taller than the next which will be high enough.

Each wave dies the same death as the wave before it.

The notion that each wave contains the same amount of salt

Is under consideration, although

I'll be voting "nope" before the decision is made at the table.

I almost drowned, once.

Some people play games with waves.

They ride them like bucking broncos toward the shore,

Sometimes drooping all ten toes beyond the nose of the board.

I understand there’s a technical phrase for this ridiculous procedure.

What's worse is that they zig and zag like Karl Wallenda in a gust of wind.

I enjoy seeing the waves curl over the boys and girls like an igloo

As if protecting them from dryness.

The boys and girls are applauded when this happens,–– but

I think it's the wave which deserves most of the credit.

Katsushika Hokusai's long distance wave serves me better than

The homebound waves at Horseneck Beach.

That's only because it's drier.

I’m usually dry.

I’m a dry person.

It’s my intention to remain as dry as possible throughout the day

And especially through the night, but most especially at the beach.

                   final examination

                  Studebaker v. Huffy

a baseball game is in progress and just beyond the left field fence

and a gradual upward grade to the facade of the church,

Alfonso Gasperini driving his ’57 “Sudebaker Golden Hawk”

bumped Angela DeCorpo riding her “Huffy" radio bicycle.

It seems the right front of Gasperini’s sleek machine,

tapped Angela’s Huffy on the back fender, causing

her to lose control and Angela, with her Huffy went

tumbling down the slow-rolling grade of the park

coming to rest in the middle of it, half way between

the left field fence and the church where both Angela

and Gasperini attended mass on Sunday mornings.

40 years would pass before funeral services were held at the church

for Gasperini, and some 15 years from the moment of contact

leading to Angela DeCorpo’s wedding to Antoine "Mitts" Rondello.

construct an argument cobbling elements of the case

presenting a dissenting opinion.

                   The Sad Sack

I woke up to a sort-of rumbling sound;

An unrecognizable sound, a nondescript roll

Of muted, haphazardly cobbled sounds as if God

Was clearing his lungs from a long night’s build-up of phlegm.

That’s it. Blame God. A reasonable start to the day’s events.

Event number one:

Piss. Check the color. No blood. That’s good.

Event number two:

Water the night’s dry flesh.

Event number three:

Perfume thyself.

Breakfast is prepared by strangers wearing transparent

Latex gloves, and delivered to my door by those who are stranger still.

The outcome is tepid and damp;

A scramble of something-or-other in yellow ochre.

Interlude:

A friend three blocks southward drives a fast car.

It’s snazzy. so Onward!

I don’t drive anymore.

It’s estimated by the Bureau keeping such statistics

That between four and sixteen lives are saved yearly

Because I don’t drive anymore.

Heroic!

The Sad Sack

                  missive, anyone?

the poem I wrote last night

is 10 times worse

than the one I wrote the night before,

unless I’m thinking about

two completely different poems which I might’ve

written on two different nights altogether now.

that's funny.

I wasn’t thinking about the Beatles here.

maybe they crept into my atmosphere

when I wasn’t looking.

I’ve never hummed a song I didn’t know

but have hummed a song I didn’t like.

well, maybe I liked it a little and didn’t realize.

it’s possible an old flame sang it to me

after the bar closed and if so, I’ll love it until I croak.

(reflecting on my time at “Mr. Flood’s Party” Ann Arbor

back when it meant something larger than one’s self.

I'm referring to the saloon, not the E. A. Robinson poem.)

this entire experience hasn't been easy.

on the other hand, I think it has.

                   the poem-writer fully empowered

to Neruda it means one thing,

to me it means something else,

to the guy across the street who

mows half-an-inch of snow from his yard,

who is not a poem-writer, it’s meaningless.

so there you have it.

at this moment in time the world is populated by

the poems of Pablo Neruda, me, and the poetry

of the lunatic across the street.

must say, though,–– he’s got a nice little 

sheet of snow working for himself over there.

                    I thought I was an atheist and then

I went browsing through on-line wallpaper of cityscapes,

with a preference toward nighttime photos.

I like the way the incandescence shows-off the muscular attitude of skylines.

I wouldn’t normally see cities all lit-up and glossy from a distance because

who in their right mind would row a boat that far out simply to sneak a peek?

certainly not me.

there’s a perceived weight to a big city “rising” from the water

which makes it appear vulnerable to sinking.

the foundation at the city’s foot looks like a mirror reflecting the skyscrapers

spiking to a wondrous glaze; the full moon, the eyeball of God!

after the browsing, I prepared a breakfast of scrambled eggs, spears

of buttered asparagus and coffee as I thought of becoming an atheist again.

                   Adolf’s mustache

there it is

a spiny smear

cropped edge to edge

its message sent

faster than the send

key's pressed

then slowing to reach

its earthly space.

this mustache.

Adolf’s mustache.

the spiny smear above

the upper lip.

there’s a signpost ahead...

                    Tuesday, January 8, 2025

dear diary,

I spoke to my son last night over our snazzy iPhones,

mine in Fall River, Massachusetts, his in Los Angeles, California.

I was sitting at the table reflecting on the normality of the day

quietly receding into night.

these days, uneventful goings on are typical of my station in life.

this morning’s eggs looked like yesterday’s eggs,

neatly fried, sunny-side up, with slight charring

around the edges of imperfectly shaped disks, coffee,

Canadian white bread toast with butter, all nestled within

a healthy interior attitude.

the bad news comes with the reporting of certain events:

the investigation of a Piper Cup crash into a hillside

on the outskirts of Providence is on-going, the man

accused of randomly burning a woman to death

on an otherwise empty subway car in Brooklyn pleaded

“not guilty” in a court of law, two bodies found in the landing

gear compartment at a Fort Lauderdale airport, and the lingering

vulgarity of Donald Trump’s election increasing day-by-day 

like a stalker on a lonely street of a rainy night downtown.

tonight, harrowing reports of another fire in Los Angeles

piqued my interest, and although it’s usually my son

who calls me to say: “hello” or “how’re you doing”

tonight it was me initiating the call. 

   

 

the bright surface of an eventful situation

it’s the beauty which passes

who will never know you.

it’s the beauty which passes

you cannot reach and yet

you take it with you

like you would the cuffs

of your sleeves

like an afterthought

like a bag

of takeout Chinese, or

the dream anticipated

which evaporates before its end.

your span of life charts the cycles

of loves and departures

of planets and stars and recurring pets

which come and go from backyard funerals.

it’s the bright surface of the gleaming

fender in ’58 which reflects an annual

impression.

it’s that which is responsible for this poem.