mr. moon mixes his days

coming out of trestevere
see Giancarlolino Benedetti Corcos
used his full name cause he’s up an coming
told us to come to his art show by Porta Portese
but it was last night and i forgot

then at Ponte Sisto ran into Mark Kostobi
the artist with promotion in his veins
has a tv show now where the audience names his paintings
has a studio where artists paint his pictures

the Pope motorcade was coming by in a few minutes
Mark did a sculpture for him, it’s all on his website
asked Mark if the Pope was going to
slow down and wave

friend bill the cook met the pope three times
his picture with bill is on bill’s aunt’s mantle
bill has no money, no papers, no web site or cell phone or TV show
and 40 years cooking for various embassy events
is so inconspicious that people see the photo
and don't even notice that guy with the pope

walked by our street parked car
hasn't been damaged yet
three coins were on the drivers seat
mr. moon moved the car last week
M. provided disparaging words
but i’m working on my pockets, i said

stopped at shoe man
sent us two doors down to shoe lady
bought an insert, cause two days ago
i bought two shoes, two sizes too large

can’t take them back they say
she’s a mean shoe lady
won’t exchange them
everyone says

maybe next full moon i’ll take the other pair
walk back across Ponte Sisto,
ask and hear it myself from
the horse's ass, i mean mouth

fictitious facetiousness

the clocks are wound just right
making time with perfect pendulation
yet i had to take them back
to clean loose ends, and i'll be damned, they did

remembering a night
that didn’t go my way
my lips were too light
the look on her face

it didn’t seem to matter that much
at the time
kept true to some oddness
holding near my love

that saw light in me
and who knows what else
i have no idea
i wasn't aware

my path must be worn
like ages old stone
getting us home
were we belong

so why would i trip
when i know these stones so well
in the cold walk through hell
be darns ya, be darns ya

b.

make the frog sound like a loose banjo string
let him sing all night for all of us
it’s heaven calling
don’t you hear it

be darn ya
there are only distractions on the way
you’ve got to stay wound
to keep ticking

come on, lovergirl
we have to get going
they find us here and that's bad
this beach is closed on moonless nights



addendum:

when they were putting English together
who ever thought it was a good idea to
spell wound – as in wound the clock
and wound - as in injury
the same way

these poems

these poems are
a sturdy little cabin in the woods
just a bit more than you imagined
where wind outside hums gentle hush
a rushing in and through the trees

now pause, take rest
enjoy evening's quiet time
before bears and birds
and others prowl about

do, sit now by the open stove
a light warm shawl around your shoulders
and an inviting wooden rocker
with a colorful clean soft cushion

a fresh sturdy length of log is added on the leaping fire
sparkling red and orange glowing coals
dancing reflections, crackles in the quiet
all smoke goes up the chimney
perfect in every way

a cabin rustic and reminiscent of times past,
call them the good old days.
a warm drink?
coffee, tea or beer, also liquor if you prefer

good crackers and cheese
the like of which you have never had,
a taste that will surprise you
delight you, just right

we can sometime be a ship
at sea in good weather
sunshine
sure the wind is always at your back,
a pleasant rolling, dolphin, soaring gulls

the right air breeze
ripe sea splashes
pleasure for your taking
enjoy the space
at your pace, my friend

we may talk a bit and laugh
eat a good bite
chocolates or a sandwich
an excellent soup of modest design

while you tell a story, or I will
and moonlight shines
the morning sun will rise
pastel sky and clouds fill the skies

soft music on a guitar,
maybe a piano in the next room
all things, all ways,
just right
in this cabin in the woods

terror

terror has no warning
while good or bad
life itself
is a lucky streak

expanding like the universe
all is chance
do the dance
nothing lasts forever

the end of an era

thinking about my mom when i woke today
her memory lives
in many ways

M. and i got on a 60 bus, out
one of the old gates of Roma
beyond Porta Pia,
on Via Nomentana

M. had a plan
so we went
to a spot, once in the country,
now in the city,
a quick ride away

to a church built in 400
for the daughter of Emperor Constantine
the sarcophagus is empty now
the body was taken to the Vatican
she had connections you see

in an adjacent church
as we enter a service ends
they carry out a coffin
another story ending

M. whisper asked about Claudio
a woodworker who married a Polish lady
we’d seen him a week ago
said they were moving to Poland
we'll not see him again

bused back near the termini
for pizza at Rocco’s
worker Caudia was there that morning
is pregnant, felt sick and left

no, she won’t be returning
that is the Italian way
out the door, we don’t know why
and gone forever,
that’s for sure

gone for always, like my mom,
like the one they carried out of the church,
like the daughter of Constantine,
like the body in the catacombs,
like Antonio to Polonia

first it's today
and what was yesterday,
is swept up,
given to the ages
the end of an era

so long, Claudia
here’s wishing you well
though we didn’t see you go,
or say good bye,
we’ll remember you
in good spirits
as you were

in good spirits

bus driver for the dead

less than two decades ago
buses in Roma filled with chatter
a plethora of voices
and every two speaking with each other
at the same time

like televised news segments
showing typical Italian disorderly debates across a table,
commonly there is no pause for the counter view
both speakers vehemently argue their point at the same time
each trying to talk louder than the other
this is both unbelievable and it is true

in those good long ago days past
yapping voices on a bus
like pups in a kennel
rattled the bus windows
in jocular and obtrusive good spirit

now with cell phone, there are times of the year
when everyone is on the phone talking
no one is listening,
i long suspected there is no one on the other end
in some of these long winded conversations

today, cold and wet miserable,
post holiday winter sales over,
the faltering economy generally down,
no one speaks – absolutely no one -
silence pervades

the bus driver is a driver of dead spirits
wait – some voice in the rear of the bus
ah, teens – well, they’re out of step,
and no one listens to them anyway

over on the dark side

over on the dark side of town
whizzed by the big charcoal gray stone church
santa maria maggiorre, or saint mary major
one of four Papal basilicas in Roma

it’s just over from the train station,
we splashed in the fountain there
one fun night years ago,
only now it is morning

passed the church on the bus
to Esquilino the market – the big one
jammed packed alive crawling like
mice over rice on the run, alive i say, alive

had a coffee, then half of cold thin pizza
to carry home, along with our shoulder bags
laden with three pounds of clementinas,
two pounds of polenta, peas and pistaccios, and pane
(which is bread – but pane starts with a P
and this is like happening poetry)

presto we were out of there
busing home with our booty
on two expired tickets
looking for ticket checkers all the way

we made it – wait
some one is lying in the street below our window
it’s Leonardo again – the guy
who was on fire last week

lying now in front of Mario's store
Mario was there, his nose broken by his
stick swinging nephew, little Manuale
also last week

went out and helped keep Leonardo comfortable
shortly an ambulance came and took him away again
i think his burnt leg gave out,
i know he did

Mario is doing okay
he has a good attitude
mind if we take a break now
enough action for one day

repetition

writing something
waxing the table, learning a skill
like riding a bike

follow the masters
take instruction, sharpen and hewn
then you do it, over, again and again

ten thousand times over
with care and attention
find joy in repetition as means to an end

learn well, this is your life
do the job ,
do it right

poor violin

in the piazza again, plays without giving
without tempo, lean, shabbily dressed
sans feeling, songs run together
effort expended is to show up

three minutes pass, the repetition pauses,
passes into the crowd, no one looks up
extending a paper cup, seeking coins
he just got there, most ignore him, now he is leaving

moves on in his round, they don’t see him go
to the next outdoor café, few notice,
repeat motions of the last hour, the last day
there is no end, melody fragments the same

months pass into seasons, some give coins for no reason
as years slip by, he has a poor violin, not quite in tune
faces at the tables revolve, he need not notice,
does his rounds again, plays the violin heartless

un altro giorno in paradiso

looked out the window, checked the weather
then off to the market by the Vatican train station
returned home once for umbrellas,
weather from the window can be deceiving

then out again to that outdoor market under partial awnings
to get the names of ingredients in a vegetable mixture
a wonderful assortment of greens we bought yesterday
and now want to duplicate ourselves
careful now, we don’t want to duplicate ourselves
just that mixture of greens, stay with me

now home where M. is reading of old Roma
Bernini getting an obelisk in 1636
it nearly went to a collector in England
ended instead at Piazza Navona

M. reads aloud while i wonder
what note i didn’t jot down this morning,
rolled over in bed instead of getting up,
another idea lost to the ages

now hail is falling this afternoon
i didn’t have to say falling on the outside
cause i know now you’re reading carefully
aren’t we about finished?
can i take a nap?

wait, commotion down below
a fight broke outside
must be thirty-five people out there
it’s franco’s family, all of them
and friends and onlookers,
the usually sedate wife too, screaming

Manuale beat his uncle with a stick
three cop cars pulled in and broke it up
little Manuale split before they got there
he's the little prick who set off a half stick of dynamite
on new years eve in campo dei fiori
another day in paradiso

beam me

years ago there was a TV commercial
that said – bite me brother,
i’m a chunky

that was a candy bar commercial
that got laughed off the air
and went the way of
free willy

now,
back to now again
i saw three separate ladies

naturally they were separate
there were three of them
it wasn’t a tricycide
or a threeoid

one, two and the other one
not together
just shopping where I could see

absoluteway, there were three
women fortyish
they each wore blue jeans
that is the thing, the jeans

now,
twenty brief years ago
not now twenty ,
then twenty

well, they weren’t brief years either
just seemed that way
say zip

way back then,
there were no supermarkets in Roma
just open markets and small stores

that brief time ago the women
would have worn dresses
and their aunts,
and their sisters,
and Uncle Henry - uncle Henry? what the hell
get him out of . . . oh, he was just trying it on
and the next door neighbors
and their cousins
and their mothers
the lot of them

but now
it’s all blue jeans, TV and cell phones
a new world, baby
paper or plastic?

so beam me
somewhere, please
it’s your pick

i’m set
my jeans are packed
i’m ready to go
ciao ciao, john denver
see ya'roun, clownie

2010

i read on Andy’s blog
he is going from two thousand and whatever
to twenty ten, stream lining,
coming of age, me too then

nineteen something
was an old man on a crutch
twenty ten is a compact
with lubricated hinges

i’m stepping lighter already
head up, walking tall
come on down the line, new year
i’m unpacked and ready for it all

no technician has to fix it
Mr. Modern Guy has got it all(that's me)
all I need's a Chinese restaurant calendar
on the refrigerator or the bathroom wall

hoppng along

hopping along
this little bird
quickly sorting, checking
for what’s edible, i suppose

doesn’t turns it’s head
to look at me, keeps working
of no concern, although near
i’m not worth a glance

in this world, on this edge
who sees reality
and how much is apparent
to the bird or to me?

cold, wet january humanity

bused to Piazza Barberini
to our car insurance office
to see what we pay this year
where nothing is easy

took forty minutes
this afternoon a friend
will try online
to find a lower cost

stopped for lunch at Pasquali’s
sat at the common table
with the headcount
chatted with the regulars

the driver from the Maltese embassy,
another regular is curtain maker
for Rupert Murdock,
someone said i was a retired actor

so i mentioned working with Francis Coppola
Italians like to hear of Italians in Hollywood
and old folk drop names to keep face
at the common table

numerous they are
on varying paths and stages
through this maze
of humanity

Rupert Murdock’s curtain maker
i liked that, worth repeating,
first to my friend Bill who for forty years
has cooked for various embassy events

two day review

I.

sun bright
cold light
quiet Sunday
gentle anticipation in the air
saturates the walking gentry
tasting environs

II.

Monday contending
cool light winter rain
a light charcoal gray street sheen
umbrellas out for an airing
no hurry day people
all walking with care
cobblestones are slippery

horses

on Sundays Carabinieri in formal uniforms
patrol the center on their mounts
a morning treat to see
as old church bells toll the hour

upon waking we hear them,
look down from our window to see the slow passing,
two mounted officers ambled along
the stone narrow cobblestone way

the scene brings a warmth to my heart
in nostalgic alluring beckons of clip-clop
a connection with another age
to this sunny peaceful Sunday beginning

up predawn

up predawn
and i like it
nothing is going on
the ringing in my ears is me
straining to hear something

when i open the window
i swear i hear sweet dampness
on grey stone walls
from overnight rain
the city sound is not a hum
it's near rain dripping
humidity from damp January

there, a church bell
counting seven
not that early now
it took a while to start writing this

got up an hour an a half ago
arranged engravings on the wall
set the lights a new way
played the piano and got into it

don’t get excited, it’s only improvisation
quiet, dramatic, eclectic, i take my time
musically looking into how i feel
how it sounds to me
what i can imagine

headphones, electric piano
used audience concert hall settings
so it sounded large to me, distant
but all was quiet in the room, not disturbing
she is asleep in the other room

gray and white gulls on roof tops down the way
off a few blocks
or could be over the river
i haven’t been out at this hour to see if they’re flying
or just sitting above somewhere conferring

a friend used to tell me how much gulls and pigeons bothered him
always making noise
he lived above all
and i envied the light he had, the view
i can only imagine
this building is empty, only she and i

thinking of the top floor
i’d like to take a look from there
roma, the church tops, far hills and obelisks
the sky change, pale dawn light
i can only imagine

first light now, sky change
up there
while here it is mid street
half way up
between buildings
mostly quiet at this hour

make that very quiet,
i have to listen carefully
to sort the emptiness
to think of things to hear at this hour

there, the dragging of a suitcase over the cobblestones
now that reminded me of old times
early morning hand carts of the market vendors
taking out their carts from storage areas
beginning in pre dawn

but that was twenty years ago
now they start much later,
fewer in number
the market is fading in the advent of supermarkets

a door closed somewhere up the street
the only hum of the city is from the refrigerator
some voices talking down the way
it starts slowly, another day
building blocks in the story of the ages
i'll make coffee now
day has begun

the New Year in Rome

few buses were out
walked to forum then up Via Cavour
more or less, had a bus part way
we thought of riding to the end of the line

good thing we didn’t take a long pleasant ride
buses stopped after noon,
we would have been stuck
we’ve done that before

as it was, we went to a fine Indian restaurant
we agreed it was better than our Christmas meal
had curried spinach, chicken and rice
entertainment was a bit overpowering
singing and dancing full volume
on a TV video

near Piazza Vittorio
if you care to find it look for it by name
seek an establishment called Indian Fast Food
M. broke two forks that were quickly replaced
at no extra charge
they don’t make plastic like in the old days

no buses after, not a car
or a truck, a motorbike, bicycle or taxi
we walked the alleys back, way back
down hill, way down
then flat on home
it was very, very far

stopped at Saint Pietro in Chains
to see Michelangelo’s statue Moses
seventy people were patiently waiting to get in
but the church was closed
we saw written in Italian what the tourists didn’t
that the church was on closed on holiday schedule

it is fine to exercise a bit after a meal
weather had turned to cold and rain
no traffic,
only many wandering tourists
all on foot
waiting for non existent transportation
we found it too windy to use our umbrella

blue moon end of december

out late morning walking
to Trastevere in sleeveless vest, no jacket
warm yellow weather carressing my shoulders
why has winter gone hiding in wait?

light clouds, turning, whirling
in bright sky blue
i squint toward the sun
gull on wing over the river

crossed my favorite old stone bridge
exchanged hi and smiles to the Sunday accordionist
on Ponte Sisto working early this week
in preparation for the holiday

at the corner by the gray church
Giacomo calls down from his balcony
went up to his place for coffee
his son James there but for a minute
always in motion planning

returning toward home
along Lungo Tevere
blurring traffic running in tandem
ten thousand destinations
patiently moving in saunter
no blasting crush today
folks on foot in good number
treading in passing
a hurry about them with no commotion
chatting in flocks
some solo on cell phones
clutching it to their ears
children on holiday drag along, skipping

the cannon at noon
thumps once on windows a mile away
a piece of pizza bread from the forno
to carry home, enjoy slowly
with greens and cheese
where from window open
over slow sipping coffee
church bells call the quarter hour

in the clangs i hear the undertone
telling all it is new years eve tonight
make good plans with friends ,
do it well now
the new year begins,
be ready,
stay alert
to celebrate departure of the old
and to welcome into being
the formidable, erratic circle of the new

mid week

cloudy dark rainy cool mid week
our lane up and down
more than a hundred yards end to end
and thousands of years back to the beginning

our building rooted five hundred years ago
yet there are far older for sure
nearby is a building from the twelfth century
painted, cracked and redone countless times
the old salt road of pre time is nearby
how far have the old ones gone?

tonight night lights are few along the way
all is still, even breeze so light
buses are resting
cabbies are reading, waiting, near sleeping

no one out this moment,
no one walking
no dog, no cat
through narrow alleys
silent dark walls, cobblestones
still puddles barely reflecting dark gray
can’t begin to imagine a part of
what has taken place
on this brief length of Roma

home to so many over the centuries
in fights, in love,
birth and death
chickens, cows, carts, pigs and horses
dogs and cats birds, bugs, and rats
soldiers, drunks, candles, thieves and beggars
papas, mamas, priests and nuns
singers, poets, police, officials, the dandies
and nobodies
most of all
plenty of no bodies at all

a treasure of life
that endures

enough jack

there was jack london
and jack kennedy
course it started with
jack the baptist

i know they called him that
oh, yeah, i almost forgot where
i was gong with this
i’m changing my name

you can call me nabisco
it was either that or shell oil
i didn’t want to work to make my name famous
thought I’d start known and work down from there

my choice of name was made carefully
more than my parents did when they named me
late comer, number three
they already used their favorite boy name and the girl name

i was nine years later
lucky they didn’t call me the first thing out of their mouth
“You’re What?” or
“Holy Shit”

bused up

bused up
on the little bus
to the hill over Rome
where the noon cannon is fired

ever since the pope back in 1847
wanted his churches to
all know what time it was,
at least once a day

a crowd gathered to hear it
the cannon is loud
wasn’t precisely noon
should have covered my ears

then walked warm weather down
to old Trastevere
where our new favorite restaurant
was tried and confirmed

while walking back traffic was stopped
a helicopter hovered overhead
we waited to watch
something was about to happen

one cop called it a VIP cortege coming by
his word not mine
some Italian cops are literate
glad to hear it, anytime

fifteen cars and as many motorcycle police
and more police afoot every corner
all the way home they go to the Vatican
because the pope king went out for lunch

event over, we walked home
didn’t stop traffic
and didn’t cause any trouble either
as we shuffled along, all the way home

my cell phone has a clock on it
i could have told anyone the time
but no one asked
they must have heard the cannon

bumps

if you’ve seen
no bumps
you’ve no time
on the road

if i could

if i could write each poem
as a precious drop
warm sparkling clear
i surely would

instead, with my back to the rock
surrounded, i reload ready to run
like Butch and Sundance
into freeze frame

as the great theme grows under
the credits roll on the screen
lights come on, people go home
with proud steps and good memories

when you’re in the game
you take the pieces you have
and create with them
the best you can

vigilia, the night before christmas

rode with Roberto from the center
cross town to Parioli for Vigilia
eight thirty in the evening, no traffic
surreal tranquility in the city

more parking spaces than usual
many Romans are out of town
it seems even birds had flown
home to see the family

we wore light open jackets
on the evening of soft rain
unseasonably warm for Christmas
it was different to drive the city
without stop and go
no pressure from too many out there
a rare lazy meander across town
while at the Vatican the Pope was knocked down
some one was making a fuss

after dinner with Paola and Sandro
it was well after midnight
when outside the Vatican
workers had slipped the infant into the Nativity scene
as we departed our dinner with friends

in the same quiet we returned home
even buses had stopped running at nine p.m.
adding to city silence by the noise they left out
silent night, holy night

no snow, clouds over fields
no blue light from the Christmas star
drunks counting sugar plums asleep in doorways
even gypsies have taken holiday

electric bus

hopped on a whirring electric bus
that soon turned down an alley
then suddenly stopped stuck there
cause it couldn’t get by

a car was parked in that alley
protruding out into the lane
our way forward was finished
while cars packed us in from behind

a lot of horn honking ensued.

a quarter hour later the guy showed up
that got in that blue car, and then
like taking the lid off a pressure cooker
we sighed off our steam and all drove away

Natale is Christmas in Italian

preparations for Natale
now the day before
a good day to begin

bought a desert pie for the night before festa, Vigilia
with a physicist and two professors
who all love pi and pie and their wives

at Feltrinelli’s bought books for gifts
called Giacomo to compare notes
my Roman pal who is quick, alert and ready

his son Alex’s group is leaving now
to play for cash outside the bookstore
in the hum of street activity

said hi to Franco outside the store
his motor bike was stolen last week
didn't ask how he got there

closer to home
sat down for coffee at a table
outside Angelo’s coffee bar

intense people traffic
here they come
there they pass

a pigeon just got by an electric buses wheel
as I sipped coffee to a, look around,
a persistent subtle whining sound

it’s the dog under the next table
saying his piece without
moving his lips

and art show tonight, got ta go
crowds shopping now
all on alert, hurray the day

a woman comes buy
dressed like Pinocchio’s mother
Christmas is on the way

Alberto's car

his worn vintage car quit again
on the cold rainy road into Roma
no one in traffic stopped to assist
Alberto pushed it two hundred yards

then opened the hood
tapped the engine with a hammer
tried the motor again
this time it worked

proving that as with some people
now and then it’s a matter
of getting a machine’s
full attention

campo dei fiori

i know this campo
of flowers and markets
a circus in progress
many new faces in groups
slow walking and talking
some carrying sandwiches
now tourists Italian
all caps and dark warm jackets
slow passing non stop
through the piazza of Bruno
sun going down, lights coming on
many regulars out for the season
even beggars have rotated
near over the line, yet still in order
with just above freezing
no tickets or towing
cars, motorinos and bicycles
visible police and undercover
overflowing action no on can follow
too cold for mime or musicians
in season’s chill December
four days before Christmas

Leonardo

stepped out this morning
suddenly a guy yelling for help
limping on fire to the knee
flames leaping waist high

i put him on the ground
put out flames with my hands
windows opened above, shouting
soon an ambulance came

i calmed him, said he was Leonardo
a street person with a small fire
keeping warm under the arch
next time he’ll remember me

the ambulance took him
put lotion on my hands
i had stepped out for a smoke
not to burn merry Christmas


I have repeatedly posted this as Leonardo, then changed it to Leonardo Burning, four or five times in the last 24 hours. I like the title Leonardo Burning, but don’t want to offend the worth of this street person Leonardo by seemingly trivializing the event; and the poem ends with a burning reference and I didn’t want to lessen the effectiveness of the poem. To burn merry Christmas is a swirling mystic somewhat ambiguous reference and I wanted it left like that, unrestrained.

Maybe I’ll have to stand back and let time pass before I can make final cuts.

As it is, the energy in there. It happened, I came upstairs and wrote it. At this point the poet is too close to the event to judge what has effectively transpired in the writing.