the rix mix

for Liz French

 I poked at Velma's smoldering cigarette butt in the ashtray
 with the point of a pencil. Why do women always do that?
Velma crossed her shapely left leg over her right,
then  changed to her right over her left. I didn't pretend not to look.

 "Well?" asked Velma.

 I said, "Velma, what part of 'I don't do divorce work'
 don't you understand?"

Labels: poem, WFMU

First the money please thank you.

This figure who rarely speaks her thoughts
prefers the old Christmas tree lights
& the routine of closing the blinds
when the sun shines through
at a slightly different time
each afternoon. 

She believes that what is best
is best left implied or unsaid.

Ancient, ancient her religion,
but no more heretical for that;
when one such as her has visions
she will always collect her emotions,
think of something else to do,
like sifting through her junk mail
or sweeping the floor, the most
ordinary meditations.

Here we see her after her bath
standing wet & naked
behind a closed door.

The image on this card
may be interpreted to mean
that you pretend to keep secrets
when you have none to keep.

Labels: poem

A face behind the glass
I stared at her

Tiny girls in leotards
walked in & out
of her tiny office
 
A shy child needing her
to sew a tear - she closed the door

Mothers gossiping
who got the best parts
in The Nutcracker

Shifting my weight
from foot to foot
pretending to read an old magazine
was my dance

Twice I went out for air
then returned to wonder
at her rice flour face
& when she walked down the hall
I admired her ass

I had heard she had a boyfriend
but was unhappy with his abuses
I wondered if she ever danced away
from those men

I was tired of dancing -
I wanted to fill envelopes
with words about the moon -
hand them out as my resume 

When the ballet class ended
my niece stage-whispered
 “Did you talk to her?”

*******
1991. 17 year relationship with Chtistine over; intense, unpleasant rebound affair shortly afterward (woman snatched at a poetry reading from another poet, who wasn't acting fast \enough - he never forgave me); .nearly a one night stand with  a  (married)  friend visiting from out of town - encouraged by mutual friends. I went to work at Pearl Arts Supply in Woodbridge. I did meet a woman there eventually, together three years.  Dabbled in local  newspaper relationships  wanted to no satisfaction. This was not how I met women. I hadn't "dated" since high school. All my other significant relationships were meet somewhere, hang out usually with friends, then go off & hang out on out own.

Labels: family, love, poem

Whenever his wife cracks her knuckles
five minutes later her sister phones from Pittsburgh.

Labels: poem

The meaning of their gifts was
the tenderness with which they gave.
They gave their sadness also,
knowing his short life,
yet they traveled so far.

Their hearts were filled in return
with wonder, astonishment, love!
They were more than satisfied.
So they led their camels over the hills
by another way, back to the stars.

Everything about the Three Kings or Magi beyond what is mentioned in Matthew's account is fiction, including their number. Matthew's story may be a recounting, a distillation, of a popular fiction (what I'm inclined to believe, but there's still a "truth" to be found). Innumerable legends & stories grew around them, stories still being written. They are the most "oriental" feature of the Christmas narrative. I think this aspect, that they "came from the East," is very important. One can decide for oneself who they are, why they undertook the journey & what the gifts mean.

Labels: Christmas, music, poem

When I win  the Power Ball you won't see me no more.
When  I win the Power Ball you won't see me no more.
Gonna change my name & live in a doublewide down the shore.

Send checks to poor poets, signed "Dante By The Sea."
Send checks to poor poets, signed "Dante By The Sea."
Delivered by a three-legged mutt, answers only to me.

My only luxury will be a Nash Metropolitan.
A 1959 Blue convertible Metropolitan.
Wherever I drive, they'll shout, "There goes the Metropolitan Man!".

Labels: Metropolitan Man, poem

Labels: poem

 What is nailed to granite
takes us hostage to a myth of optimism,
a community where no babies
are abandoned in garbage cans,
wise old women in lawn chairs
fanning themselves with astrological charts,
highways repaved but never widened,
all retail clerks brothers and sisters,
motorized skateboards,
good manners among neighbors,
no one too rich or too poor,
the serene aftermath of war
our fertile real estate.

 A cat in the dark alley
 knocks over a garbage can,
cockroaches pass through poison
as through a slightly unusual room,
don't be afraid, what you see
is a reflection in the window
of an oriental woman
peeking over her glasses
while she works at a sewing machine.

A soldier clothed in green patina
marches past the public library
for his proud Gold Star Mother.

We are taught our wars are kindnesses,
favors we do for our enemies.

Peace is also a litany of greed,
fading uniforms, reams of paper
with secrets printed on them.

Waking up in a strange hospital,
hearing the butterflies screaming.

Labels: poem, war more war

From Dave Roskos' Big Hammer zine, not sure of year. I don't write poems like this anymore. It's a good poem but it's a poem a lot of poets could write. I gradually changed over to publishing poems only I could write.

If I wrote this poem now, the truck would be loaded with exotic parrots illegally imported from Guatemala, squawking nonsensical phrases in English & Spanish, the truck driver extremely anxious the cop would hear them, ask for the bill of lading, & conclude the trailer didn't sound like 5000 crappy ratchet wrench sets from China.

Labels: Linden NJ, poem

At full moon I tip my cap
toward the Ruler of Tides,
of bleeders & of poets.

 I do this courtesy
as a practical matter
as have others before me
on behalf of fools for whom
our own world is a petty orb.

 I am not the only creature
observing balls of rock & gases
dancing their definite dances.

When I dance as a gift to the sky,
I always choose my own mask,
the old rules are merely suggestions.

Labels: poem

The cloistered nuns are furious,
 a man has bought the land
 next to their convent
 for his new office building
 with third story windows.
 Their convent garden wall
 is only two stories high. 

"We try to understand progress,"
says an old nun speaking with an outsider
for the first time in decades,
"but this development would ruin us." 

"I am not unreasonable,"
the businessman insists,
"but stopping this project
is beyond the realm of realism. 

Does the realm of nuns tending flowers
exist outside of their garden?
Is there a useful balm from Gilead
in the compassion of their wordless prayers? 

"This land is too valuable to stay vacant,"
the businessman explains.  

"Our dead are buried here,
we can’t move," says the nun.

Labels: poem, religion

Crowding the cracks & ledges in the chasm
of the Great Falls of the Passaic
below the footbridge where Dr. Williams
& Allen Ginsberg looked down at mossy boulders,
the rising mist, mulled over
the consequences of Hamilton's America.

"On the boardwalk in Atlantic City,"
the important men, Capone & Trump,
Dean & Jerry, & the giggling colleens
riding trains from Philly to the sea,
Nana throwing popcorn during the Great War,
meeting Sam Rixon, Liverpool Irish.

Labels: Atlantic City, poem, postcard

When my band played a club on Staten Island in the late Sixties, a drunk customer went outside & threw cinder blocks through the windows of cars in the lot, including our band van. We made a report to the police.

A few days later, one of our fans, an Italian-American kid who barely cracked 5' came to my house. His '58 Caddy had taken a hit. He said he'd give me $50 if I got the name of the perp. I said if I got the name he could have it for free.

Labels: growing up, music, poem

Every mountain
Every sea
A thousand miles
You & me 

This is our love
Our ring of gold
We're not too young
They're just too old

Labels: music, poem

I don't know what it was about that dame, but whenever I was around her I packed my little Smith-Wesson J frame .38 in an ankle holster.

The last wiseguy laughed at the gun needed a knee replacement & five months of rehab therapy.

He got the replacement, but no therapy in prison, where he acquired the name, "Tilt-a-Whirl."

Labels: Metropolitan Man, music, poem

So Bobby - you know,
Bobby Dylan, said to me,
"You can call me Zimmy."

I said, "Cool,
Zimmy.
& you can call me Bob."

Labels: music, poem

Gold Star Mother, to you
the honor of a white Cadillac
at the front of the parade.

Your slow steps
escorting the wreath
up the gray slate path
to the war monument
by the public library.

Each clang of the fire engine bell
is the face of someone's son.

Four old soldiers aim
rifles at the blue sky,
a nervous boy plays "Taps."

They rest there for weeks,
your ribbons & fading flowers.


 

Labels: growing up, holidays, poem, war more war

THE BALANCING BEAM

Waiting for you at the park
I tried the balancing beam
on the exercise course

Expert level was once walking forward
& once backward with hands at sides

At no point was the beam
more than a foot above the ground
I could not do it

When you arrived
you could not do it

We met an old man
who had gone to Rocky Graziano’s funeral
he could not do it

Who but a circus performer
can balance walking backward blind
on a four inch rail
& do it every time

We strolled around the park
holding hands & talking
we are trying to balance our lives
& find a balance with each other
We are not experts

Although the ground is close beneath
we feel as if we are walking
a hundred feet up without a net

We never become experts
no matter how often we try
to find a balance
There is always the possibility
of an unexpected breeze
or someone laughing at us
or a fear of falling
that makes our knees wobble

You said you could it
after we were done with our walk
but you did not try

We had dinner instead
thought about having sex
decided against it
because we could not balance
the time with our other obligations

The need for balance
the work that must be done
& cannot be avoided

We are not experts
yet we keep walking
blind and backward
trying not to fall

Labels: love, poem

Pink Girl

Leaning against a wall
outside the movie theater,
she stares up, clouds
like a thousand beauty parlor visits,
too many old ladies, what a drag.

She’ll never smile again.

Cars slowly drive by, boys,
jerks with stiff dicks, monsters,
big fucking deal, motionless,
pressing her thighs together,
at an endless red traffic light.


[small revision of an old poem]

Labels: poem

Waiting for a cab in front of my shrink's office building,
looking across the street at the entrance to the psychiatric emergency room
as an ice cream truck parked on the corner plays "Pop Goes the Weasel" over & over.
Thinking of Nicanor Parra, the great Chilean anti-poet:
"Either God is everywhere
or He's absolutely nowhere"

Labels: Elizabeth NJ, mental health, poem