mediterranean see me

I may change this a bit, but here it is for now. I can critique my poem and say I should stay on target. See the objective, figure out what it is I want to say, and which way the words have to go to get me there. Today I prefer to do as the crew of explorers and let myself hop on board and ride willing to participate. Letting the caravan take me wherever.


mediterranean see me

free this morning
we could get in the car
and drive five hours to a corner of heaven
for sure we’d love it
we’ve been there

with the long blue of the med,
hearing it from our bed
and the morning fishermen
in little boats
sun hats and coats
so near on dawn
so clear over calm

in a sleepy town
with Filippo’s Pizza
the best dough out of Napoli
they say, I’d say
anyway

how far do we have to go
so I can hear the shore’s chill water?

rolling stones like breathing in and out
making them rounder

smaller in long eons
until they are tiny white grains
lesser than sand
blown away like dust
off the back of my hand

thrown up by the wind
lifted straight to the sky
soaring above birds
blown riding the blue

far off out to sea
over storms
circling the globe
above the Captain’s stout grey ship on the Atlantic
twisting back into time and Grandmother’s wagon
crossing dry Arizona in the late eighteen hundreds
over arrows and Indians

then sucked tumbling down
deep in the California desert
none too soon
by dull light of moon

it's stuck deep
where it will keep
in the bark of a Joshua tree
that lives a thousand years

jungle fish

you and i
haven’t seen it all
don’t say you have
don’t think about it
no need to

not all the world caresses
some hurts
and dumps upon us
in papers and magazines
the news of course, they call it that
the video, the Internet that brings pieces
bam banging slapping sounds
pumping games flashing colors into children's heads
Marshall McLuhan was right the medium is the message
now i add, TV did more to destroy the world than educate
I have seen Guatemalan jungle natives in see-through straw huts
watching far away New York soap operas
on TV powered by a noisy gas generator
the soap opera had NYC folk
in nice clothes and makeup
drinks in hand and the natives,
ready to throw a spear through a monkey,
were sitting women breast naked in
a rag covering their crotches
and I’m walking by their hut and
can look right through it
and see them sitting glazed over stuck to the screen.
maybe they flashed me the peace sign
and maybe I gave them the finger
cause they were screwed

media chunks show how people dress and hold their heads
how they clothe their pet animals
while city buses so full
those at the door exit to let others on
dead fish are laid to rest in tins and wait consumption this way

passing by are the rich and famous in their rings and finery
with guards tagging alongside
lest reality get too close
best they remain cushioned
aloof from commoners and dirt poor

on the street notices are
handed by strangers to strangers
pasted across shop windows
stuffed in trash cans or
dropped they litter the streets
are stepped upon, pushed along
where the head count clashes with
the clean, pressed white shirts and latest ties
and we, hats on backwards
in over sized sacky things to cover how fat we are
that resemble sports team garments,
wrinkled sweat stained bags with a bright bold number on it
the number of a hero on the squad
named for a predatory animal
as a sweaty tourist screams at the counter waitress
give me a coke before I die

and I see them sun glassed now
all the while quick stepping alone
bumping into each other
unaware, as if stoned
talking on cell phones
while the senseless talk to themselves
and need no phone
who is changing the world?

for all the while
the sun goes up
the sun goes down

reflections

remember someone holding
a dandelion under your chin
seeing the reflection of yellow
to determine if you like butter?
kid stuff

be good though
the day on your face
is a reflection of what you carry
in your heart

how you slept
how you’re eating
who you love
which dog you’re beating

how well you are doing
how life’s going
you may forget, but all
is written on your face

hope

On Pasquetta, Little Easter, the day after Easter, also a holiday because Italians have to have a holiday after a holiday that falls on Sunday so they can have a day to recover. That is how it is every time.



the large crowd in the piazza
generated a buzz like
flies on week old fish

they were tourists, few Italians
it was Little Easter, Pasquetta
Italians go out of Rome
on the little holiday after the holiday

Franco who has no means
to get out for the day
and no family to visit if he did
was in the store next to me
getting two more
scratch-off-to-see-if-you-win gambling cards
what winners get most of the time
more cards
more opportunity to hope

we stood shoulder to shoulder
he didn’t see me,
i noticed that what i thought
was a plug in his ear lobe
injured the last time he fell
was only a scab

from the way he was weaving
I knew not to speak to him
he was holiday drunk enough
to still walk
and scratch cards

while i’ve learned
there is no hope
here it was
standing next to me

linked

we are linked to life
whether cabled-in or wireless
red lining in the fast lane
all comes naturally
as weather is to nature
dressed in style we are
in cars shinier and larger

while lousy poor people
obviously don’t care as much
they never go to club dinners
to hear the speakers drone on
or eat cake at the benefits
they don’t know the meaning of
acid indigestion

all turn to see
as she
walks proudly by
nearly prances

an angel
on heavenly loan
empty headed
with a mind of her own