Thursday, December 22, 2016

A reply to a poem by Roy Bentley

Bastard

Being fatherless and, by definition, a bastard,
my sad father had annunciatory balloon clouds
attached to his communications on any given day.
I have seen the single-tear at the corner of one eye
after someone praises Fatherhood or he’s been privy
to locker room towel-snapping or the one-upmanship
of men who grill burgers under fleetingly cerulean sky,
roughhousing language into its use as a tool to separate.
So what if he was a bastard. I’m not excusing collateral
damage he inflicted on others, but he was a romantic
so and so. His mother was institutionalized for firing
at his biological father with a forty-five automatic—
story goes, she was reloading when a hand reached
for her hand then for the gun. I hear soft, Southern-
accented tones, the sheriff counseling nonviolence,
the laying down of arms. Like in a B-movie where
someone trusts in one desperate act to settle things
which will never be settled in this life or any other.
Copyright (c) 2016 Roy Bentley. All rights reserved.


What of this gal,

who had the wherewithal to rack a forty five,
and the will to line up the sights on his forehead--

Was she surprised when the gun leapt at that first shot
(which went wide, like the succeeding eight)--

or did it bring back memories of her father, or some brother, 
or maybe some earlier boyfriend, standing behind her--
his arms enveloping her and steadying her own would be lethal hands--
Squeeze it, don’t jerk it BLAM thata girl!

We all know he had it coming,
but then how could she miss in nine tries?
And anyway, what lessons could she teach him,
by blowing out his brains?

Monday, July 4, 2016

Cattle Call



I thought the girls were silly, back in nineteen sixty five,
when they came out against the war, a million miles away.
Fast for peace, their buttons read, pinned to their swelling chests;
feast for war! I mocked—they fired on us—let’s blow them all away!
More intent was I on little Nancy Swope, when she shifted in her seat,
and flashed a glimpse of pink between the buttons of her blouse

But that day when class abruptly halted,
and on the glaring TV screen, Johnson came to life:
My fellow Americans, he drawled, I need a hundred thousand more…
I swear I saw the words come from his mouth, alive as they could be
I swear I knew right then and there—they were lies, they were lies…

“Cattle Call,” David called it, when he came home to Tricky Dick,
with some shit that blew us all away
a cattle call it was that caught him, back in nineteen sixty six…

By nineteen sixty nine, I had a newborn child—
I carried her one autumn night, among a million more,
up Pennsylvania Avenue, and placed a single candle on the wall,
where a million candles cast their glow, upon the White House lawn.
That baby kept me out of war, after I quit school. Still,
I envied those more brave, who burned their cards,
And let the pigs drag them away…

Not long after, David took my wife and child, and I drifted west;
never was I bitter, though—I liked him anyway

And now, by god!--fifty years have passed; David's teeth are missing—
lost to demons he brought home, that haunt him to this day.

Yes, I thought the girls were silly, though they were right—
but even so—how did they know, how did they know?

Saturday, June 18, 2016

BENEDICTION

A marvel, it is, how we share these times. It goes back to that spring morning, 40 years ago--after I had abandoned any hope of recovery--the magic bullet, the miracle cure--those miserable, worn out hopes that had sustained me through those long, wretched years of decline--and after I finally let myself say it, I want to die--that morning, when you, my oldest son, came in to my room to say goodbye.

Not goodbye, father, may you find peace and liberation from your years of suffering. No, it was goodbye, I’m going to California with a woman who is running out on her husband, a woman I slept with once, but who is seeking out her lover, a stoner living in a run-down bungalow on the beach in Summerland. Or some such cockamamie bullshit.

I replied, but my voice was so weak you could not hear me. So you leaned your ear down, so close to my lips that I could have kissed you; I felt your long curly hair and that horrible beard brush my face. Then, in the faintest whisper, I spoke my last words to you. You’re crazy, just like me.

In fact, those were the last words I spoke to anyone, because that evening fever took me, and I slipped into a coma. Dr. Britt finished examining me, and called my wife into my room.

Lisabetta, he said, your husband's condition is grave. He will be gone very soon, perhaps by morning. I could admit him to the hospital and they could drain his lungs and possibly revive him (No! No! Please let me die!), but even if they could, this will only happen again.

Thank god she let me go. If I had suffered, she had suffered twice as much--this young, voluptuous woman who gave me enemas, this still young woman with wide-set brown eyes, who irrigated my bladder drain twice a day--thank god she let me go. This woman who turned away my neighbors, my old high school buddies--who thought they could get away with it--this woman who buried her wishes for my death deep inside herself--thank god she let me go.

Enough already. Let’s talk about other things. I’m delighted you've settled down. You even call your mother once in a while. And you’re finally making a little money--although you didn’t do so well last year. But you could have made so much more of yourself. The opportunities you pissed away. What I could have done with them! So many times I wanted to get up out of my bed and beat you. I mean beat you. Hurt you, like you hurt me.

If only you’d have found a nice girl, a Jewish girl. Those tramps you used to go with, one after the other. Living together--uuuhhh! What kind of a way to live is that? And that one you married, what did you see in her? She was just as sick as you were. She was built, I’ll hand you that--every bit as nice as Lizzie, from what I could see.

There were some good ones; that country girl, from Virginia. Now she was nice--even if she was flat as an ironing board. But the nice ones--those were the ones you treated like shit; you’d cheat on them (I guess it’s cheating--you were only shacked up) and then leave them, like a dirty little shit.

And that friend of yours, that sissy boy. I told you he was a sissy--I could tell the first day you brought him home. You were friends all through junior high, all through high school. But my god, how angry you got, when I warned you about what could happen.

So much anger you had! I’ll never understand. But that’s all past. Maybe it’s your new woman. Finally someone that’s good for you--even if she is a shiksa.

I tell you, I was right--you were crazy. Even now, a little. No wonder we get along. It’s so nice when you tell me about your life. And the things you remember, from way back, before I got sick. Teaching you to swim, the books I bought you. How you loved books! What you could have done with them.

No wonder I felt so comfortable, right away, when you leaned over me to listen, when I opened my lips to speak and my soul flew up out of my mouth and into your ear, I felt at home, like being with an old friend.

Oy, enough already.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

That Album Creeped Me Out

The first time is on the floor, arms locked round knees.
They are playing Hair. She cracks up
when she sees me, rocking side to side.“He’s getting off!” she squeals—and then I realize it, too.
She is older—twenty eight or twenty nine,
living with a man who scares me.

That album really creeped me out,
being the butt of its stale joke—
andas it seemedhers as well.

Monday, May 2, 2016

Campaign Overload

campaign overload:
ph’losophers, poets, political thinkers,
cigar smoking bosses of the left and the right,
dancers and dreamers, scotch whisky drinkers,
bikers and bankers and girls of the night,
real estate agents and rodeo riders,
the preacher, the teacher, the doctor, the nurse,
sales girls, shoe shiners, and wall street insiders
a transgender dude with high heels and a purse,
‘lectricians and plumbers, lawyers and judges,
embattled spouses, harboring grudges,
high strung sopranos and indulgent maestros,
busboys and waiters, headshrinks and psychos,
citizens all—what a motley collection--
and they all get to vote in every election.

Boots on the Ground













yesterday--a wiser man than me
wrote in the morning paper
that we should happ'ly send our troops
(seven thousand will do)
into the jaws of hell
fourteen thousand boots upon the ground
times ten, tiny toes their mothers kissed
this little piggy went to market
this little piggy stayed home…forward, march!
while those who welcome death
could hardly be more pleased
may each marching combat boot
find my buried bomb
oh, you clever Prophet (PBUH)
who doles those virgins’ thighs
to all your faithful cohort
that in your service dies--
while angry Moses hurls his stones
--and gentle Jesus cries

On Stealth
















On Stealth

if you could prowl the forest, so stealthly, 

that you would not arouse a browsing doe—

if you could linger by slow waters

to gaze upon Diana bathing,
yet not stir her wary hounds—

if only you could stand so silent
that you heard the clouds collide—

--and if only mighty wings would sprout
from where your arms now swing,
then you could leave your cares along the path
and with the eagles fly

Madonna in Gingham

Madonna in Gingham



last leg home last night, a red-eye from Atlanta in a boxcar with wings, teeming with families from lands where Zika thrives.
several families, too, in garb I associate with the Amish: men in grey trousers and bland plaid shirts; their women in ankle length gingham, hair pulled back in tight buns and capped with white lace kepis.
or am I mistaken? how do the shunners of cars and tractors, and drivers of teams along Rte 30 justify travel in Boeing 757's?
regardless, by all appearances they are a fecund lot. One of these women, buxom, and 22 at the oldest, carried a six month old of indeterminate gender, and led a tender 3 year old boy in a straw cowboy hat. The boy was carrying a steaming dinner in a bulging McDonald's sack. His father carried the middle child of this sequence, and I have little doubt the mother carried a fourth, yet out of sight.
Long of leg and weak of bladder, I had selected the aisle seat, but when the mother looked at me with those weary eyes--eyes the color of the pale blue gingham that draped her, and a complexion matched only by Raphael's Madonna--and asked if I would take the window seat--what could I do? She took the aisle, and the little boy--himself sprung from Raphael's brush--sat between us.
As the plane climbed among the stars, the boy's tiny fingers worked through a bag of french fries. Gastric juices flooded my mouth. The father, in the middle seat before him, passed some lurid colored iced beverage back and forth with his wife.
By the time the plane had swung round toward its destination, the boy had fallen asleep, his head in the crook of my arm. The infant issued a few subdued squeals and thrust out its arms and legs--and then--judging by the odor no less dense and permeating than the french fries--released its bowels--then sank into slumber.
Save for the two plangent voiced swains seated behind me, who laughed and bragged the entire flight about their prowess at golf and women, the cabin fell silent.
Sleep impossible, I pulled out the yellowed edition of Tortilla Flat. I had read Steinbeck's little masterpiece when young, and recalled many of the vivid passages. But only now did I hear its lilting voice, and understand the pathos that underpinned its gentle wit.
It was fitting, then, to read the passage about the fertile but husbandless Senora Teresina Cortez.
Teresina's body "...was one of those perfect retorts for the distillation of children," Her house was full of "...creepers, crawlers, tumblers, shriekers, cat-killers, fallers-out-of-trees; and each one of these charges could be trusted to be ravenous every two hours." And each one, the issue of a different father.
A study in contrast, then, in all visible respects--Teresina and our blue eyed Madonna. But what hidden commonalities did they share?

4-6-16

Yes, He's Breathing

It could have been hilarity,
it could even have been rage,
the bellowing that rang across the busy street--
it could have been a woman,
it could have been a child,
I could have turned my head to see--
but so intent was I
on dodging filthy mounds of snow,
and the pleading eyes of panhandlers
sprawled against the wall--
but then he lurched across the street,
through traffic willy nilly,
and collapsed, fetal like,
against a rank of rental bikes.

I doubled back and whipped out my phone
as he uncoiled, and kicked out so hard
bikes went over like dominos.

--Yes, the corner of ellsworth and fenton
--Yes, he’s breathing
--Maybe 30--or even younger still
--Yes, I will wait til they arrive...

Squatting, I grasped his fist--
--can you tell me your name?
ARRRGGGGG!
--it’s ok, help is on the way...

Then he kicked again,
spinning himself on his hip--
three more bikes went over.
I stood to give him space
as another man in business dress
caught the action on his shiny phone.

...and yes of course I stayed until
some lanky boys in blue
sauntered from the ambulance,
snapping on their rubber gloves--
one even knew the man,
and called him by his name.

The crowd began to leave,
and I went on my way,
in search of sprouting daffodil--
knowing that they're weeks away.

To Any Chick Willing

Calling, scrawling, on a cat tail pod,
Wallowing in the billowing breeze--
A redwing black bird, trilling, shrilling,
To any chick willing, to share his seed.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

my Spanish is no good

the shifting breezes barely stirred the sodden flags;
the tide turned, to inch back toward the sea,
spilling yonder poplars upside down.
redwing blackbirds scritch,
a distant dopplered airhorn makes a crossing—
and from my spokes, a whisper…

…above all this floats something sonorous—
syllables, from a man, seated on the bank--
swarthy, stubbled,
hatted, hoodied,
hands flailing, grasping air,
like the gulls beyond his reach.

my Spanish is no good,
but did I catch some words?
“Madre de Dios,” or maybe not…

who else was there, to prove my ears wrong?
who else, beside the black robed cormorant?
who else, beside the sharp toed osprey?
who else, beside the silent river?