leisurely on my way while officially sponsored
onward to stranger lands walking across a small-stoned coast,
I came upon a boat whose bow was barely on land and whose
hull to the stern lay in the water, one could say: "up to her ankles".
a heavy-looking smack, all 9 feet of her, a workaholic, exhausted
through her history, a true toiler of the sea.
the coast was unspoiled by man’s empty-headed beautification
and as for the water, it was an estuary to a larger body of water, sitting
at the southern end of a small village nestled to the hillside, dotting
structures like random jewels, dreamy from a distance, but poor enough
to be defined as something else up close.
walking the waterline, the overpowering scent of fish, living and dead,
of quahogs, of moss, surround me and if rope had a distinctive scent
it would be here, and if the interior of your home smelled this way
you’d rush downtown to purchase "Febreze: Linen Fresh Odor Eliminator"
the clear choice among the many products available, and by this time
you'd have certainly opened the windows to air the house, flies or no flies.
but at the water’s edge, the atmosphere seems appropriate.
the estuary's calling is the Wampanoag name meaning: “I am here”.
("Febreze" is available locally and is distributed by
the "Procter & Gamble" Company)
Lone wolf at the beach
The waves look drenched today.
One wave might be taller than the next which will be high enough.
Each wave dies the same death as the wave before it.
I almost drowned, once.
Some people play games with waves.
They ride them on boards like bucking broncos toward the shore
Sometimes drooping all ten toes beyond the nose of their decorative
Multi-colored vehicles.
I understand there’s a technical phrase for this ridiculous procedure.
I enjoy seeing the waves curl over the boys and girls like igloos
As if protecting them from becoming drenched.
The gathered applaud the riders for their accomplishments.
But I think it's the wave which deserves most of the credit.
Katsushika Hokusai's monumental wave serves me better
Than the homebound waves on the Spindrift at Horseneck Beach.
That's mostly because Hokusai's wave is still, flat and dry.
This doesn't upset me.
I’m usually dry. I’m a dry person. It’s my intention to remain
As dry as possible through the day and through the night.
But especially during my time at the beach contemplating
Katsushika Hokusai.
final examination
Studebaker v. Huffy / the case in review:
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.
