Homage to Skip James
(pace Al Moritz’s The Garden)
The Depression? Orchestrated pretty ugly indulgences
of contemptuous melodies
due to diminished motor skills
of bony-digit “get-tar” pickers, fidgety pianists,
who had to humble down and join grumblin road gangs
bashin rocks with pick-axes, sledgehammers,
thereby manglin their mitts,
so fingers go outta key with keyboards, fret with strings,
or songsters cough up bloody TB,
or drummers quake with DT,
cos they be waist-deep in mud and Putrefaction
in roadside ditches all Abomination
with circumadjacent bilge;
and there is no wine or other sauces
(or there’s too much rotgut moonshine
plus bread no better than unbreakable stone).
Drat! Whose Genius be superior to Drudgery?
Drat! Whose Genius be superior to Poverty?
Well, Skip James demo’d absolute Impertinence—
mustering “bull must,”
mustering “mustang tang”—
no mushy groping for soft-pedal’d notes,
no atrocious fumbling for twangy notes:
Dude produced Pre-Raphaelite spirituals—
deliberately errant Gaiety—
despite all poorhouse, workgang carping
o’er the Depression’s killing-floors, butchery,
torture chambers,
all pestilence and parasites, eh?
How else to answer “I’m So Glad”
across 18 “asides” and “besides”
of Paramount, celestial recordings?!!
No more mulling, moping, griping!
No discount breath!
No mo Interposition ou Nullification!
“Brazen” Daylight Shooting in Little Italy
for Luciano Iacobelli
Igneous—volcanic—blood, coal-fire-hued,
That ruined roué issued. Skull gone scarlet
As bullets played and dealt; his head’s skewed lewd:
Brain bits sprayed—rude as a Vegas harlot!
Had he not giggled at threats? Well, lenders
Okayed vitriol, daggers, and hellacious,
Audacious shootings—to bag—loot—tenders
Of cash; or cash out debts, tenacious.
The shooter discarded his playing cards:
His sun-lit gamble—bluff disguise—blond wig,
Hardhat, pale face (tough to place mid boulevards)—
While his trigger (squeezed) pleased a spade to dig
Johnny Maserati’s grave.
Oxygen
Caved to lead; Jack’s head splayed: Frayed, red tin.
Helsinki—I
Never a dissatisfied elderessa,
you aroused Wonder tantamount to Temptation,
as we spiralled down that staircase at Storyville,
to saxophones spunkily sultry,
oozing jazz that must’ve slinked through Helsinki,
mating man and minx
in loop-de-loop hijinks.
(Lookit! Only a bed—disoccupato—stinks!)
O how we leagued in that bar
where trumpets beleaguered no-holds-barred blues!
You were an outright “Pinko,” if yet a Sphinx,
as we twisted our way back up the stairs,
my eyes “Ah!”-ing at your “But … but.”
Sure, I was hopeful because you were beautiful;
and, yes, I was selfish, but dared not act fishy—
because you weren’t wishy washy—
(and this mustn’t go unacknowledged)—
but inimitably, uninhibitedly luxuriant.
(Though I was—I admit—prurient.)
I was wed.
I was about to do colossal Wrong.
(Not your fault:
All the convenient obstacles had been tripped, sprung;
but were quickly nullified or mollified or ossified.)
You brought to my hotel room an orange rose:
Such shrewd gold.
Non mollare….
(Do not flinch….)
thought I,
as our coverings fell away.
Pace Barcelona
Pace Barcelona, there was absinthe
and Heartbreak,
‘neath my Solsona, silk-soft, honey-tint, leather vest—
after the usual boola boola—
bunga-bunga—
mago-mago—
i.e., ecstasies….
We’d hied to the Obama Café—
the 44th U.S. Prez’s life-size figure pretzel’d
into an outdoor table’s corner,
smiley-faced, gregariously inviting.
(I shit you not.)
But shadows tumbled about
as she mumbled disconsolate
into an ominous Negroni.
Fast, I was shot down—like a diseased dog.
Because I was errant, had strayed—
“banging” another lady
(who I didn’t adore)
because my Finnish redhead had said
she didn’t care;
though now, knew I, she did,
but was finishing us off—
given my rationalized—but unreasonable—“Lust”
(that mirage that ends in Mania)—
given my being no more resolute than a dream.
Thus, here she was, unburdening himself—
my stelletta—little star—
her stiletto drilling home—
as if my reputedly steely heart
could be really so acutely unfeeling.
