If he can get away with it why can’t I get away with it ?

yawning, Rembrandt set-up,

considered the light source and said:

“fuck the light source.”

where’s the light source? they asked.

where’s the light coming from? one said.

northside, southside, eastside, westside?

what the hell, Rembrandt!–– three others would come to exclaim.

then Rembrandt whipped it out.  (the painting)

undaunted, Rembrandt set-up again.

this was about three weeks later.

he grabbed some stuff from the “inanimate objects closet,"

placed them on a sturdy table and said: “before I start,

I’d better clean-up the mess

inside the “inanimate objects closet” so he did.

later, while he fucked around with the light source again, he thought:

“ya know, someday, somewhere in this world, some kid’s gonna

clean up a messy “inanimate objects closet” just like me.”

William in the still life room, the Swiz-D, 1963.

                   "Meantime life outside goes on all around you" / Bob Dylan  / A true story in progress 

I'm in the middle of the fourth day

of an Ivan the Terrible rash which is responsible

for the maddening, all-day-long itching and scratching cycle.

My primary care physician checked it out, but

referred me to a dermatologist who

can’t see me until next Thursday because he's busy.

I may not be as busy as the good doctor, but the scratching up and down

over my legs and across my butt running parallel to the equator is relentless,

and I should add: overwhelmingly busy.

At this hour there's nothing much I can do, so I’ll read some poems

by somebody else higher up in the rankings, and maybe that'll take

my mind off the intolerable itch.

If not, I may find myself admitted to the institute for observation, laying stark naked

upon a vinyl-covered bunk, cell number 503, 2:28 a.m. reading a very funny

sonnet by Diane Seuss on page 4 of her volume: “Frank: Sonnets”

wondering what my chances are for an early release from the facility.

Meantime, my frantic fingertips are scratching the flesh from my rash-

smeared ass while I'm laughing out loud like the other observable lunatics.

                  -part one / the beginning-

2/ 15/ '43

It’s a bright, sudden light. a harsh light.

a light like to burn my eyes. maybe it's heaven’s light––

could be the 24 hour snack emporium's light of florescence, the buzzing

light that never sleeps, not for Christmas, not for holy days of obligation

not even for when J.F.K. gets popped, for chrissakes!

and me, a standard issue male, 7 pounds plus an ounce an abstract creature–– 

twice removed descendant of Lucca, northern province where

our cousins are blonde-headed just south of Switzerland

my mother would come to say wrapped-up in a warped geography,––

and me, born in time to make early reservations to Mussolini’s inversion,––

and me, a slimy pink bauble wailing to be pushed back to the inside as a sterilized

maniac slaps me senseless into the dry, cruel new word.

February 15, 1943: Truesdale Hospital, Fall River, Massachusetts,––

and me, slithering my way between common anesthesia and thalidomide

the miracle drug to help her relax a little, take it easy, kick back, it's a boy,––

this, long before zip codes long before area codes––

a time when telephones were heavier than volume 18: "M to Mexico"

inconvenient, but–– you got to where you otherwise wouldn’t want to be;

a place at the end of the line, a time when the Moon was considered

a deep sky object and neighborhood kids were doomed by the physical force

of domestic politics to Saturday morning confessionals before being strapped-

in for the afternoon accordion lessons.

my father, a non-recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor

had just stepped out of World War 2 Minneapolis, Minnesota, 

bringing home his souvenir MP armband and his bully club

a highly lacquered two-footer with attached rawhide loop at the base

used for clubbing stability and swinging accuracy.

my mother had her work cut out for her,–– and me, acting

the part of a stencil. she’d done this once before, and after me

she’d do it again for the last time, but this time, taking time off

to finish me off, with no gratuity as "maternity leave with pay"

at the sweltering Sagamore textile mill in the early days of 1943...

end of part one

 

-The man in the moon / part one-

––I’m the first son born

to the liquor salesman on the road

and the inner hatband stitcher.

I’m nephew to the cobbler,

south-end of the city, nephew

to the catholic hymnal soprano,

the younger cousin to her middle son,

the league's hypnotic knuckleballer,

the older cousin to the storefront proprietors

in the artificial floral arrangements trade

accounts receivable from the occupants

of the south-end tenements.

––I’m the friend of the friend departed,

the shortstop defending the gap to center

against the swift Portuguese, who

lived out their lives on the distant side of the planet

a few blocks to the west.

––In the evening, the streetlight incandescence

polished the dome-topped roofs

of the standing automobiles,— the heavy

Buicks and Oldsmobiles our fathers

would drive to their daily occupations in the morning.

                   the man in the moon / the second part

––we learned about the "man in the moon,"

not by academic instruction, but by, well,–– actually

we just seemed to know about the man in the moon.

somebody, somewhere, at one time or other told us about it,

and when we looked up, this somebody navigating the moon face

with the dexterity of an index finger said: "see? there's the eye,

there's the mouth, can't see the nose, but there's the other eye!"

and sure enough, there he was. "the man in the moon."

––it takes some study and a large dose

of imagination to visually decipher the man in the moon,

to make it out as it conforms to the implied 

pictures they've also made of the stars.

they've said, for example, a specific constellation

is called the "water bearer" so we looked up and mapped-out

the "water bearer" although it could've just as easily been an "anteater."

––likewise, the man in the moon isn’t a like a halloween mask that

jumps into view when you open the door: "Dracula"!  "Nixon !"

we have to work at the image, make it the way they say it is.

––the man in the moon isn’t even a full-length man; that is,

a man from head to toe, where we can scrutinize his choice of shoes,

his suit of clothes, debate the material of his coat in winter, or snicker at

the crop of his hair, or his nakedness,–– a more detailed account of

what could be considered as the man in the moon.

––it's only the abstract face of a man assigned to the surface of the moon,

making the moon a silvery ornament gracing the nub of the hood in the sky,

or earthbound, the king of a nation stamped into a commemorative non-

negotiable coin.

––with scrutiny we can call-up another image: "the woman in the moon"

and there she’ll be, wise goddess, glorious, strong and beautiful.

––with alternate scrutiny we can call-up another image: "God in the moon"

adding another metaphysical dimension to the discussion of the imagery:

the cold Face of God (oh, god) in the moon, or––

we can rely on the foundational image: the geological

depressions of the moon's surface causing the reflective chiaroscuro

of the faceplate and there we are, romance be damned, all grown up.

 

Romeo notations:

Romeo, sort-of uncle. French, after all. Married to cousin Edith,

eldest daughter to Antoinette (housewife) and Frank Toni.(cobbler)

A half century plus twenty years to a sum,–– has slipped by since your demise,

and yet I sense the remnant draft of Aqua Velva smearing my nostrils. 

I was curious back then of how something with such pungent density

could move outward, unencumbered, powered by nothing more

than its own mechanics.

But the smell of "Ice Blue" can freely pall an otherwise restricted space.

I was too young at the viewing,–– your viewing, to be a sincere mourner,

and I didn’t want to get too close or cause a commotion, and besides

at ten years old, I was told not to touch anything, so the thought of sticking

my thumb through your eyelid was quickly dismissed.

Behind me people were murmuring, some were chatting aloud, others

were seen back-peddling to the front porch as if no one would notice,

taking advantage of an always open invitation to light-up.

As I recall, an alternative thought did occur to me, Romeo,

that I could’ve inserted an aluminum rod up your ass,

attached the rod to a base, and plop you in the showroom

window at the “Cherry & Webb” department store downtown.

Who’d’ve known?–– Well, that cheap polyester suit might've been

a dead giveaway at the hoity-toity C & W, I guess, but

well, Romeo, uncle, sort-of. French, after all.–– It was then decided while

standing close to the undertaker's clever tongue-in-cheek interpretation of you,

that I get myself cremated, because

I can’t trust anybody left living to spruce me up to the standards

necessary to meet the requirements I've set to my satisfaction as

I slide-on-down the river of no return... 

fini  

 

approaching the epilogue

––I'd say: I’m more a tattler of tales  

than I am a poet

more a pathologist of the line

than rhymer of the final word.

––I'd say:

I’m more a sounding-board

than I am a confessional;

that the measure of my standing
is well below that of, let's say, Ross Gay.

but cash money says it's measurably higher than that of the lunatic

hammering away in the garage across the street.

I continue my commitment

to the reporting of certain incidents.

––I'd say:

nobody left living knows the world I know as I know it.

  

                   -untitled and far from it-

1.

Is it the lowly leech which

pants for my blood or the long suck of God?

did I fall from the tree like a ripened fruit, smeared

by a cunning tongue, cloaked in the breath of a snake? or––

did I slither to dry land from the water’s edge,

a curious fish?

these important questions have been answered to my satisfaction.

how else could I know what I know about what's going on;

through the good works of others?

by reporting on time to the authorities?

by the recognition of certain body parts?

interlude:

I hear tell that upon the mount, Moses was perplexed.

he nagged God for a name of God other than "God"

in order to satisfy the people.

but God, without official papers, (WOP) wailed a name

which caused the flappable Moses to piss himself:

“I Am That I Am!–– Tell the people: "I Am" Has Sent Me To You"!

this wailing would later be translated to:“I yam what I yam an’ that's all I yam!”

to be found in the new leather-bound edition of: "The Book of Popeye".

2.

thus ends the story of the "untitled and far from it".

 

                    interpretations from the commotion during the “Foote Street” sessions

strange things are happening off to my left.

maybe a deranged lunatic is hopping the fence to a new territory.

maybe our wives are back there planning to "sap and impurify

all of our precious bodily fluids"–– could be the wives have fallen in love,

each testing the warmer waters of the other.

something's going on off to my left beyond the fence.

I'm alone within the delirium of my own intervention. 

I’m the subject standing on a lawn neatly mowed to community standards.

one could say I've simply landed here between critical appointments.

––behind me the artist's kids are splashing in their wading pool.

the dogs, Daisy and Daphne are running around like maniacs,

their broad, pink tongues flapping before the wind of their own making.

maybe the childhood friend who drowned at the ledge in 1953 is behind the fence

beckoning me "to come forth" like Ahab, hog-tied to the broadside of the whale!

––I'm the subject standing for a portrait of myself painted by another's hand.

I appear to be clothed, or am I naked below the hemline? or am I nude?

(there is a specific difference between the terms, you know.)

"Foote Street Portrait" / Leonard Dufresne  / May, 1974.

The "bodily fluids" line is nabbed from Sterling Hayden's, whacky,

phenomenal performance as Brig. General Jack D. Ripper

in Stanley Kubrick's "Dr. Strangelove."

 

                   irretrievable / an advisory 

a disheartened young poet

was hiding under his bed when

suddenly the thought occurred to him

to apply for part-time work at the 24 hour XtraMart,

take-up odd jobs around the neighborhood, save some money,

and "self-publish" a book containing his best poems.

six months later with five hundred bucks

in hand, the young poet ordered 5 books

from "Acme Bookbinders" on Roberson Street,

to be manufactured in his name, and by his authority.

In four months time, the books were delivered

to his home by the U.S.P.S., and he tore into the package

to behold his poems in print.

wide-eyed, he held the first copy as he would a first romance.

the slipcase was exactly what he had imagined;

its glossy paper formed to his desired weight.

the inside flap praised his accomplishments as he dictated them

with just the right smear of embellishments to approach believability, and

the flap's photo was presented at the requisite, dramatically skewed angle.

seeming to approach paradise, he swept his palm across the sheen

of the jacket, "My Poems" and wept, whispering: "thank you, Jesus,"––

and then he opened the book.

                                                *

epilogue:

expecting an influx of company, his mother straightened-up the house.

three days earlier, two cops stopped by after lunch to cut the rope.

the neatly scribed note pinned to his favorite sweater,–– no, the blue one––

read simply: “far....   too....   many....    commas.”

Paradise

the "Paradise Novelty" store called: "the joke shop"

on North Main street astonished with every visit.

inside, one could purchase fake dog poop which looked

like the real thing, and fake vomit, called: "puke"

which was so authentic-looking it seemed to sour the atmosphere.

also on display were old standards such as big black rubber spiders,

all kinds of pliable snakes, stuff resembling bubble gum,

but chewing it would turn your teeth blue, and your tongue, 

sets of Groucho-esque horn-rimmed frames, perched on long,

false noses, some with mustaches, some without.

(I always opted for the non-mustachioed offering)

also, finger-fitted "shockers"–– the taut-spring mechanics of them,

hidden in the palm of one's hand which would tingle the groins

of the prankster as well as the hand of the recipient, and––

the piéce de résistance: freaky whirlpool-hypnotic see-through anything

"X-Ray Vision" eyeglasses, and although these miraculous spectacles

were "not guaranteed to perform as advertised,"

mine did,—

and wearing them just before twilight,

I'd sit with my back against the chain-linked fence,

the one on the corner at the right-field line,

quietly observing the young women walking home

from the bakeries in their summer dresses, the warm,

crackling-crusted Italian pane held like buntings in their arms.

 

Quequechan / c.1952