pay only

3 euro a week ,
to any Tim phone,
call 'em often,
talk long as you want.

Giacomo changed to Vodafone
so he’s made my list
of whom to call
less often.

i left 44

where 62 was next
at the other post office.
now 73 is up at this one
and my number is 97.

28 potential
customers are waiting.
with 11 windows,
6 are open, more or less.

it was 1890

it was 1890 when Bill was here
traveling Europe by train.
Naples, Rome, then Florence
with horses, Indians and Annie Oakley.

too many large stones and rubble,
and he had wanted to do the
wild west show in the Colosseum.
so they decided to perform right outside.

i know he had a drink at the bar on Via Condotti
on that corner by the Spanish steps,
cause 121 years later i walked over there
and saw the photographic proof

taken there that day in all his glory,
and is still on the wall.
even 12l years ago they called Mr.Cody the name
we know him by - he was Buffalo Bill.

deep searching

m. is reading about
a deep mine in England where
scientists search for dark matter.
world over they are looking.

they need a space
where gamma rays
and cosmic rays won’t penetrate,
kinda like my closet.

i asked her what they are going to make
out of this dark matter
when they finally find it.
she said, “shoes”.

feeling not seeing

this morning thinking of them
from half a world away
i am faraway observer
recollecting now

those come and gone
friends, accomplices, on this earth
linked, liked, loved and endured
is it even necessary to recall

one's loved best of all
and so many, many others
come and oftimes vanished
pieces in the puzzle

apparently we didn’t put it together
just found ourselves here
tap-dancing the boards to the rhythms
in this game called life

pillows you dream on

please don’t send me
any more pillows
that you dream on.
especially not C.O.D.

as it is, the house and car
are full up with pillows,
in fact, it’s getting hard
to make a right turn.

if you send more pillows
i’ll have to rent
a storage space. anyway,
i think i’m being watched.

fish and water

fish and water
get along,
and better they stay
where they oughter.

don’wanna catch ‘em
one morning
laughing together
on my back porch.

eclipse

off to see James in the morning
when on a walk toward the tram
Mirella passes and says an eclipse will be
in five minutes by her watch

i suggest there will not be much change
as she went eyes skyward upon her way
when two minutes later from
the opposite direction came her husband

and i told Roberto good
day there will be an eclipse
in a moment but do not
expect much change

i will mention the eclipse then
to James when
i see him
and ask then if he noticed

2010 - the end

to mom and dad,
uncles and aunts
neighbors Phil and Rosey,
the kids i grew up with,

the women i've loved,
to my kids and theirs.
stack ‘em up,
all the way down.

to creeks jumped
and those fallen into.
bridges crossed,
those ducked under.

to all frogs and the fish,
the birds and the clouds,
rain in the forest,
over brambles, through fields,

and down long highways.
in sun, snow and heavy sea,
flowers, weeds and vegatebles - this is it:
a salute to the finish

of the first decade,
in this twenty-first Century.
for bygones well done,
the best to you from me.

postcard from Rome

postcard from Rome
also to Rome
if like say you live here and I’m
sending this to you. but don’t kid yourself.

i am sandwiched like peanut butter and whatever,
between languages and cultures,
an example of contradiction and/or combination,
that, more or less, function, even thrive

or seem to, in this chaotic basket of the active world.
not an angle, not a corner.
a catch-trapping thing,
like a basket.

a walk over the bridge Ponte Sisto before noon.
where one can see the Vatican.
or two can see the same thing.
ponte means bridge, none the less.

less is more? by the way,
whoever said that should go back to school.
perform penance by subtraction, and quit
making up esoteric sayings like that.

when i cross (the bridge again)
the Japanese accordion guy will be on the bridge.
i will drop un euro into his case,
then go straight ahead toward Fontana Trilusa

then on into Trastevere and lunch.
Chinese food with our friend Maria.
it’s our usual Sunday in Rome, or call it Roma
if you’re Italian or if like say you live here.

you know, they call this city Roma,
and the Roma are the people from Romania,
who are also called the Gypsies,
but are on the wrap-around periphery of this poem.

and did I ever tell you
the Chinese lady who runs the restaurant
is also called Maria, and she picked that name herself
because her Chinese name is unpronounceable for Italians.

oh, i never say an euro, it’s always un euro.
cause i’m not speaking English
when i’m talking euro. hai capito?
who can blame me?

well there you have it, now mark the bridge
with an X on the picture postcard,
and write – “we are here”
that pretty much tells the story and should do just fine.

hot ride

a can full of fish, this bus
all gray; water and oil nearly dripping off the walls.
sealed tight, standing,
packed for shipping, we are.

temperature rising, heater on.
not a window open.
must be sales on perfumes, colognes and smelly food,
or they’re rubbing it on people as they board.

jerky stops,
jerky starts
hold on tight,
it’s good training for pole dancers.

everyone on cell phones
talk it up, talk it down.
welcome aboard,
we’re going to town.

we svelte

she claims it is a sign of getting old
when i mornings move myself mumbling
whether to wear a belt or suspenders.

yet, i never have to back up
at the check out counter
to reach into my front pants pockets.

it is a known fact of material mechanics,
pants often stretch
from repeated washings.

spiritly jaunting across the street,
my trousers sag,
legs flapping in the wind.

obviously, persons of girth
never have to suffer
what we svelte must endure.

like old times

pizza, a slice for me, a short walk away,
just across the bridge; then looking,
almost shopping with M.
this is the holiday spirit, about that.

she went on, while back i went
for a white plastic plate and fork,
and steamy hot carbonara, 2.40 euro and tasty.
with the workers and locals in line, got mine ,

ate on the street outside,
propped up on a road thing,
that stuck up there as an indicator
and good like-for to lean on.

for every season
there is a reason
turn, turn, turn
onwards and upwards.

sixteen chimneys

sixteen chimneys
close together
like the wet slippery street cobblestones
close together on one small roof top

maybe there were more
lost count
street stones, gaps, spaces, irregular
wet and slippery.

thinning out for the holidays, traffic
light, so they go faster
amid patter of many feet
and the mutter of motorinos.

at Pasquali’s ordered pasta gregia – grey
eating it when
M. said it was
pomodori and zucchini

i had enough red pepperincino, hot peppers, on it
hadn’t noticed it was not grey
cause while i ate
i was still thinking about chimneys.

papery thin

papery thin
that’s my skin,
physically, metaphorically
and that’s okay, it’s a fine day,

and i’m used to my skin,
been around with it a while.
just today we had coffee together,
even wear the same shoe size.

now watching sun pouring in.
first light, my favorite.
dawn’s early,
as it should be.

got me thinking, as the sky
blue poco loco shines from above
in this doggie dog world. i don’t know why.
must be the heat, or the lack thereof.

so, what’s new?
how’s you been in your skin?
staying well? getting enough rest?
do your best. i’m pullin’ for you.

savor the moments,
laminate these layers of time in your head.
and don’t worry when you go to bed, you can’t know
what to expect, ‘cept it keeps getting better.

thunder and snow

a week before Christmas,
in cold enough Rome,
clack rattling hail and rolling boom thunder
shakes walls and smacks windows at home.

looking out, blurry blue snowgusts and
patches of ice, show by street lamp light,
now in dark, and still wind,
hard rain falls tonight.

the unmarked bus

what is it? no number.
here comes chance.
an opportunity?
boarded it, to where it was going.

found a seat easily
because two uniformed
ticket checkers were aboard.
somehow arrived at the termini.

on the street a lad was selling colorful plastic,
blobs to throw on the sidewalk, where
it splatters like an egg. then, as if a sci-fi movie
it immediately forms into a ball.

talked to friends Rocco and Stefano
at the pizza box, then to Nicola, Cecelia,
Teressa and Corine at Sfizio, meaning whim,
where i enjoyed red yolk eggs for breakfast.

M. joined me for coffee, we walked to Piazza Vittorrio
and to Mas, which means more in Spanish.
four floors of store like a maze.
the basement alone winds on forever,

with at least twelve rooms
and connecting, elongated,
narrow, irregular levels
of corridor.

tried on pants in a dressing room
where behind a curtain the entire contents
of that room was one wooden knob,
mounted head high on the wall. no seat.

and then caught an old tram that ran on tracks,
circled Piazza Maggiore the magnificent, huge
stone Roman gate where centuries ago
you entered to get into the city.

switched to a bus,
got off near home.
it was one o’clock.
time for lunch.

route change

a.

on to Pasqual’s for polenta,
something not on M.’s diet.
I ate knowing,
but she abstained.

i mentioned it Wednesday,
said i’d go Friday,
she said polenta is Thursday.
how’d she remember? i ate. it was good.

b.

opposite the restaurant is the building
where Samuel Morris lived around 1831,
eleven months. long enough to earn a
marble plaque on the exterior wall

that plaque says he invented
the electric telegraph magnetic writer.
which means, with different words,
about the same thing in English,

c.
then boarded the small electric bus
and rode into a student demonstration
with traffic stammering, then blocked.
we gyrated around as best we could, the driver did.

having just eaten and
had a few glasses of wine to boot,
the days was right to ride around
in that little electric charm.

there were four other passengers.
to help talk away the ride.
while the bus made a circuitous route
to get around blocked traffic.

warm and sunny,
he drove us well.
no one minded the
improvised route.

in the end he got us
nearly where we
all were going
in the first place, anyhow.

note

the unfortunate part
of not making note
is forgetting what it was
that i never wrote

we have to love it

first it kicks me,
i nearly fall,
then with all nearly lost
it loves me.

office of immigration
twenty years of doing it legal.
now take metro and then bus
to fight the crowd.

of twenty-one service windows,
four are open.
several times we go there
to be treated like dirt.

at home, alberto’s gallery
is right around the corner.
then, Campo Dei Fiori
just another minute away.

see old friends
and meet new,
early evening,
a pause to chat.

a movie tomorrow,
minute walk, no more.
got wine at the shop
on the way home.

it is the city
outside our door.
when it loves us
we have to love it back.