Four for Sixteen

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Four for Sixteen is our little record of the last month rattling around the East End spieling the deal.  Plenty of Poetry Month deliciousness with more than a few slices of requisite mind attic madness.  Only $6.00 US, including shipping.  More than a Big Mac sure, but better for you and it’s gnome approved.

Disclaimers: Gnomes not included in purchase price.  No gnomes were harmed in the promotion of this chapbook.


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It…lives…

In honor of the resurrection (or Franken-birth, customer choice) of the mind attic: a poem.

In Sandy’s shadow: one for Earl Miller

I was thinking on
the ride home from
work on Friday about
the day after Superstorm
Sandy and the giant
oak tree felled across
the complete, wide breadth
of Northville Turnpike by her
stiff tropical gale

A diligent crew was
slicing the felled
monster into man or
machine manageable
pieces.

A diligent crew who (despite
their best efforts and with
equipment far
superior to the old
blue Homelites we employed
in the tired woodlot up off
Hillman Road) managed
to repeatedly bind and stall their
new fangled, high tech
high horsepower Swedish saws in
the deciduous beast’s tangled,
pinched and torqued limbs.
Son of a bitch!

In that moment of fleeting
remembrance across four and
fifteen and thirty five years, I
missed you more
than silence.

I had no one to share an advisory whisper
gained through our years of harvesting felled
hardwoods for the furnace:

“I don’t think I would cut that limb…” an advisory
cut abruptly short, proven fact as the high powered, high
tech Swedish saw bound and stalled in another tangled,
pinched, torqued limb. Son of a bitch!

In that moment of fleeting
remembrance across four and
fifteen and thirty five years, I
missed you more
than silence.

I had no one to share a knowing, chuckling
conclusion, “I’m surprised these guys know which end
of them fancy Swedish saws is for holdin’ and which
end is for cuttin’”

William Bennett

See the arrogant middle aged
punk verbally maim
some poor
pretty faced
schlepp
anchorman
about
his network’s
decision
to disseminate
premature inaccurate
election prophecies.

Have I not
seen you in the
grocery store
shouting down
a teenage
part time
no benefits
minimum
wage
check out
clerk over
the price of
canned tuna?

Yes…
it definitely
was you…
you had
twelve items
in the ten item
express lane.

I must write a Whitmanic poem one day…

I am long shimmering lonesome asphalt

I am outhouses

I am hand-me-downs

I am no electricity need

I am apple tree headstones

I am dirt and gravel and oil…Tha Govner say no sense paving roads to poverty

I am abandoned bird stained churches

I am insanity prowling the family periphery

I am people whose only vice was co-mingling with relatives

I am hillbilly by birth, though we have attempted a family wide disinformation denial campaign for 50 years

I am secrets…destructive, dark and unspoken

I am Dickies green and navy blue work clothes…

I am the disenfranchised…huddling with a passive angry need and properly lubricated weaponry

I am a blues singer wailing perfect word ointments

I am America’s minorities…seething…angry…waiting and denying perfection

I am Poverty, I give a rat’s ass about your skin color…I dine on suffering

I am a man what worked all his life…and left nothing but ghosts of sweat, tears, blood and family

I am a man that sings, writes, paints… history will remember me…and my people

Until fire renders thee pride ash.

I am humility, sweet and crucified.

We are all seven steps from infinity

Seven steps from speeding accidental bus bumper

Seven steps from saving twelve step subjugation

Seven steps from the end of the pier and high tide

Seven steps from a salving embrace

Seven steps seems like a lot

Seven steps is infinitesimal

Seven steps from a fleeting perpendicular relationship with the railroad tracks

Seven steps from a family member asking…are you ok?

Seven steps from saving your friend a seat in Hell’s waiting room

Seven steps from a friend calling at just the right time

Seven steps from a razor slicing bloody virgin wrist hymens

Seven steps from carving an all too perfect roast on Sunday

Seven steps one way
seven steps the other
fourteen chances
to remain and
enjoy the sun rising
promise over Montauk.