Gene Hackman

“Gene Hackman was hit by a bicycle in Florida.”
how brutal.
“no, a vehicle hit him on his bicycle”
either way is bad.

“He wasn’t wearing a helmet”
it is nine a.m. in Rome, Italy
and i wake to this?
he’s not my uncle.

“I thought he lived in New Mexico.”
never met the man.
are we still going to the big market?
“He’s 82 years old”

i hear you’re going to start your blog again, M.
“I’ll knock you out of the sandbox, turkey, under the fence.”
over the fence
“Either way. Grrrr.”

pardon me?
“ I’ll be ready in a minute for my close up, Darling., ”
what do we need to take to the market?
“Hell or high water.”

Abdul of Senegal

Abdul of Senegal,
six years a Roman
opens the laundry at nine
or thereabouts.

i know this of the good hearted fellow:
he is sleek, tall, gentle,
speaks bits of English,
blurry Italian, his French is fine.

brought me a coffee today and a croissant,
why ? i offered to buy,
he insisted and got us one each.
i stayed, did my wash and recalled

two years ago Abdul said Paris ..
there he was ready to live.
today New York, says he.
yes, give him Gotham to gnaw.

he is thirty and is ready
to roll faster, deeper now
over into the turmoil of the world.
we do live our dreams, so it seems.

back now and on a computer,
he is searching, looking
i interrupted to ask if there were elephants
and are there lions in Senegal.

without hesitation at my banal query
“in parks there are”, he said. i nodded.
oh, the deviated realm in which we live.
as our world gets larger, the world gets smaller.

city magnum

in the little rolling box
bumpy high-speed turns
after the holidays
tourists have evaporated

long hair, long stockings
gets on the tiny bus
sits, crosses her legs
very long stockings

guy sits opposite
we’re only three
facing each other
she talks, says a bad word

says a major multi bad phrase
the guy listens
watching her legs
she says more bad

words in obvious anger
he asks “husband?”
she says, “brother.”
here’s my stop

she leaves also
began as strangers
ciao-ciao, ciao-ciao, ciao
part like family

shake it off
just another trip
into city magnum
happens like often

3:54 a.m.

blacker than midnight
no light
spare the red glow
of the clock

went to the bathroom
briefly turned on a small flashlight
to check in the toilet
twenty years ago a rural friend told me

he always checks the bowl
now i always look
he is old now, i owe him
i need to renew his agony

when i see him next time
i’ll remind him by asking
if a snake bit him
on the balls yet.

stopped at a tintaria

stopped at a tintaria, door was open.
the name implies they dye material.
more often these days it’s dry clean they do,

a kind man i found there, always a good start;
re hooked the slider on my coat zipper in a minute
so it works like new again. he did. i’m grateful.

i said the fine service was worth fifty euro
he said one hundred and twenty. we laughed.
he charged me nothing. that’s fine too.

this is the city. we both were aware
that i may never stop again there.
he did the job; in these lines i remember him.

no state to deny

a pop up on my computer reads,
“your pc is in a perfect state.”
it is trying to convince me, however unlikely,
for my computer’s never been a lot of places.

though i reason, as for state, i'm in italy
where the consensus is: nothing is perfect.
as perhaps Italy is a state, meaning -
a condition: like insomnia.

although equated with a state of grace
there is no rational for some beliefs;
they are unexamined, tossed around
enough to be overrated yet acceptable.

with the favorite reason being:
that is how it has always been done.
don’t ask questions, don’t whine.
heads down, stay in line.

any fine day

put two hundred strangers,
some jetlagged,
whirling in a crowd
out of order,

around tents, hand carts
small dogs and corners;
meander an electric bus
through the middle,

plus bicycles and motrorinos
on all sides.
now pigeons on the ground
in the center of it all

hopping, running,
bobbing their heads, pecking
stretching their wings,
turning their heads.

half cover lightly
with rolling low clouds,
add brisk winds
and you're in the campo packed laughing,

wondering why those
quick dashing pigeons
never get bumped, run over
or stepped on.

to market

I.

M. has arrived,
with no space for jet lag.
step aside please,
we’re heading to market.

first buy bus passes,
for she must be orderly, precise, never nonplussed.
those tickets checkers will get you if you’re without.
a fifty euro fine now, sixty-five if you pay later.

II.

seated facing everyone from the very back of the bus.
along our way a young man shouted
into his cell phone for all to hear.
perhaps as a youngster he spent his hours

yelling into a tin can tied on a string.
maybe someone was on the other end
with similarly rigged equipment,
maybe not.

IV.

i went along and did not sing
or read or sleep, just hung on,
for a bus over cobblestones
does much up and down bumping.

now we're both here, winter’s near.
to market and back,
as we settle in.
seems like old times.

the uniform

i saw the uniform in the open door of the closet,
hung pressed like new, was civil war blue
with a narrow yellow side stripe and metal buttons.
with boots, gloves, hat and sword in scabbard.

her husband’s or her father’s, i don’t recall.
she has since gone the long away.
i could call to ask my old friend George,
though we haven't talked since we were children.

and where has that fragment been,
that which i carry in my head?
when now so many years have gone by,
there remains only a thread.

not even my story, someone else’s life
hanging blue in the closet that isn’t there.
even that building exists only
in old worn photos and scant memories.

Swiss Chocolate

i like chocolate
and have a bit now and then
say, evenings, say often.
in my Christmas stocking Santa put me some.

now, i’d heard the Swiss
made chocolate well;
let me tell to you this,
better than swell, Swiss chocolate is.

it was worth the trip.
how can i say it? well . . .
between you and me,
it is the best you think chocolate can be.

i’m sorry it ends so soon, this poem;
it’s like looking down when you're taking out the trash
and seeing the candy wrapper there and remembering
how wonderful tasty chocolate is.

My Conception of Immaculate Zurich

cross the street where you should
new stylish shiny cars must stop for you.
all is fresh like new, exactly neat.
no bird makes a mess, or too loud tweet.

air there is clean without question
through the day, through the night.
lake fishes swimming
keep to the right.

sidewalks pristine, in good repair.
there is no graffiti - anywhere.
quiet trams, smooth buses run on time.
poems of course are going to rhyme.

midnight train to zurich

the conductor waved the lantern one time long and slow
looking back the engineer nodded and we pulled out of the station
exactly seven a.m. by the black metal ornate clock we passed.
although, and i shivered, it was half past midnight in my heart.

it was evident the guy had stolen the porters jacket
as witnessed by what he had,
a giant bloodstain bullet hole leaking out
where his brains out'a be.

so i sipped my coffee quietly
and noticed it tasted like an amateur made it.
looking into the face of the cat woman,
a conspiratorial smile wet her lips.

remembered my chic long black wool frock
left at home hanging alone in the dark closet;
instead wore my nylon Cleveland Indians jacket
with Chief Wahoo on it.

he ripped a hole in the knee of his pants
escaping the clutches of his ticket-checking girlfriend,
i saw his eyes steel-over as he punched my ticket,
Robert Ludlum would have left this character bound in baggage.

a clang i felt more than heard when the porter dropped his revolver,
then went to pick it up and seven passports
slipped like snowflakes from his pocket and fell to the floor.
he looked up, i saw written in his expression the words
forget it ever happened.

to enjoy

as M. continues her way of life diet,
went solo, i did, to Pasquali’s.
half rigatoni with asparagus sauce and bacon,
oh, Serena you can cook; top of the world, ma.

back on the planet and the little bus to Angelo’s for coffee
when a common laborer comes in for his sips of mocha,
tells Simone that exactly one year from today
the Mayan Calendar ends and the world with it.

i say i read that fifty years ago when i was eleven.
it is amazing how time keeps passing.
and worker-man said it is good that it does,
for all the experience of life time gives us to enjoy.

ibid

At the end of a 1930’s gangster movie, Jimmy Cagney was on the roof of a burning building shooting his machine gun, put his head back and yelled out, “Top of the world, Ma.” My use of the line in this poem was a reference to that.

in the balance

bus riding humming was i,
passing city sights in turns
and fits and starts of traffic.
some jammed thick and slow.

aware then to a noise,
a near persistent, endless drone.
once alert of it, looking around
i found it was a monotone girl

working hard it seemed,
talking non-stop to a boy.
giggling in the light of his attention,
swooning she was.

he standing,
politely nodding,
listening to her winding it out persistently
with minimal pause in her plan.

not a bad looking girl, not that,
though, talkative she was, for sure.
if she could neaten up, lighten up,
take a few breaths and relax,

perhaps he’d seek her out
to stand by her sometime,
with half an idea or something to say
maybe he would chat her up a bit someday.

the beatles era

they sprang up on the radio,
came from long away.
there was a lot of talk
about their haircuts

and they knocked us out
with Hard Days Night and so many other songs.
John, Paul, George and Ringo;
we even knew their names.

acres of words have been written
about them and their wonderful music.
oh, they were big, so very big
we sang their songs and loved them.

from my window

seen from my window
a blackbird with nerve, now swooping,
chasing a young, small squirrel.
relentless in pursuit .

in my life i have been content,
consistently. others have noticed,
commented on my optimism;
somehow always on the sunny side.

that was once upon a time,
though now i am sad, without purpose,
finding this cloak of darkness
difficult to wear.

though i would not be a burden.
there are no friends to care. in dread
i’m lacking in the experience of,
I find this heavy sadness hard to bare,

squirrels come and go with seasons
the blackbirds never are their friends
yet they nearly get along at times,
you’d think their story never ends.

time has passed since i wrote the lines above
rain and snow’ve both come and gone.
as sleep and food and time
have moved us right along,

and i’ve rolled in the waves of mirth.
rode out storms, i’m back from the dread.
now there is sun, by gosh, i feel it
once more; i’m ready to take wing and fly along.

m.

she’s good.
real damn good
cooking, cleaning, sewing,
her gardens, flowers, vegetables.

can work harder, longer
sweat more
do it right and better
than i can.

so why do i
have to walk around the house
turning off all the lights she leaves on
in the morning?

now there’s heat in the kitchen
m. making corn chowder
this after she turned bushels of tomatoes
into chili sauce.

i‘ve spun the globe seeking a site
to erect a monument for her.
when i asked she said she wanted a tree
in front of the library .

that seems reasonable;
in front of the widow
lined with cookbooks
and stories of survival.

i guess she could not think
of a solitary place from which
she could keep an eye on me.
then again, she may change her mind anyway.

though, hooking up with the library,
i know how her mind works,
always staying on the good side,
she thinks it’ll help erase any fines she may accrue.

middle of the night

went to the bathroom, middle of the night,
something was different in my mouth
turned on the light
my missing tooth was back in place

it looked fine and new.
behind me in the mirror
was George E. Russel played by buddy Ebesen
he was with Fess Parker in the Davy Crocket movies.

put his long rife against the wall and looked at my teeth,
shook his head and smiled in disbelief,
said no worry, my teeth were fine.
but Buddy Ebsen’s not a dentist, never even played one on TV.

seemed i needed a second opinion.
went back to bed, forgot it all
when i woke the tooth was gone,
the hole was back, right where i left it

dreams may take us many places
through blocks, into new spaces
in hollow earth and under glass
don’t cha know, this too'll pass.

winter

the bleak, dull ugliness
of the frigid season
is well noted.

on the bright side,
consider it God’s good planning;

winter days were made deliberately shorter
so you don’t have to look at them as long.

what it will be

what will it be,
which one do we take?
got on the 87
a guy was itchin’ his head

and we road out
and well beyond
to the Southside overlook of Rome
way out of town

many got off and on the bus
while the sun went down
and we rode along
to the very end

and the guy never stopped
it was dark as we rode
to the end,  he was no kiddin'
non stop itchin’ his head