-10/09/20 the New York Times-

from the Arts pages: “Young Black Poets”

reading their poems, standing their ground,

pleading their cases steadfastly,–– but quite simply

from my frame of reference, impossibly young.

all of them revisited.

all of them rising with each visit.

one sticks with me this morning;

is heard over and over again

with the click of the keyboard’s mouse.

her name is Akilah Toney.

her poem is titled: “Insecure Words”

written and spoken in her language and with an attitude.

my biggest fear at her age was being called out on strikes,

standing flatfooted at the plate, the inquisition

of baseball pressed upon my youthful shoulders.

but Toney’s poem is born of an inexhaustible blood.

Teacher redlines her sentence for the sake of gramma. then another

and another; redlined; dismissing her like he knows her address.

I hear her over coffee. the sunlight steps through the drawn

venetian blinds; the horizontals follow the planet's rotation.

Toney's young, but her voice strengthens her age. empowers the atmosphere.

maybe I’m too old to keep up, too white to get it, but maybe with enough

life in me to realize what it is I don't know.

I turned to the home plate umpire who in my eyes made the right call wrong.

Akilah Toney's fierce glance into her world is redlined simply for being.

 

 

                  -considering the timeline of Antoine Dupré-

there’s a place on the Huron where

decades ago Antoine Dupré resided

for the better part of five years;

closer to the better part of six, he'd say,

but I'm not so sure.

another way to arrange Antoine's timeline is to say:

Five years to accommodate Four remarkable young women

set into spaces along the timeline,–– the spaces provided by

One remarkable young woman.

he'd say: take away the inevitable distress in discourse  

and we'd all confess to having a good time.

another might say: factor-in the inevitable distress in discourse 

and Antoine Dupré's opinion of events is done for.

                   -the opinion page-

I listened to “Women” last night.

I missed the reciter's name which

is a shame because he was very good,

sounding, probably, like Bukowski in a state of sobriety.

I guess I can think-up a pretty good poem if it’s mine.

in my brain it sounds like my voice, I think, but

when poets read their own stuff in recital it’s

nearly annoying to hear responses from the audience.

the sounds from the stands at the ballpark with the score

knotted at.. let’s say, six a-side in.. let’s say, the top of the 8th

is pretty good, better than audience responses from

the gathered at a live poet's recital.

even low-key’d William Carlos Williams seemed awkwardly surprised

when years ago a small gathering gave him a standing ovation

after a reading of “the red wheelbarrow”.

"The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.”

don’t get me wrong.

I like the little poem, but christ!

a standing ovation?–– and sure

there are things to consider if

you take the time to realize a red wheelbarrow, rainwater glazed

and white chickens nodding around with nowhere to go but where

Carlos Williams places them, together in a moment of time;

 if you, let's say, look upon those elements of the poem

as if each participant is not a singularity but are forever linked

as if they're the only physical properties which exist on the planet and..

wait a minute. by the great stone of Sisyphus! 

I love that little poem!

 

           -YouTube lullaby-

1.

Last night I looked on while Monica Seles was stabbed in the back.

The date of the assault was April 30, 1993.

Monica was stabbed as she rested between sets during a tennis match.

There was otherworldly muffled screaming from the gallery as poor

Monica fell backward into an attendant’s arms, her pallid complexion

akin more to death than to life, but then she grimaced in a sign of living

which was good to see.

An entourage of guys dragged the assailant away weaving through

the throngs of well-heeled rubberneckers.

Even in 1993, the video of the attack played-out on a never ending loop,

news outlets regurgitating the event, the stabbing and its aftermath,

until it began to seem commonplace that young Monica Seles

should be stabbed in the back on multiple occasions.

Basta!

So I toggled down to listen in on Charles Bukowski’s last

public reading, 14 years before his death.

The recital happened on March 31st, 1980, at the Sweetwater Inn,

Redondo Beach, California.

The set was minimalist in nature; a table with a bottle of red

wine standing at the ready, a chair for Bukowski to sit on, and a backdrop

containing planks of nailed wood, and a solitary aluminum stepladder

leading the way up to nothing.

A small but eager crowd gathered to hear Bukowski read his poems

and as he sat down someone in the audience shouted something.

It was unintelligible, but Bukowski heard it, calling the guy a “motherfucker”

(clearly pronouncing the “er” and the other “er” at the end of both words)

"mother fucker!"–– at which point a number of people laughed.

Actually, every time Bukowski swore at somebody, anybody or anything,

a smattering of the gathered would laugh. In fact, in the middle of a poem

where Bukowski referred to a woman as a “cunt,” people again laughed.

I thought at first it might be nervous laughter, they, being so close to a guy

who might start a violent fistfight at the slightest provocation, but

after awhile I reasoned it was something else.

It was as if laughter was expected of them whenever Bukowski

showed the side of his persona to match the expectations of an audience.

But in the end, no one seemed to be offended and the cops

weren't waiting in the wings ready to pounce on Bukowski

for his social obscenities because "they got kids" the way they did when

Lenny asked in open recital:“Didja cum? Didja cum? Didja cum good?".

2.

After a time of diddling around YouTube, I was alerted to the breaking

news of the death of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and I lamented

beneath my breath: "Jesus Christ. We've had it".

Friday, September 18, 2020

 

-salt of life-

1.

the seabed's jeweled  

in silent emerald

and armor-clad, the seahorse

holds-fast to its crazy biology.

the strange sea cucumber

readies itself at the table

as the armed anemone animates

hypnotically for its harvest.

2.

inside the city's tenement

no one questions the racket; it runs

blood-rich through the hallways

pulsating at the hands and from the mouths

of its occupants.

3.

water is heard running

in two rooms reserved for running water,

kitchen aromas drape

the atmosphere fold on fold

and dishrags sweep across the oilcloths

sometimes to closure,
sometimes in preparation.

Quequechan

                                                 

                 

-the great commotion of September 7, 2020-

what’s all the commotion?

It’s all on the outside.

inside it’s me and Gabriel Fauré.

certainly no commotion here.

I’ll go to the window to begin
a visual investigation.

It’s early September

and the weather is pleasant.

the commotion is coming

from beyond the two-family

across the side yard to the north,

whose owners still cling to natural

wood shingles, god bless 'em.

It’s not clear who or what 

is causing the commotion, but

now there’s a barking dog

adding to the racket. but wait.

the barking is coming from

beyond the beige, vinyl clad three-

family across the street to the west,

and it seems my only course of action

is to wait it out until the commotion subsides,

which is now attacking the peace of my residence,

the tranquility I've established for my final station

in life on two fronts, but christ. –– poor Fauré !

stamped in red: "7 1 5 C"

Tuesday, September 1st, 2020.

sunny, 73° and

Anne Pieroni shows-up

unexpectedly.

these surprise appearances

are rare in that the family

has gone through every conceivable

image taken of her throughout

the journey of her young life.

I almost tossed the photo out

which was buried between the pages

of an old guidebook to

the Newport Mansions.

but I began leafing through

the pamphlet and there

between “Chateau-Sur-Mer” and

the “Green Animals Topiary Garden”

out pops Anne Pieroni.

“Miss Backyard"–– dated July 3, 1943.
I’m nearing 6 months old, so I must be

somewhere in the house.

and there’s Annie Pieroni, posing outside

below the kitchen window where

the drainpipe hangs.

she stands without outward emotion,
erect, but listing slightly to starboard.

she’s not drunk.

the camera is listing slightly to port.

my wonderment and confusion over this snapshot

is not close to ebbing.

It’s 1943. I’m 6 months old.

my sister is 3 years old, so she must be
somewhere in the house, too.

I know my mother’s handwriting;

a delicate cursive, yet confident
in that she’s made-up her mind as to how

she wants her signature to be seen.

but she wrote: “Anne Pieroni”!
Anne Pieroni? her maiden name?

my sister’s 3 years old for christ’s sake!

and I’ve been somewhere in the house for 6 freakin' months!

at city designated number: 1017

-Oh, lordy!-

1.

God's got the dryness of the withered hand at his mouth.

His fingertips smell like salt & vinegar.

He’s at the snack cupboard again panting for potato chips.

No wonder he’s fat,–– and he's drinking...  what's that he's drinking...

“Ahh..champagne.–– Champagne cocktails”!

(Always wanted to use old Frank Pentangeli's line in a poem)

2.

Due to the eagerly anticipated death of perennial speaker,

fatso Dominic DeCarlo, I've been selected to address

the yearly "Frank Nitty Businessman’s Lunch"

at Club Marconi's annex downtown to benefit unpublished poets

and other displaced derelicts week after next.

3.

Oh, lordy!

It's later than I think.–– “Cicci! la porta”!

-What's a day... more or less-

Well, my son. You must know by now

that your birthday slipped by without my recognition.

––You see, It’s all a matter of timing.

Usually the slippage is realized the day after

the day of the event often over morning coffee

sometimes with toast, sometimes without toast.

But, well, there you have it.

––In defense of my absentmindedness, I’ll have you know

that other notable birthdates have also slipped the surly

bonds of recognition within that space of  “a matter of timing.”

––The likes of Emily for example, sweetly fanged in Amherst.

(I can see her writing poems at her bedroom desk, her tongue

sticking out the side of her mouth, slightly sneering, can't you?)

––Oh, and Bukowski, that marvelous lunatic a few years back,

and recently your own mother for chrissakes!

Oh! And that whacky old lady across the street who keeps

yelling: "Cocksucker! Cocksucker"!
in the middle of the night and who knows why?
––So, although not excusable in the fatherly sense of the word,

as you can see, I've managed to misplace your birthdate in the presence

of some very fine company with which I'm sure you'd agree, and

accept this missive as an apology which is what is intended.

-piecing the meat-

some 45 years ago in deep, southern Ohio, a deer laid slain atop

the Chevrolet Nomad station wagon, the Stars and Bars stuck upon

its back-end window, the young buck's permanent eyes, black,
stranger jewels than once they were, round like glassies, glistening
under the brushed-red twilight of Wellston, tied-down for the long haul home.

the guy who shot the young buck called-out for his wife to:

"go get the knife” so’s he could “skin the animal” then

telling her to go find the “good knife” so’s he could “piece the meat”.

I wasn’t familiar with that kind of direct talk during previous
locations of residence, let alone that kind of stuff going on
as a matter-of-course next door to a house I thought I'd never
find myself living next to.

but I've eaten hamburgers and hot dogs at the occasional
backyard cookout, the meat "pieced" from other kinds of animal life and

there are those who hunt the meat down
and others who raise it for the killing and those who pick
the prime cuts from the supermarket's one-way glassy line-ups.

so, as to the cause of meat, I’ve been around the block, meaning
I'm sympathetic to the reasoning behind the slaughter of the buck. 

but one day while driving on Route 31 South just west of Jeffersonville,
a few miles north of the Ohio River and the Kentucky line, a crooked,
scrawling hand-painted sign nailed to a tilting roadside tree read:

“Death awaits you...5 miles”

so, why vote? well, just a thought for the day.