To Be Told

He knew me bloody
A babe from the womb helpless
Put down the Cutty
Grabbed ma’am, completely selfless

Drove out here kissed his daughter
Held me like Styrofoam brittle
Gave her the blanket he bought her
Dropped back (home) like Y.A. Tittle

Overseas mp, gloves of gold
Shipped Hitler’s hounds to and fro
Made it possible for last poem to be told
Sidearm fired. stormtroop blood salted sea below

Too many sweaty sleeps
Grabbed the bottle tried to forget
Remains how last rock on jetty creeps
Above salinity once high tide has set

Born August 1917 two monthses
Before October revolution of red
Lingers still. long past CCCP dunces
That believed greed wouldn’t poison like lead

Hard and bent like hammer and sickle
Sergeant of vigor reduced to Hee-Haw reruns
Well-traveled. Soul calloused like Tamanend’s thick heel
Cirrhosis and electro-shock therapy weigh tons

Two girl children. One gone
The other, my mother still around managing
Prostate checkups, pacemakers that stole his brawn
Oldwife co-loiters in life’s halls. pill brandishing

Man-machine antiquated like Chevy’s in Cuba
Broken and battered just lying whilst heaving
Skeeving kin because smell from him, dead fish in Aruba
Endurance and fast-twitch muscles gone, dignity not leaving

Dignified pride like a monstrous citadel
Staving off my attempts to sugar talk him into the shower
I don’t want to tell him he stinks, hygiene pitiful
Around geriatric nuisances I shimmy. still that infant in the womb I cower

Benettonenbaum

The fiery orator would’ve been in his grave, rotisserie.
Appalled at the state of the free world. My house specifically.
Hairs on neck erect,
needles on your average Black Forest Tannenbaum Christmas Tree.

Speaking of the devil, the plaster innards of my domicile were ablaze,
Friendly fir peppered with lights of various hues,
No popped corn lassoed ‘round,
Just ornamental intrinsic from days of yore clutching limbs like blue jays.

Even El Duce’s animated addresses proclaiming racial purity,
Never talked about mick, a spik, camel-jockey, and kyke,
United like wasps. Buzzed.
Sharing the joy of the grape, toasting the Axis Powers’ fade into obscurity.

Honey, It's True

Flat and circular. One side wet, the other dry.
Host placed on a tongue by the only priest in Dubai.
Windows on U-boat stalking destroyers on the zigzag,
Could also fit the description laid out in the first line. You dig?

Dag.

A favorite word for kids not brave enough to say damn,
Ever cautious that pop was around the corner with hands of ham,
Cracking the first underage mouth that uttered words profane,
So it was in the first days of television ads for Rogaine.
That was big news. For yous. New hair hopes weren’t so grim,
Back when Polynesian sibling singing act got it all over him,

Honey it’s true. Reuters is reporting some ill shit all the time,
Brokaw’s talking about how chicken sickens, human cloning’s here, but still a crime.
Nanotechnology, robot vacuum cleaners, SARS and AIDS got married,
Had a little virus baby, they gave birth to it in some poor bastard that carried,
Diseases started by some brainiac-fuck, control-freak. White coat, white sleeves.
No foresight as to what kind of tracks treading into virgin snow might leave.

I grieve to think about what life’s gonna offer when I’m long in the tooth,
Perhaps one of Ponce De Leon’s descendants will find that fountain of youth,
Unlikely. Me and everyone I know will be old, popping pills trying not to die.
Dropped train token in a puddle; one side wet, the other dry.

A.Y.R.T.E.?

Certainly I’m ready to eat,
What kind of question was that my sweet?

Anything you concoct will be quite suitable,
I just pushed back my filthy white cuticles.

No place at the supping table for dirty mitts,
I just counted out $7.50, or thirty bits,

Where that money’s been, only the chief of the cosmos is privy,
No talk of Him now, my appetite’s open like glasnost in skivvies,

And so is my tooth garage, which will soon be crammed with vehicles
Of caloric gloriousness way better than any Warsaw Falcon pickles.

Cured cukes won’t satiate the beast that lay within,
Nothing can preserve this hunger, not even lecithin,

Because you see, when I arise and make haste toward the kitchen,
I’ll make gluttony chic like only Abercrombie and Fitch can,

But there’ll be no half-naked party boys wearing boxers showing off obliques,
Just a man, his wife and a bunch of food that’s gone like Quebec Nordiques.

Quartet.

I’d like to teach the world to sing,
In perfect harmony, a song that will bring,
A tear to the eye, a choke to the throat,
Drown you deep in a sorrowful moat.
It’s a ditty about four kids in a crew,
Included each other in everything they’d do.

Dodge was the oldest and wasn’t allowed,
Out of his yard like a pit bull that growled.
Until one day his mom said it’s cool,
He didn’t have to come home right after school.
He ran like the wind and scored with the girls,
Too much southern comfort made him hurl.
On hillside’s steps he’d make out with some broad
He told her he loved her, so on his neck she gnawed,
Hickies were abundant and so were the fights,
He’d have with anybody that disrespected his rights.
And so it went, this life that he lead,
Until one night some guy from Jersey damaged his head,
Hit him with a cop barricade, drunk after the Eagles,
Strangers forever, now sudden enemies like foxes and beagles.
A month long coma, coupled with a stroke,
Now makes Dodge a slightly different looking bloke.
A sag to his face, but he still has that smile,
I haven’t seen or talked to him in a while.
A husband with kids, domesticated life,
Has a celebrated past like the drum and fife.

Another was a kid, who grew up on Smick,
Used to have a flattop maintained with wax stick.
He was the youngest and the newest recruit,
Moved down from Pennsdale, dishonest to boot.
He told some tales, of this he never grew out,
He’d tell us about the brand new bike his grandma threw out.
And the wiffle balls and countless ice cream sandwiches,
If he ate pizza for dinner he’d tell you he had manwiches.
Lying just to lie, we never understood it.
The fish tales couldn’t get any worse, really, could it?
Yeah it did, as he got older the treachery intensified,
Spewing mistruths about money and funds that were diversified,
His Pinocchio promises even got a guy locked up,
Writing bad checks. Finally, I think a girl was knocked up.
We always told him people liked him regardless,
He didn’t have to fabricate, Why did he lie? Take a hard guess,
His dad was a bum, nothing to be proud of there,
Mom dated a black dude— that he didn’t wish to share.
Always trying to hide a secret, of which he was ashamed,
The Lyingest Liar there ever was. His claim to fame.
It’s a shame, ‘cause to me he was a little brother,
Always laughing, ripping on people one after the other.
This was who he was, truly a funny dude,
Cracking up at something he found funny made laughs run like crude.
I’m sure he’s still like that to a certain degree,
Last I heard he’s a guy with a family.
Devoid of an epiphany.

Now Timmy, he’d give it to you straight,
If he thought you were fat, he’d ask your weight.
Almost as fast as Dodge, but no honeys to speak of,
His love life was grounded, perhaps like a weak dove.
But he did get a girl or two or three,
Used to rummage The Turtle for softballs, sell them back to the bar league for a fee.
Enjoyed running into the night like a mischievous mustang,
Threw smoke bombs and crab apples. Windows bust. Bang!
One day he just moved, out to the state of Buckeye.
His pop got a new job. His mantra was fuck! why?
Ten hours in a car his family traversed to relocate,
Cincinnati was the pot Timmy stewed in, main ingredient was hate.
He couldn’t stand it, everyone was a dork,
He felt he didn’t belong, he might as well have been Mork.
But we kept in touch, Philly he missed,
That’s what he wrote in his letters to me. Pissed.
We’d see him twice a year. In the summer and Christmas,
Of course, you know we got into some mischief,
Clipping colored lights and throwing anything throwable,
We laughed liked zooted hyenas. The quintessence of mobile.
But this couldn’t last forever; he had to go back,
The thought of returning to Cinci stained his mood black.
He’d leave. Soon things would return to normal,
Until I got a call at school, my mom was real formal,
Timmy crashed his car and ended his life,
He hit another car, in it a guy and his wife.
But they walked away, Timmy stayed right there,
Dead like a lion before having a chance to grow his mare.

And then there’s me, the completion of the quartet,
Gettin' all glassy-eyed over a perfect childhood
infants with Alzheimer’s couldn’t forget.

Murmur-Free

It’s a perfect fit. Like a left handed Koran scriber,
You and me. It’s a must now. It was a must then,
Bits of Smurfette’s tit, swiftly drifting down the Tiber,
Azrael got to the blue blonde. Gargamel’s an Etruscan,

Whether it’s miniscule mushroom huts, Romulus and aqueducts,
I’d elect you over Hanna-Barbera Saturdays wearing a toga,
Even plunking quarters, ducking ghosts, increasing Pacman’s luck.
It’s like I’m the Pro-Bowl and you’re home, ‘cause your Al Noga.

In other words, you’re the best and child hood nor Herodutus can claim it,
My blood spewer, tonight, beats murmur-free, wild with love
No stool, whip, or mustached man can tame it.