BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S BOB'S
BOB'S
performance space
21 First Street, Pittsfield, MA
performance space
21 First Street, Pittsfield, MA
,
A
BOB'S is a multi-purpose performance space
seating 35. Available to rent for art display, poetry readings, live music, theatrical shows.
BOB BALOGH manager, artistic director
413-212-7180 www.balogh613@aol.com
ON RADIO:
every Monday morning, 6:00-9:00 a.m.
streaming at www.valleyfreeradio.org
ON TELEVISION:
"In the Slammer" www.ctsbtv.org
BOOKS:
"Iced Tea & Apologies"
"Scat"
"Earthworms Have Five Hearts"
"Manage the Sweat"
"Incidents"
"Mornings"
"Greater Backfish Journal"
"Variations of You"
RANDOM MASTERWORK
HEN PARTY DAY
Today is International HEN PARTY Day. It’s a day when we honor the fine women who get together & hang loose, let their hair down & whoop it up.
A hen party is a classy counterpart to the vulgar stag parties that men organize. Men like to gather in some frumpy VFW hall that reeks of testosterone to honor one of their poor slob friends who is about to get married. Loud music, booze & a hooker.
Not so for women. The HEN PARTY celebrates a bride-to-be with the ultimate ladies’ night out. The maid of honor’s house is a good place for the party. It’s clean, well-appointed & it doesn’t stink.
Yes, they drink a little champagne, have a glass or two wine of wine, smoke a joint, maybe do a line of blow, bring in a Chippendale. And okay, sure…one feisty gal gets too drunk, somebody throws a tantrum, a fight breaks out, a bridesmaid pukes…but it’s all done with flair & style & good taste.
Plus, women are pretty good about cleaning up their messes. Men are different. Men are pigs. They assume their stag party residue will be serviced by somebody’s mother.
Anyway, you never know when What’s-Her-Name’s single life might be coming to an end. So, at least support her final bachelorette days by acknowledging her ilk on this International HEN PARTY Day.
VALENTINES INCIDENT
Old & stupid, I forget things.
Like being younger
& a different kind of stupid.
Valentines Day, 1999.
We were at the Wake Robin Inn
in Lakeville, CT.
We were in love.
And we more or less assumed
that this little getaway
at the edge of nowhere
would be the perfect time & place
for my official marriage proposal.
Checkout time was getting close.
She was in the shower.
I was on the toilet.
Something told me she was pissed off.
I got in the shower with her
& I was right…she was pissed.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a real asshole,”
she said.
It was Valentines Day.
We had all night in bed together
& now we were showering.
And what?
Holy shit, I forgot to pop the question.
Got on my knees in the shower
& said: “Come on, honey.
I was gonna do it. I didn’t forget…
will you marry me?”
She said:
“You’re a big dope, but yes.”
Somehow that episode jumped back
into my thoughts today.
Always managed to forget about it,
till just now.
The proposal, the marriage,
the big disconnect.
And for dozens of Valentines Days,
I’ve been
single-handedly old & stupid.
GWEN INCIDENT
Her family sent detectives
to find me.
I was Gwen’s ex-husband,
so I was a person of interest.
Gwen was unrecognizable
up in Berkshire Medical Center.
She had blunt force trauma
& deep stab wounds
all over her body,
comatose, more dead than alive.
Detectives made me hand over
my aluminum baseball bat
& my Ka-Bar knife.
“Take whatever you want,” I said.
“I had nothing to do with this mess.”
We were married 6 years
& we had a few things in common:
we snapped at anything that moved;
our thoughts were at gutter-level;
our tongues were sharp enough
to slice rocks.
But slapping, punching, kicking
were never part of the mix.
We were crazy not stupid.
Then divorce
& divorce works if you work it.
So we worked it & it was worth it.
Allies then, half-hour of highway
between us,
on standby to snap into
courtesy mode.
We might need a small favors,
car trouble, heavy lifting,
a ride to the cancer place,
or maybe just lunch
of sandwiches, lemonade
& old inside jokes.
Divorce works if you work it.
Gwen died before the detectives
got back into their car.
All of my ex-in-laws
& the neighbors
in Gwen’s tiny town
& her new boyfriend…
they all pushed hard
to get me convicted.
They were wrong.
And I walked away clear & clean.
But until I find the butcher
who slaughtered Gwen,
I will snap at anything that moves,
think gutter-level thoughts
& keep my tongue sharp enough to slice a rock.
NEWS ITEM: Nik Wallenda said he will become
the first person to walk a high wire directly over
an active volcano. Wallenda says he will walk over
the Masaya Volcano in Nicaragua on March 4,
an 1,800-foot long tightrope walk. When asked if he
is nervous about the dangerous stunt, Wallenda said
it’s nothing compared to dodging President Ortega's
death squads.
JACK & JILL INCIDENT
Jack & Jill went up the fire escape,
Dartmouth Street,
Morningside, Pittsfield.
Artful cat burglars
fetching a payload of treasure
& sending shockwaves
through the spooning lovers
in the second floor bedroom.
Jack & Jill --
Jack Fuzzy Montefusco
& Jill MacHooper Snapper --
robbing as robbers do,
cash, cards, shiny things
on the vanity,
technological doodads & passwords.
“And let’s have the keys to your car,”
said Jill.
Jack checked the nightstand drawer
& found a .22 revolver, 6 rounds,
2 inch barrel, with a lavender finish.
“Please don’t shoot us,” cried the lovers.
Jack smirked & closed the drawer
with the wimpy, little popgun intact.
Whatever it takes to fire a weapon
at an intruder,
these 2 panicked sweethearts,
wrapped severely in their bedcovers
& each other, were no threat.
But a serious threat to their mattress
was developing if they didn’t get
to the bathroom soon.
Jack & Jill knew this,
so they went down the fire escape
having fetched a good bag of swag.
Drove off in their victims’ car,
2001 Subaru Outback
covered in bumper stickers,
& smelling like patchouli
& burnt sage.
But Jack had to pull over
barely out of Morningside,
the air in the car was so bad.
Jack fell dead & Jill came shuffling after.
She made sure Jack was finished.
Then she went back to
Dartmouth Street
making amends upstairs,
saying: "I don’t really see
why we can’t go on as 3."
MARILYN CHAMBERS INCIDENT
The Cold War ended in ’91,
which always reminds me of
Marilyn Chambers.
She was the porn star
who attended my
one-man shows that year.
All of my theatre friends
hated her.
Marilyn Chambers,
nemesis at even the lowest rung
of theatre,
right there where I performed
way the hell off-Broadway,
that black box upstairs
on West 22nd Street.
1-hour show called
“Bunker Mentality,”
my literary stew of rage & rage
& sarcasm & physical comedy
& remorse & a love song & rage.
All the ingredients for a Cold War.
In 1991,
when the Cold War ended,
Marilyn Chambers came to my show.
I was booked for only 2 weekends
at Theatre 22, NYC,
but Marilyn was there every night.
Shy, on edge, waiting afterward,
but no words.
Maybe a nod & a smile,
but no dialogue
like in her great, dirty flick
“Behind the Green Door.”
Seeing everything, saying nothing.
Still smiling that Ivory Snow
soap flake smile.
That same year,
the year the Cold War ended,
MC called to cast me
in her next dirty movie
“Still Insatiable.”
She’d be a US Senator,
I would be her aide.
$7,000 for 6 days of filming.
But show business froze me out.
I worked for Marilyn Chambers
& I became a casualty
of one of the industry’s
selective battles,
another sucker in their cold, cold war.
Was it what they knew?
Or was it what they wanted
to believe?
KAMIKAZE BLUES
When I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
when I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
I don’t know what they do,
but I bet I was a better Kamikaze than you.
When I was a alligator
down in the Everglades,
when I was a alligator
down in the Everglades,
everybody was afraid.
My teeth were like razor blades.
When I was a celebrity
making a thousand dollars an hour,
when I was a celebrity
making a thousand dollars an hour,
I had a leaky bathtub tub
& a broken shower.
I did that funky sponge-bath thing,
sponge-bath a long, long time.
I did that funky sponge-bath thing,
sponge-bath a long, long time.
Couldn’t wash those hard to reach spots,
all that smelly grime
where the sun don’t shine.
My bathroom was out of order,
my bathroom was a mess.
My bathroom was out of order,
My bathroom was a mess.
All backed up & busted
& you don’t need to know the rest.
When I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
when I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
I don’t know what Kamikazes do,
but I bet I was a better Kamikaze than you.
CHRISTMAS CARDS INCIDENT
These Christmas cards
make me nervous.
They come in the mailbox
or they come sliding under my door
or someone hands me one in person.
All from women I like,
women nice enough,
yet it takes time for them to learn
to stay an arm’s length away.
They need hugs, handshakes
& fists bumps.
Women with smiles & good teeth
& eyes that say come over
& play in my sandbox.
But I say no, I have swine flu,
I have leprosy,
I have Stage 4 shell shock.
Christmas cards, not many
& never from the same few women.
Because once they figure me out,
usually by New Year’s Eve,
they stay away.
They discover I am non-concrete.
So, after the Christmas card ballyhoo,
they dispatch their hate
in the mailbox, under the door,
in person…
Next year, there will be others,
don't worry about it.
Then Jesus is at my door,
he stops by in the morning
with regularity.
He blows a breath at the Christmas cards
& changes them into pillars of salt,
kosher salt.
Then Jesus pulls gold,
frankincense & myrrh
from his sleeve,
does his transfiguration bit
& turns the stuff into coffee,
juice & a roll.
And he makes a toast to me:
“To my schizophrenic friend.
You, Bob, are good people.”
Yes, yes, yes…that’s how we roll,
keeping Christ in Christmas breakfast.
But of course, once he figures me out,
he'll stay away, too.
SLEEP INCIDENT
Last Friday night,
I could not sleep.
I mean, I never sleep.
But last Friday night was
the worst ever.
I have some kind of condition.
Don’t ask me the details.
It’s a long story & it’s complicated
& we don’t know each other,
so mind your damned business.
I’ve tried everything for
my chronic sleeplessness.
Everything from weight lifting
to “Waiting for Godot.”
Listening to Sinatra & jam bands
to swallowing Sominex & Ambien.
Everything from warm milk
to cohabitation.
Nothing works.
I go to the doctor for help
& he loads me up with
placebo pills.
Thinks he can hoodwink me
out of my affliction
with a cheap medical swindle.
Forget that,
I’ll be my own doctor.
If I wait for awhile,
maybe I’ll break down
& go dead.
Turn to ashes, then dust,
then filthy grime.
Meanwhile, every day is
coffee, coffee, coffee
& concentrating on nothing
except an afternoon nap.
Dying for an afternoon nap
& seeing cats in windows
who can’t stay awake.
CHARLIE CONKLIN INCIDENT
When Charlie Conklin’s sister died,
he imagined she was sent to prison.
When his brother got locked up
in the slammer,
he told himself his brother was dead.
Charlie Conklin was
maybe 20 years from natural death.
Tall, 6 foot 2, 6 foot 3.
Striped railroad engineer’s cap
on the back of his head.
Sweaty & walking on his toes
in Red Wing work boots.
Kids called him Springfoot.
He hated those kids
alongside the rest of
the population.
No love & no love lost.
Mixing & matching death
& incarceration
made it easy for Charlie
to expunge their actuality.
In stir or in the dirt,
in the clink or extinct,
in the tank or gone blank…
in effect, he was surrounded by
a species that on the whole
wasn’t happening anymore.
And that filled him with
a vicious energy,
a cruel get up & go,
an inner strength fired by
high octane hate poison.
Charlie Conklin felt good all over.
No friends, no sweethearts.
Charlie Conklin
never even read about love.
But if he tried,
he could have caught
Dear Abby’s column today.
Dear Abby:
They call me Casanova.
They call me Lothario.
They call me Don Juan.
I just love the ladies.
I loved about a hundred so far
this year.
Every woman seems to
love me back,
even more than I love them.
They like my good looks
& the size of my bank account.
Size matters.
This is a wonderful problem
to have, right Dear Abby?
Or should I quit?
Maybe I should imagine
they’re all dead or in prison.
Be vicious & cruel
& stay full of high octane
hate poison.
Signed: Oversexed in Ohio.
Dear Oversexed:
Keep doing what you’re doing.
The world doesn’t need
another Charlie Conklin.
ROBERTO DURAN INCIDENT
The old fighter wagged his finger
at the boyfriend.
They were standing eye-to-eye
in the living room.
The old man was setting rules
for this kid if the kid wanted to
date the old man’s daughter.
“You hurt Irichelle in any way--
make her black & blue,
break her heart, whatever you do--
I will kill you & your family,
burn down your house
& shit on your grave…
you hear me? You hear me?”
The boyfriend heard it.
Irichelle in the kitchen,
arms folded, head down,
heard it, too.
A nasty, noisy threat & promise
for all of Panama to hear,
from this upscale neighborhood,
all the way back to the slums
of El Chorrillo,
where the old man was born.
Roberto Duran Samaniego,
4-time boxing world champion,
Manos de Piedra, “Hands of Stone.”
103 wins, 16 losses.
Cold-blooded in the ring
for 33 years,
yet well-known for his caring
& affection at home.
But boyfriends had to be told
upfront that rules are rules,
if you think you want to date Irichelle.
And any old boxer will tell you,
you break the rules,
you get disqualified.
Roberto Duran said it loud & clear
for the whole isthmus
to take notice of.
And nobody got hurt.
Some awkward moments,
a few red faces, but no big hurt.
The Box Fan Expo opened
at the Las Vegas Convention Center
with Roberto Duran as one
of the headliners.
It was a meet & greet situation.
Fans stood in line for autographs
& for a picture with an old champ.
Roberto Duran sat at a table
holding a ballpoint pen.
Pushing 70, he looked sleepy
& overused.
A man stood before him & said:
“You probably don’t remember me,
sir, but you had a positive impact
on me long ago.”
Roberto looked hard into the man’s eyes.
“Edgar, right? I frightened you
when you came to see my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“But you held your ground
& didn’t back down.”
Years & years passed with
the hard speed of 3-minute rounds
in the ring,
but the old boyfriend never forgot
that lesson in strength & fear
from Roberto Duran,
who once told him:
“Rules are rules,”
which Edgar passed along
to any of his people who
needed to hear it.
Then the old fighter winked at
the old boyfriend & said:
“Well, Edgar, I guess you won’t
be needing an autograph
or a photograph, right?”
GUN STORE INCIDENT
The gun store called
to say that my application
was finally approved.
That meant it took only
12 years for an official okay.
So, now I could go out
to the gun store
& buy the shotgun
I don’t need anymore.
It’s been a long time
since revenge was my
exclusive passion.
It was a good thing
my records showed
I was an uncontrollable savage.
All those years ago,
their computers had pages
of bad news about me.
Don’t put a gun in the hands
of this brutal swine.
12 years later though,
I qualify for a Benelli 12-gauge,
semi-automatic.
Was $1,149, now $999.
No forms, no waiting.
But right now,
I’m mostly at peace
with most of the people
I used to hate.
Hate still has a place
in my heart & head,
but I can channel it away
from slippery creatures
in the line of fire
& aim it right back to me.
Self-loathing is as far as I go
with my vengeance these days.
Plenty of shots fired
on my left & right,
but no recoil, no bloodshed.
THANKSGIVING INCIDENT
Fights break out
at the Thanksgiving Day table
because somebody needs to be
the smartest one in the room.
So, before that absolute brilliance
comes out of your mouth,
shovel some meat & potatoes in there
to wash the wisdom
down to the colon.
Use some common sense
& let your genius take a holiday.
JERRY GARCIA INCIDENT
My left hand has 5 fingers.
My right hand has 5 fingers.
But Jerry Garcia’s right hand
had only 4 & a half fingers.
Still, he played guitar expertly.
What did you expect?
He was Jerry Garcia.
The story goes that
his right middle finger
was eaten by rats.
Midwestern rats
that didn’t know any better.
If it was San Francisco
or NYC,
those rats would have
recognized Jerry Garcia
& just nibbled on his beard,
which would have
made Jerry laugh
& seeing Jerry laughing
would have made
those rats laugh, too.
And that’s all we need to fix
all that needs fixing,
don’t you think?
Merriment with vermin.
Well, the Grateful Dead tour
stopped in Wisconsin,
where cheese was invented.
The Dead played Madison
on the night when local rats
ate all the cheese in town.
Jerry Garcia passed out
after the show on the shoreline
of Lake Wingra.
Passed out not from an 8-ball
& 8 shots of tequila,
but from inhaling too much
wholesome Midwest air.
Along came the Badger State rats,
not satisfied with gorging up
every available piece of cheese
in Madison
& they took a taste of
lifeless Jerry’s middle finger.
Jerry woke abruptly saying:
“Where’s my hat?”
But he wasn’t wearing a hat.
He never wore a hat.
That’s why I always liked Jerry Garcia.
He thought hats were for
empty-headed fools.
As for that half of a finger
on his right hand,
Jerry swore it was a made-up story.
He said it was just sleight of hand.
SLIPSTREAM MINNIE
Slipstream Minnie, laid down
her guitar at the curb.
It was trash pickup day
& she was casting off her music.
No more playing delta blues,
no more Piedmont blues, either.
Blowing off Club Passim
& the Iron Horse;
Infinity Hall & Hawks & Reed;
Regular venues in Austin,
Memphis & Nashville…
Nobody in Pittsfield gave a shit
about Slipstream Minnie
or her guitar.
She was just a fat old woman
from senior housing
on Bradford Street
& what she put in the trash
looked like maybe a broken end table.
But it was not a broken anything.
And it didn’t belong with the garbage.
Sanitation truck came rattling
up the street.
I ran out of my building
in my bathrobe, running, running;
walking was most too slow.
Seconds ahead of the truck,
I grabbed the guitar in time.
LG-1, 1964 Gibson,
belonging to Slipstream Minnie.
Later, at her 3rd floor apartment,
Capitol Square,
a clean, healthy place
for an 80 year-old;
Minnie retired with her new hobby
of preparing for death.
She answered my knock
& invited me in.
Took back her guitar.
“I ain’t played that thing
anywhere in years,” she said,
trying to remember how
it got out of the closet.
“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t belong
in a scrap heap
& I just put new strings on it.”
Slipstream Minnie held the Gibson
& adjusted the tuning pegs,
& had no trouble
getting into “Boogie Chillun.”
“Son,” Minnie said,
“you’re too young to remember
that blues man.”
“John Lee Hooker, no question,”
I said, “but I like your version better.
Smarty pants, she called me.
Flirting, she said.
She played “Key to the Highway,”
which I knew as Sonny Terry
& Brownie McGhee.
“Damn you, pointy-headed,
little dude…
okay, then. I’m gonna play one
you ain’t never heard.”
“Sorry, Minnie,” I told her,
“I can’t stay. I’m supposed to be
somewhere.”
She said:
“Well, don’t try to go wherever it is
you’re going in that raggedy-assed
bathrobe.”
It was still trash pickup day
& Slipstream Minnie still had time
to cast off her music.
No fun living in the wake
of her good old days,
her good old days were gone,
long gone.
She plodded upstairs to the roof,
held her Gibson high over her head
& hurled it down
to the pavement below.
No one got hurt
& at first glance,
it looked like a broken end table.
MONEYBAGS INCIDENT
Because he always had plenty
of cash,
maybe too much cash
for a 16 year-old,
Roy Beck’s father called him
"Moneybags."
But Roy worked hard & steady
for every nickel.
Caddied at the golf course,
mowed lawns around the
neighborhood;
ushered at the movie theatre
at night,
then came back in the morning
to clean up the popcorn
& empty soda cups
& all that mysterious sticky stuff.
Roy Beck bought new clothes
& a new bike
& never asked the old man
for nothing.
Roy figured that if he became
a pest,
Dad might pick up the drink
where his wife left off,
wife & mother,
who got swallowed up
in an alcoholic undercurrent
that rushed her straight to the
boneyard.
His father said: "Hey, Moneybags,
let's go see the Yankees
this weekend."
Roy Beck said okay,
but only if he could pay
for everything.
But the old man said no dice.
Then they haggled & wrangled
& wheeled & dealed
& Roy’s father gave in saying:
“Okay, Moneybags,
go ahead, be a big shot.”
Roy Beck’s Dad worked
a factory job that didn't allow
for much disposable income.
That year (1966), he cleared
$276.84 per week.
Roy matched that easy
with his everyday teenage hustle.
Kid always had a good payday
& every Friday at the supper table,
he’d slap down $100 for his share
of the groceries & utilities.
But his Dad pushed it away,
saying "I'm okay, Moneybags,
you put that in the bank
till you really need it."
At Yankee Stadium, the whole day
was Roy Beck’s treat.
Metro North tickets, subway tokens,
tickets for seats right behind
the Yankee dugout,
hotdogs & cold drinks.
Tie game, bottom of the 9th,
Pepitone hit one high & far
over the center field fence.
Dad hugged Roy & hooted
& jumped & down,
never stopped smiling
till they got back home.
Roy’s Dad took a long, hot shower
& got into bed.
Roy Beck came into
his Dad’s bedroom to say goodnight.
"Did you enjoy the game?" Roy asked.
"Bet your ass I did.
Thanks, Moneybags."
Years later in that same bed,
a priest was anointing the old man
with Extreme Unction.
By that time, Roy Beck
had become a luckless drifter,
picking up where his
drunken mother left off;
operating under the influence,
broke & felonious.
And he was a little too late
for a bedside goodbye.
But the priest told Roy
that his Dad had a final word.
“With his last breath,” said the priest,
“your father whispered: ‘Moneybags.’
Does that mean something to you?”
“Nah,” said Roy Beck,
“sounds like gibberish to me.”
HAVE A DAY INCIDENT
She kissed me & left me
with the breakfast dishes.
At the door she turned
& smiled & said: “Have a day.”
Our years together have
added up to low expectations
about each new day
& she knows the right words.
“Have a day.”
Good days, bad days,
sparkling days, miserable,
rotten mornings
blending into above-average
afternoons
& me, with my routine facing-up
to the fear of daybreak
& high noon & dusk & dark,
helplessly pressing forward
into advanced years.
I am supposed to tell myself
if I ain’t getting older,
I must be dead.
She said: “Have a day,”
hinting at don’t quit,
you can’t quit,
don’t be a quitter.
Well, howz about I keep quitting
till I’m where I don’t want
to leave?
Damn, it’s almost tomorrow.
Better stir that Mulligan Stew.
She’ll be hungry & anxious
to share a little chatter about
the weather & the neighborhood
& about the remains of the day.
SNORE INCIDENT
Sleeping in the library is allowed.
Snoring is not.
If I fall asleep at one of the tables,
facedown in a newspaper,
it’s not against the law.
But mothers & their kids get scared.
Because an old man like me
passed out & drooling
ain’t a charming tableau.
Not good for business.
And some people say I have
a loud snore.
That’s a serious accusation.
Got to be one of those other
library sleepers.
Not me, damn it.
I don’t think I snore.
But Pollard from the library staff
is familiar with me
& he just pokes me in the ribs
as he passes by.
“Did I snore?” I say.
Pollard shakes his head & winks.
“But,” he said,
“there was an Italian dude
looking for you.”
Pollard handed me the man’s
calling card: Sergio Corbucci,
spaghetti western director,
put his hotel number on back.
We met over room service coffee.
He said his film, “The Last Pistolero,”
would be shot in the Berkshires
up & down Mount Greylock,
guns & horses & body fluids.
I said: “So you want me to play
the main guy, the pistolero?”
Sergio Corbucci laughed,
almost choked on his espresso.
“No, no, my friend,” he said,
“I want you to play the tired bartender,
one day’s work. $5,000.”
Bartender one scene, asleep at the bar.
He said:
“You have to be snoozing at the bar,
facedown in a newspaper
& snoring like crazy.”
“Hell,” I told him, “I can do that easy.”
“I know," said Corbuccci,
“when I watched you passed out
there in the library,
right then you passed my audition.”
“Did I snore?” I asked.
“Like a congested mule,” he said.
RIGOR MORTIS INCIDENT
How comfortable are you
these days?
I ask that question because
you should not be comfortable at all.
There is an epidemic
of epic proportions.
It is called Rigor Mortis.
The new Rigor Mortis.
Not the kind your grandmother had
when they found her on the floor.
No, true death isn’t part
of the equation anymore.
It is Rigor Mortis from the neck up.
My advice for you to recognize
this irreversible matter
is to be uncomfortable.
Maintain the jitters
& accept that the rest of your life
must be like a cat on a hot tin roof.
Recognize permanent stupidity
& stay on guard.
The new age of Rigor Mortis is here
& the situation is getting worse.
Oh, sure.
You’ll sit there & laugh at me.
You will cavalierly dismiss
my words of alarm
& tell yourself this is
a convoluted concoction
just to make you giggle.
But no.
There is nothing lighthearted
about this new strain
of Rigor Mortis.
It is a shocking, inflexible,
rigid malaise.
Populations from
Minneapolis to Munich;
from Detroit to Dunkirk;
from Wichita to Warsaw;
from Rochester to Reykjavik
are all getting sucked in.
Symptoms are stiffened arms
holding thingamabob doodads
up close to congealed,
indoctrinated heads.
And through the bowels of these gizmos
mechanical fools transact
phone calls & texting & Candy Crush,
all of which create a contagious
stiffness of brain death.
Today’s Rigor Mortis presents
a rigid, stooped posture
embraced by trendoids
who seem to be 1 step closer
to walking on all fours
& sucking their thumbs.
From the neck up these days
it’s cool to be paralyzed.
How can you be comfortable?
SERIAL KILLER INCIDENT
2 things at once.
Listening to radio play-by-play
of the World Series,
while following a line of investigation
into a local serial killer.
It was game 3,
Washington & Houston
contending for the MLB championship.
Baseball was the soundtrack
to my exploring the web
about a spree killer.
They were calling him
the Pittsfield Strangler.
I was paying attention to
2 things at once.
My apartment was quiet,
no noise from the game,
I was wearing earphones
& my research showed
Roy Gilbert Cannon as
the bad guy,
who choked his victims
with his bare hands
& never got caught.
Then someone was knocking
at my door.
It was the new guy
from apartment 323.
Barked at me, said my radio
was too loud.
I said: “What do you mean?
I’m wearing earphones.”
“Just turn it off,” he hollered,
“or I’ll kill you.”
I pushed the door shut
& double-locked it.
Back at the laptop,
my research was showing a headshot
of the Pittsfield Strangler,
the serial killer on the loose.
Same face as the guy at my door.
I called down to the lobby,
Debbie was working the front desk.
“What’s the guy’s name in 323?”
“I can’t do that,” she said,
“I’ll get fired.”
“Just look it up for me, Deb,
“come on, this is serious.”
She said 323 was the new tenant,
Roy Gilbert Cannon.
It was the 6th inning,
Chirinos homered to give
the Astros a 4-1 lead over
the Nats.
The killer from 323 came
knocking again,
this time to apologize.
He said: “Sorry, friend,
that noise before wasn’t
from you. It was the couple
next door. My mistake.
And I took care of the problem.”
The Pittsfield Strangler
silenced the couple next door,
meaning he was doing
2 things at once.
QUARTERBACK INCIDENT
The quarterback
was in front of me at 7-11.
He was asking the cashier
for cigarettes & scratch tickets.
For scratch tickets, he wanted
“Break the Bank,” “Diamond 7s,”
“Red Hot Slots,” “Topaz 7s,”
“Powerball,” “Mega-Millions,”
“Lucky for Life,” “Block-O,”
“Blackout Bingo…” all one of each.
He paid for his items,
winked at the cashier
& spun around to leave.
My turn now at the checkout.
Then the quarterback
recognized me.
“Bobby?” he said.
His breath heavy with Fireball.
Bad skin, bad teeth.
“Hey, Nick,” I said, “what a surprise.”
I paid for my milk & bread
& walked with the quarterback
out the door.
“Hell, Nick. We always thought
you’d make the pros.”
“Well,” he said, “I set QB records
at Notre Dame,
but then I got lost in the draft.”
“Lost" was right.
The quarterback went astray
& wasted his football skill set.
Cocaine & women
& no common sense & cocaine.
Notre Dame sacked him hard,
bounced him off the grid
into the South Bend night.
The quarterback remembered me
from high school,
class of '68,
when I was the slapstick funnyman
in search of an audience.
He was the big star
on the football field,
the darling quarterback.
Big star, darling…
but he was also a one-dimensional
shithead.
Deflowered schoolgirls
with the ease of smoking cigarettes.
Bullied weak classmates
into helping him cheat on exams.
Stole cash from teachers’ purses.
In the 1970s I was a letter carrier
for the post office.
Quarterback’s father came
running up my street, naked.
60-something old man,
popular guy, prominent CPA,
running back & forth in the street
like a scrambling quarterback
looking for a hole.
Panic on his face, moaning,
waving his arms…then he was gone
down a side street.
I brought that up
with the quarterback.
Said he was too busy
with ND football back then
& couldn’t get away.
Coke & sex & no common sense
& coke.
His father died that same naked day,
complications of senility.
1970s, too early to say dementia
or Alzheimer’s.
Maybe he was just lost
without his boy,
the big star, darling quarterback.
"Wanna hang out, Bobby?" he said,
"show ya my trophies & scrapbooks
& my Notre Dame games on tape."
I said: "Some other time, Nick,
but thanks."
He keeps fumbling
with the good old days,
scrambling, looking for a hole,
but the good old days are gone.
Long gone.
RHINOCEROS INCIDENT
Today you are marking
your wedding anniversary alone.
You are alone because
your husband is dead.
If you had taken a more
conventional approach to marriage,
like tying the knot with someone
from the same species as yourself,
well, I guarantee your husband
would be right by your side
right now,
rounding out your dreadfully boring
ways & means.
But no.
You married a rhinoceros.
All of a sudden you were turning 50
& you’d never even been
French-kissed.
Too busy, too neurotic.
Then with time passing you by,
you looked in the mirror
& saw a petrified prune.
You bit you nails.
You were fidgety.
You had the shakes,
You had intestinal butterflies
& circulation of just plain
botheration.
You’ve had a successful career
as a real estate lawyer
with Johnson, Peters & Wood, LLC
down in Myrtle Beach.
But while rotting as
a 50 year-old virgin
you collected a handful of pills,
a big thick rope & a stool
& set yourself up for
eternal nothingness.
But then Craig’s List posted
something from a horny rhinoceros.
Horny rhinoceros.
Made you wild & gooey inside.
You met & flirted at the zoo
& lucky for you, the zookeeper
was a justice of the peace.
Well, because of the rhino’s size,
he had to live in your garage,
which meant improvisational
consummation.
And after the obligatory
period of adjustment
& learning the expected
matrimonial drill,
your rhino ran off with
a lascivious quarter horse
named Citadel.
So, today as you mark
your wedding anniversary alone,
be grateful for the rhinoceros
Kama Sutra experience
& next time try to keep
to your own species.
BOOK INCIDENT
That book you sent me,
the one about your love affairs,
I mailed it back to you.
Did not crack it open.
At my age,
in my imperial wisdom,
I can easily judge a book
by its cover.
Yours is titled
“Lucky & Luckless in Love.”
That tells me right away
that I’m not in it.
We were a bad fit:
Bridgeport by the Sound,
Queens by the river,
Berkshires by the lake…
A few days of being love-sick,
a moment or 2 of tingling
in our body parts.
Maybe once in red heat
we hit the high spot.
But not lucky & not luckless,
just a droopy mismatch.
Sending your book back,
Honey.
I know I’m not in it.
But you can't say we didn't try, right?
CEMETERY INCIDENT
The 24-horsepower
Cub Cadet lawnmower
made its final cuttings
for the season.
Grass mowed up & down 142 acres
of Pittsfield Cemetery landscape.
Fall leaves getting chopped
& mixed in with the grass.
The Cub Cadet with Corey Boggs
at the controls.
Corey in her 11th year
working maintenance
at the cemetery.
Forgoing wages to live rent-free
on the grounds.
Money in the bank
from a bad guy,
a drunken bad guy,
years ago plowing into
a carload of Boggs.
Father driving, mother next to him.
Corey & her brother
riding in the back.
Death in the vulgarity
of a drunk’s collision.
People said:
“You were the lucky one,
honey. By the grace of god
you survived.”
But no.
She knew that god fucked up.
“No reason for me
not to be dead,” she said.
But the drunk was a state senator.
Plenty of money, plenty of guilt.
$4 million made the problem
go away.
Berkshire Bank promised
not to let her money go astray
& she could live off the interest.
Corey Boggs working that boneyard
& living right there on the campus.
Works hard riding that Cub Cadet
& won’t accept no pay.
Every blade of grass
belongs to Corey Boggs.
And here comes
those hot-colored leaves,
mix & mulch with the last cutting.
Good sunlight on these autumn days.
The shrubs on her family’s plot
are tilting in the direction of the glare.
And that heavyweight front arch
looking like a prison gate…
nobody knows there's
a cozy apartment carved out
inside those blocky bluestones,
home sweet home to Corey Boggs.
PHILDELPHIA SEWER RATS INCIDENT
It is exactly 1 year since
my mother became dead.
It is exactly 1 day since
I received my inheritance check.
5 figures, big numbers.
My first inclination was to go
to Saratoga
& throw it at the horses.
Then I thought that maybe
I would invest in a heroin addiction.
I hate the money & I particularly hate
the hungry rats from probate court.
Especially 2 Philadelphia
sewer rats.
Mother & daughter,
who spent the last 20 years
sucking up to my mother
for a piece of the cheese.
One of them thinks
she’s a blood relative.
Not part of my bloodline, she ain’t.
No fat, ugly rodents are
linked to me.
Real kinsfolk know better
than to disgrace the memory
of Marie Balogh, my mother.
Over the years these 2 parasitic vermin
would make regular visits
from their rats’ nest
in the Philadelphia sewer line
down to Virginia to brainwash
the old lady, Marie Balogh.
They would put yellow Post-it notes
on all of my mother’s belongings.
First dibs.
Post-it notes on the back of
furniture, appliances, TV,
stereo, bedframes, rugs, antiques…
disgusting.
Plus fill her cognitive declining head
with mercenary bullshit.
I hated these 2 frauds all of those
20-something years
& I hate them worse now.
My great hatred for them
could only be eclipsed by
how much my mother & father
both despised them,
right up until that special
split second when their holy souls
flew out of the Milky Way.
Exactly 1 year since Marie
became dead.
25 years since Red & Marie’s last kiss.
And exactly 1 day since my prize money
showed up in the mail.
If these 2 fat, ugly, Philadelphia sewer rats
weren’t so inconsequential
along with their cretinous credentials,
I’d give all my new cash to Terminex
to search & destroy these rat bastards.
No, I’ll start with a new trumpet
for the grandson.
We all loved the way he played “TAPS”
for Marie exactly 1 year ago.
WINNEBAGO INCIDENT
I parked my Winnebago
on the White House lawn.
Listened for sirens & choppers.
Waited for bullets & RPGs.
Watched every direction
for killer squads
in camouflage or black suits.
But it was quiet.
It was lonely.
So, I made a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich.
Opened a quart of milk.
They must know who I am, I thought.
If you’re me, you’d expect that,
especially on the White House lawn
in a Winnebago.
Bet Obama knows me.
Bet he spread the word
that a barrage of gunfire
at my sorry ass
would have been extravagant
& just plain wrong.
Then Obama
leaned in the passenger window.
“Something you want to talk about?”
he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I was just passing through,
wondering if you wanna hop in,
share some adventures for a few days.”
“Can we head down to the Outer Banks?”
“Hell yeah, get in.”
He drove most of the way,
one hand on a peanut butter & jelly,
the other one steered the Winnebago.
He was wearing that big campaign smile,
waving at motorists on I-95.
All of them jaded, all thinking:
“Jerk don’t look nothin’ like Barack.”
And Prez enjoying a taste
of being mistaken for a nobody.
But he said:
“This is a one-time thing, you understand.”
He looked at me sideways
from the driver’s seat.
I said: “Sure, Mr. President,
just keep your eyes on the road.”
LOLLIPOP INCIDENT
Lopresti was told
that he would outgrow the problem.
He heard from all the adults
about the power & value
of ignoring the cause of his troubles;
the cause being the kids in school.
They taunted Lopresti
by convoluting his name
into “Lollipop.”
Lollipop Lopresti.
Tall, rangy child
bukly head,
big greasy pompadour.
1962, age 12.
“My boy Lollipop.
You make my heart go giddy-up.”
He reacted with embarrassment,
then obscenities,
then he’d grab a provocateur
& bang his fist
into the motherfucker’s nose.
Teasing Lopresti
soon became high risk & no fun.
The Lollipop years lasted
less than 12 months.
It took the routine practice
of following the adults’ advice,
of ignoring ridicule
to make the problem go away.
But in a jam,
he might bloody a challenger’s face
with his knuckles.
Yesterday,
Lopresti is on the front porch
watching the sunset.
A silver Lexus pulls up.
“Hey, Lollipop,” says the driver.
Lopresti walks to the driver’s window.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
says Lexus, a cigar & a big grin.
No comment.
“We were in school together back in the day.”
No comment.
“Come on,” says Lexus.
“Howz about all the fun we had?”
He sings: “My boy Lollipop.”
No comment.
“Shit, Lopresti. You’re still a freakin’ weirdo loser.
Same old sour-ass Lollipop.”
Comment:
Lopresti throws a strong left jab
breaking the bridge of the driver’s nose.
On the front porch
watching the sunset,
Lopresti is rocking his golden years.
Can’t quite outgrow
that old schoolyard problem.
Tries hard when he’s hard-pressed,
but still gets sucked in.
Lollipop.
Just an all-day sucker
with shame past its prime
still making his heart go giddy-up.
FALSE ALARM INCIDENT
There goes the false alarm
& here comes a stampede
in the hallway.
The elevator is knocked out
& they make a mad gallop
down the stairs.
False alarm,
with a shriek & pulse
that says incoming nuke
& forthcoming coronary
& shit in the pants.
But it’s a false alarm.
Lisa, from the 4th floor,
just got pissed off
because I wouldn’t give her
cigarette money.
So she pulled the emergency lever.
This is the effect I have on women now.
Lisa & I are the only ones
who haven’t evacuated the building.
We know the score.
While 4 floors of people
are out on the sidewalk,
distress signal still stinging their ears;
they are deafened by a false alarm
& listening for the wrong answer.
SUNSET INCIDENT
The sun sets
into the Berkshire Taconic ecosystem.
You see it 3 or 4 times a week,
best viewed from the upper deck
of McKay Street’s parking garage,
the ugly downtown whirley-gig parkade,
the dirty car ramp spiral
that nobody mistakes for Guggenheim.
But up on the roof,
there goes the sun,
unrivaled in dropping dead.
You lean against the rail,
best seat in the house,
watch another day break down.
Up on the roof,
where sunsets are better heard,
not seen.
And you are getting the melody.
And in wonder you are saying:
“That used to be my favorite song.”
CARDBOARD INCIDENT
Cardboard boxes
were not part of my moving equation
this time.
I moved two weeks ago,
packed, loaded
& drove 3 miles
from point “old” to point “new,”
with personal property,
stuff, gear,
bits & bobs,
shit & Shinola,
forensic evidence of an unspectacular life.
But no cardboard boxes.
For once, I moved out & in
strictly with milk crates
& some wonderful, sad, smelly luggage
from the thrift.
And not one cardboard box, hear me?
Shipping the miserable cargo at age 64.99
with no help.
All my best friends had sacroiliac dysfunction
or a yoga class
or they were out
changing the course of history
with placards & megaphones.
No help, no problem.
No cardboard boxes,
mnemonics for all my glum moves
moving backward;
missteps & dead ends,
worn out welcomes,
cleaning out nests
& compacting everything into cardboard
wrapped with duct tape,
Sharpie scribble on the sides saying:
kitchen utensils,
bathroom supplies,
office supplies,
books,
CDs,
photo albums,
junk drawer debris,
breakables reinforced with newspaper,
scratchpads of genius,
journals of madness,
convoluted resumes,
C-4 & hand grenades…
then take 5 when a bottom falls out.
But not this time.
Milk crates & valises
& an elevator at the new place
made for a low-key heave ho.
I am intact.
I am ready for the championship round
& so far
I’m not a cardboard cutout of myself.
copyright (c) 2015 by Bob Balogh
All rights reserved
A
BOB'S is a multi-purpose performance space
seating 35. Available to rent for art display, poetry readings, live music, theatrical shows.
BOB BALOGH manager, artistic director
413-212-7180 www.balogh613@aol.com
ON RADIO:
every Monday morning, 6:00-9:00 a.m.
streaming at www.valleyfreeradio.org
ON TELEVISION:
"In the Slammer" www.ctsbtv.org
BOOKS:
"Iced Tea & Apologies"
"Scat"
"Earthworms Have Five Hearts"
"Manage the Sweat"
"Incidents"
"Mornings"
"Greater Backfish Journal"
"Variations of You"
RANDOM MASTERWORK
HEN PARTY DAY
Today is International HEN PARTY Day. It’s a day when we honor the fine women who get together & hang loose, let their hair down & whoop it up.
A hen party is a classy counterpart to the vulgar stag parties that men organize. Men like to gather in some frumpy VFW hall that reeks of testosterone to honor one of their poor slob friends who is about to get married. Loud music, booze & a hooker.
Not so for women. The HEN PARTY celebrates a bride-to-be with the ultimate ladies’ night out. The maid of honor’s house is a good place for the party. It’s clean, well-appointed & it doesn’t stink.
Yes, they drink a little champagne, have a glass or two wine of wine, smoke a joint, maybe do a line of blow, bring in a Chippendale. And okay, sure…one feisty gal gets too drunk, somebody throws a tantrum, a fight breaks out, a bridesmaid pukes…but it’s all done with flair & style & good taste.
Plus, women are pretty good about cleaning up their messes. Men are different. Men are pigs. They assume their stag party residue will be serviced by somebody’s mother.
Anyway, you never know when What’s-Her-Name’s single life might be coming to an end. So, at least support her final bachelorette days by acknowledging her ilk on this International HEN PARTY Day.
VALENTINES INCIDENT
Old & stupid, I forget things.
Like being younger
& a different kind of stupid.
Valentines Day, 1999.
We were at the Wake Robin Inn
in Lakeville, CT.
We were in love.
And we more or less assumed
that this little getaway
at the edge of nowhere
would be the perfect time & place
for my official marriage proposal.
Checkout time was getting close.
She was in the shower.
I was on the toilet.
Something told me she was pissed off.
I got in the shower with her
& I was right…she was pissed.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a real asshole,”
she said.
It was Valentines Day.
We had all night in bed together
& now we were showering.
And what?
Holy shit, I forgot to pop the question.
Got on my knees in the shower
& said: “Come on, honey.
I was gonna do it. I didn’t forget…
will you marry me?”
She said:
“You’re a big dope, but yes.”
Somehow that episode jumped back
into my thoughts today.
Always managed to forget about it,
till just now.
The proposal, the marriage,
the big disconnect.
And for dozens of Valentines Days,
I’ve been
single-handedly old & stupid.
GWEN INCIDENT
Her family sent detectives
to find me.
I was Gwen’s ex-husband,
so I was a person of interest.
Gwen was unrecognizable
up in Berkshire Medical Center.
She had blunt force trauma
& deep stab wounds
all over her body,
comatose, more dead than alive.
Detectives made me hand over
my aluminum baseball bat
& my Ka-Bar knife.
“Take whatever you want,” I said.
“I had nothing to do with this mess.”
We were married 6 years
& we had a few things in common:
we snapped at anything that moved;
our thoughts were at gutter-level;
our tongues were sharp enough
to slice rocks.
But slapping, punching, kicking
were never part of the mix.
We were crazy not stupid.
Then divorce
& divorce works if you work it.
So we worked it & it was worth it.
Allies then, half-hour of highway
between us,
on standby to snap into
courtesy mode.
We might need a small favors,
car trouble, heavy lifting,
a ride to the cancer place,
or maybe just lunch
of sandwiches, lemonade
& old inside jokes.
Divorce works if you work it.
Gwen died before the detectives
got back into their car.
All of my ex-in-laws
& the neighbors
in Gwen’s tiny town
& her new boyfriend…
they all pushed hard
to get me convicted.
They were wrong.
And I walked away clear & clean.
But until I find the butcher
who slaughtered Gwen,
I will snap at anything that moves,
think gutter-level thoughts
& keep my tongue sharp enough to slice a rock.
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an active volcano. Wallenda says he will walk over
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it’s nothing compared to dodging President Ortega's
death squads.
JACK & JILL INCIDENT
Jack & Jill went up the fire escape,
Dartmouth Street,
Morningside, Pittsfield.
Artful cat burglars
fetching a payload of treasure
& sending shockwaves
through the spooning lovers
in the second floor bedroom.
Jack & Jill --
Jack Fuzzy Montefusco
& Jill MacHooper Snapper --
robbing as robbers do,
cash, cards, shiny things
on the vanity,
technological doodads & passwords.
“And let’s have the keys to your car,”
said Jill.
Jack checked the nightstand drawer
& found a .22 revolver, 6 rounds,
2 inch barrel, with a lavender finish.
“Please don’t shoot us,” cried the lovers.
Jack smirked & closed the drawer
with the wimpy, little popgun intact.
Whatever it takes to fire a weapon
at an intruder,
these 2 panicked sweethearts,
wrapped severely in their bedcovers
& each other, were no threat.
But a serious threat to their mattress
was developing if they didn’t get
to the bathroom soon.
Jack & Jill knew this,
so they went down the fire escape
having fetched a good bag of swag.
Drove off in their victims’ car,
2001 Subaru Outback
covered in bumper stickers,
& smelling like patchouli
& burnt sage.
But Jack had to pull over
barely out of Morningside,
the air in the car was so bad.
Jack fell dead & Jill came shuffling after.
She made sure Jack was finished.
Then she went back to
Dartmouth Street
making amends upstairs,
saying: "I don’t really see
why we can’t go on as 3."
MARILYN CHAMBERS INCIDENT
The Cold War ended in ’91,
which always reminds me of
Marilyn Chambers.
She was the porn star
who attended my
one-man shows that year.
All of my theatre friends
hated her.
Marilyn Chambers,
nemesis at even the lowest rung
of theatre,
right there where I performed
way the hell off-Broadway,
that black box upstairs
on West 22nd Street.
1-hour show called
“Bunker Mentality,”
my literary stew of rage & rage
& sarcasm & physical comedy
& remorse & a love song & rage.
All the ingredients for a Cold War.
In 1991,
when the Cold War ended,
Marilyn Chambers came to my show.
I was booked for only 2 weekends
at Theatre 22, NYC,
but Marilyn was there every night.
Shy, on edge, waiting afterward,
but no words.
Maybe a nod & a smile,
but no dialogue
like in her great, dirty flick
“Behind the Green Door.”
Seeing everything, saying nothing.
Still smiling that Ivory Snow
soap flake smile.
That same year,
the year the Cold War ended,
MC called to cast me
in her next dirty movie
“Still Insatiable.”
She’d be a US Senator,
I would be her aide.
$7,000 for 6 days of filming.
But show business froze me out.
I worked for Marilyn Chambers
& I became a casualty
of one of the industry’s
selective battles,
another sucker in their cold, cold war.
Was it what they knew?
Or was it what they wanted
to believe?
KAMIKAZE BLUES
When I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
when I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
I don’t know what they do,
but I bet I was a better Kamikaze than you.
When I was a alligator
down in the Everglades,
when I was a alligator
down in the Everglades,
everybody was afraid.
My teeth were like razor blades.
When I was a celebrity
making a thousand dollars an hour,
when I was a celebrity
making a thousand dollars an hour,
I had a leaky bathtub tub
& a broken shower.
I did that funky sponge-bath thing,
sponge-bath a long, long time.
I did that funky sponge-bath thing,
sponge-bath a long, long time.
Couldn’t wash those hard to reach spots,
all that smelly grime
where the sun don’t shine.
My bathroom was out of order,
my bathroom was a mess.
My bathroom was out of order,
My bathroom was a mess.
All backed up & busted
& you don’t need to know the rest.
When I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
when I was a Kamikaze
doing what Kamikazes do,
I don’t know what Kamikazes do,
but I bet I was a better Kamikaze than you.
CHRISTMAS CARDS INCIDENT
These Christmas cards
make me nervous.
They come in the mailbox
or they come sliding under my door
or someone hands me one in person.
All from women I like,
women nice enough,
yet it takes time for them to learn
to stay an arm’s length away.
They need hugs, handshakes
& fists bumps.
Women with smiles & good teeth
& eyes that say come over
& play in my sandbox.
But I say no, I have swine flu,
I have leprosy,
I have Stage 4 shell shock.
Christmas cards, not many
& never from the same few women.
Because once they figure me out,
usually by New Year’s Eve,
they stay away.
They discover I am non-concrete.
So, after the Christmas card ballyhoo,
they dispatch their hate
in the mailbox, under the door,
in person…
Next year, there will be others,
don't worry about it.
Then Jesus is at my door,
he stops by in the morning
with regularity.
He blows a breath at the Christmas cards
& changes them into pillars of salt,
kosher salt.
Then Jesus pulls gold,
frankincense & myrrh
from his sleeve,
does his transfiguration bit
& turns the stuff into coffee,
juice & a roll.
And he makes a toast to me:
“To my schizophrenic friend.
You, Bob, are good people.”
Yes, yes, yes…that’s how we roll,
keeping Christ in Christmas breakfast.
But of course, once he figures me out,
he'll stay away, too.
SLEEP INCIDENT
Last Friday night,
I could not sleep.
I mean, I never sleep.
But last Friday night was
the worst ever.
I have some kind of condition.
Don’t ask me the details.
It’s a long story & it’s complicated
& we don’t know each other,
so mind your damned business.
I’ve tried everything for
my chronic sleeplessness.
Everything from weight lifting
to “Waiting for Godot.”
Listening to Sinatra & jam bands
to swallowing Sominex & Ambien.
Everything from warm milk
to cohabitation.
Nothing works.
I go to the doctor for help
& he loads me up with
placebo pills.
Thinks he can hoodwink me
out of my affliction
with a cheap medical swindle.
Forget that,
I’ll be my own doctor.
If I wait for awhile,
maybe I’ll break down
& go dead.
Turn to ashes, then dust,
then filthy grime.
Meanwhile, every day is
coffee, coffee, coffee
& concentrating on nothing
except an afternoon nap.
Dying for an afternoon nap
& seeing cats in windows
who can’t stay awake.
CHARLIE CONKLIN INCIDENT
When Charlie Conklin’s sister died,
he imagined she was sent to prison.
When his brother got locked up
in the slammer,
he told himself his brother was dead.
Charlie Conklin was
maybe 20 years from natural death.
Tall, 6 foot 2, 6 foot 3.
Striped railroad engineer’s cap
on the back of his head.
Sweaty & walking on his toes
in Red Wing work boots.
Kids called him Springfoot.
He hated those kids
alongside the rest of
the population.
No love & no love lost.
Mixing & matching death
& incarceration
made it easy for Charlie
to expunge their actuality.
In stir or in the dirt,
in the clink or extinct,
in the tank or gone blank…
in effect, he was surrounded by
a species that on the whole
wasn’t happening anymore.
And that filled him with
a vicious energy,
a cruel get up & go,
an inner strength fired by
high octane hate poison.
Charlie Conklin felt good all over.
No friends, no sweethearts.
Charlie Conklin
never even read about love.
But if he tried,
he could have caught
Dear Abby’s column today.
Dear Abby:
They call me Casanova.
They call me Lothario.
They call me Don Juan.
I just love the ladies.
I loved about a hundred so far
this year.
Every woman seems to
love me back,
even more than I love them.
They like my good looks
& the size of my bank account.
Size matters.
This is a wonderful problem
to have, right Dear Abby?
Or should I quit?
Maybe I should imagine
they’re all dead or in prison.
Be vicious & cruel
& stay full of high octane
hate poison.
Signed: Oversexed in Ohio.
Dear Oversexed:
Keep doing what you’re doing.
The world doesn’t need
another Charlie Conklin.
ROBERTO DURAN INCIDENT
The old fighter wagged his finger
at the boyfriend.
They were standing eye-to-eye
in the living room.
The old man was setting rules
for this kid if the kid wanted to
date the old man’s daughter.
“You hurt Irichelle in any way--
make her black & blue,
break her heart, whatever you do--
I will kill you & your family,
burn down your house
& shit on your grave…
you hear me? You hear me?”
The boyfriend heard it.
Irichelle in the kitchen,
arms folded, head down,
heard it, too.
A nasty, noisy threat & promise
for all of Panama to hear,
from this upscale neighborhood,
all the way back to the slums
of El Chorrillo,
where the old man was born.
Roberto Duran Samaniego,
4-time boxing world champion,
Manos de Piedra, “Hands of Stone.”
103 wins, 16 losses.
Cold-blooded in the ring
for 33 years,
yet well-known for his caring
& affection at home.
But boyfriends had to be told
upfront that rules are rules,
if you think you want to date Irichelle.
And any old boxer will tell you,
you break the rules,
you get disqualified.
Roberto Duran said it loud & clear
for the whole isthmus
to take notice of.
And nobody got hurt.
Some awkward moments,
a few red faces, but no big hurt.
The Box Fan Expo opened
at the Las Vegas Convention Center
with Roberto Duran as one
of the headliners.
It was a meet & greet situation.
Fans stood in line for autographs
& for a picture with an old champ.
Roberto Duran sat at a table
holding a ballpoint pen.
Pushing 70, he looked sleepy
& overused.
A man stood before him & said:
“You probably don’t remember me,
sir, but you had a positive impact
on me long ago.”
Roberto looked hard into the man’s eyes.
“Edgar, right? I frightened you
when you came to see my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“But you held your ground
& didn’t back down.”
Years & years passed with
the hard speed of 3-minute rounds
in the ring,
but the old boyfriend never forgot
that lesson in strength & fear
from Roberto Duran,
who once told him:
“Rules are rules,”
which Edgar passed along
to any of his people who
needed to hear it.
Then the old fighter winked at
the old boyfriend & said:
“Well, Edgar, I guess you won’t
be needing an autograph
or a photograph, right?”
GUN STORE INCIDENT
The gun store called
to say that my application
was finally approved.
That meant it took only
12 years for an official okay.
So, now I could go out
to the gun store
& buy the shotgun
I don’t need anymore.
It’s been a long time
since revenge was my
exclusive passion.
It was a good thing
my records showed
I was an uncontrollable savage.
All those years ago,
their computers had pages
of bad news about me.
Don’t put a gun in the hands
of this brutal swine.
12 years later though,
I qualify for a Benelli 12-gauge,
semi-automatic.
Was $1,149, now $999.
No forms, no waiting.
But right now,
I’m mostly at peace
with most of the people
I used to hate.
Hate still has a place
in my heart & head,
but I can channel it away
from slippery creatures
in the line of fire
& aim it right back to me.
Self-loathing is as far as I go
with my vengeance these days.
Plenty of shots fired
on my left & right,
but no recoil, no bloodshed.
THANKSGIVING INCIDENT
Fights break out
at the Thanksgiving Day table
because somebody needs to be
the smartest one in the room.
So, before that absolute brilliance
comes out of your mouth,
shovel some meat & potatoes in there
to wash the wisdom
down to the colon.
Use some common sense
& let your genius take a holiday.
JERRY GARCIA INCIDENT
My left hand has 5 fingers.
My right hand has 5 fingers.
But Jerry Garcia’s right hand
had only 4 & a half fingers.
Still, he played guitar expertly.
What did you expect?
He was Jerry Garcia.
The story goes that
his right middle finger
was eaten by rats.
Midwestern rats
that didn’t know any better.
If it was San Francisco
or NYC,
those rats would have
recognized Jerry Garcia
& just nibbled on his beard,
which would have
made Jerry laugh
& seeing Jerry laughing
would have made
those rats laugh, too.
And that’s all we need to fix
all that needs fixing,
don’t you think?
Merriment with vermin.
Well, the Grateful Dead tour
stopped in Wisconsin,
where cheese was invented.
The Dead played Madison
on the night when local rats
ate all the cheese in town.
Jerry Garcia passed out
after the show on the shoreline
of Lake Wingra.
Passed out not from an 8-ball
& 8 shots of tequila,
but from inhaling too much
wholesome Midwest air.
Along came the Badger State rats,
not satisfied with gorging up
every available piece of cheese
in Madison
& they took a taste of
lifeless Jerry’s middle finger.
Jerry woke abruptly saying:
“Where’s my hat?”
But he wasn’t wearing a hat.
He never wore a hat.
That’s why I always liked Jerry Garcia.
He thought hats were for
empty-headed fools.
As for that half of a finger
on his right hand,
Jerry swore it was a made-up story.
He said it was just sleight of hand.
SLIPSTREAM MINNIE
Slipstream Minnie, laid down
her guitar at the curb.
It was trash pickup day
& she was casting off her music.
No more playing delta blues,
no more Piedmont blues, either.
Blowing off Club Passim
& the Iron Horse;
Infinity Hall & Hawks & Reed;
Regular venues in Austin,
Memphis & Nashville…
Nobody in Pittsfield gave a shit
about Slipstream Minnie
or her guitar.
She was just a fat old woman
from senior housing
on Bradford Street
& what she put in the trash
looked like maybe a broken end table.
But it was not a broken anything.
And it didn’t belong with the garbage.
Sanitation truck came rattling
up the street.
I ran out of my building
in my bathrobe, running, running;
walking was most too slow.
Seconds ahead of the truck,
I grabbed the guitar in time.
LG-1, 1964 Gibson,
belonging to Slipstream Minnie.
Later, at her 3rd floor apartment,
Capitol Square,
a clean, healthy place
for an 80 year-old;
Minnie retired with her new hobby
of preparing for death.
She answered my knock
& invited me in.
Took back her guitar.
“I ain’t played that thing
anywhere in years,” she said,
trying to remember how
it got out of the closet.
“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t belong
in a scrap heap
& I just put new strings on it.”
Slipstream Minnie held the Gibson
& adjusted the tuning pegs,
& had no trouble
getting into “Boogie Chillun.”
“Son,” Minnie said,
“you’re too young to remember
that blues man.”
“John Lee Hooker, no question,”
I said, “but I like your version better.
Smarty pants, she called me.
Flirting, she said.
She played “Key to the Highway,”
which I knew as Sonny Terry
& Brownie McGhee.
“Damn you, pointy-headed,
little dude…
okay, then. I’m gonna play one
you ain’t never heard.”
“Sorry, Minnie,” I told her,
“I can’t stay. I’m supposed to be
somewhere.”
She said:
“Well, don’t try to go wherever it is
you’re going in that raggedy-assed
bathrobe.”
It was still trash pickup day
& Slipstream Minnie still had time
to cast off her music.
No fun living in the wake
of her good old days,
her good old days were gone,
long gone.
She plodded upstairs to the roof,
held her Gibson high over her head
& hurled it down
to the pavement below.
No one got hurt
& at first glance,
it looked like a broken end table.
MONEYBAGS INCIDENT
Because he always had plenty
of cash,
maybe too much cash
for a 16 year-old,
Roy Beck’s father called him
"Moneybags."
But Roy worked hard & steady
for every nickel.
Caddied at the golf course,
mowed lawns around the
neighborhood;
ushered at the movie theatre
at night,
then came back in the morning
to clean up the popcorn
& empty soda cups
& all that mysterious sticky stuff.
Roy Beck bought new clothes
& a new bike
& never asked the old man
for nothing.
Roy figured that if he became
a pest,
Dad might pick up the drink
where his wife left off,
wife & mother,
who got swallowed up
in an alcoholic undercurrent
that rushed her straight to the
boneyard.
His father said: "Hey, Moneybags,
let's go see the Yankees
this weekend."
Roy Beck said okay,
but only if he could pay
for everything.
But the old man said no dice.
Then they haggled & wrangled
& wheeled & dealed
& Roy’s father gave in saying:
“Okay, Moneybags,
go ahead, be a big shot.”
Roy Beck’s Dad worked
a factory job that didn't allow
for much disposable income.
That year (1966), he cleared
$276.84 per week.
Roy matched that easy
with his everyday teenage hustle.
Kid always had a good payday
& every Friday at the supper table,
he’d slap down $100 for his share
of the groceries & utilities.
But his Dad pushed it away,
saying "I'm okay, Moneybags,
you put that in the bank
till you really need it."
At Yankee Stadium, the whole day
was Roy Beck’s treat.
Metro North tickets, subway tokens,
tickets for seats right behind
the Yankee dugout,
hotdogs & cold drinks.
Tie game, bottom of the 9th,
Pepitone hit one high & far
over the center field fence.
Dad hugged Roy & hooted
& jumped & down,
never stopped smiling
till they got back home.
Roy’s Dad took a long, hot shower
& got into bed.
Roy Beck came into
his Dad’s bedroom to say goodnight.
"Did you enjoy the game?" Roy asked.
"Bet your ass I did.
Thanks, Moneybags."
Years later in that same bed,
a priest was anointing the old man
with Extreme Unction.
By that time, Roy Beck
had become a luckless drifter,
picking up where his
drunken mother left off;
operating under the influence,
broke & felonious.
And he was a little too late
for a bedside goodbye.
But the priest told Roy
that his Dad had a final word.
“With his last breath,” said the priest,
“your father whispered: ‘Moneybags.’
Does that mean something to you?”
“Nah,” said Roy Beck,
“sounds like gibberish to me.”
HAVE A DAY INCIDENT
She kissed me & left me
with the breakfast dishes.
At the door she turned
& smiled & said: “Have a day.”
Our years together have
added up to low expectations
about each new day
& she knows the right words.
“Have a day.”
Good days, bad days,
sparkling days, miserable,
rotten mornings
blending into above-average
afternoons
& me, with my routine facing-up
to the fear of daybreak
& high noon & dusk & dark,
helplessly pressing forward
into advanced years.
I am supposed to tell myself
if I ain’t getting older,
I must be dead.
She said: “Have a day,”
hinting at don’t quit,
you can’t quit,
don’t be a quitter.
Well, howz about I keep quitting
till I’m where I don’t want
to leave?
Damn, it’s almost tomorrow.
Better stir that Mulligan Stew.
She’ll be hungry & anxious
to share a little chatter about
the weather & the neighborhood
& about the remains of the day.
SNORE INCIDENT
Sleeping in the library is allowed.
Snoring is not.
If I fall asleep at one of the tables,
facedown in a newspaper,
it’s not against the law.
But mothers & their kids get scared.
Because an old man like me
passed out & drooling
ain’t a charming tableau.
Not good for business.
And some people say I have
a loud snore.
That’s a serious accusation.
Got to be one of those other
library sleepers.
Not me, damn it.
I don’t think I snore.
But Pollard from the library staff
is familiar with me
& he just pokes me in the ribs
as he passes by.
“Did I snore?” I say.
Pollard shakes his head & winks.
“But,” he said,
“there was an Italian dude
looking for you.”
Pollard handed me the man’s
calling card: Sergio Corbucci,
spaghetti western director,
put his hotel number on back.
We met over room service coffee.
He said his film, “The Last Pistolero,”
would be shot in the Berkshires
up & down Mount Greylock,
guns & horses & body fluids.
I said: “So you want me to play
the main guy, the pistolero?”
Sergio Corbucci laughed,
almost choked on his espresso.
“No, no, my friend,” he said,
“I want you to play the tired bartender,
one day’s work. $5,000.”
Bartender one scene, asleep at the bar.
He said:
“You have to be snoozing at the bar,
facedown in a newspaper
& snoring like crazy.”
“Hell,” I told him, “I can do that easy.”
“I know," said Corbuccci,
“when I watched you passed out
there in the library,
right then you passed my audition.”
“Did I snore?” I asked.
“Like a congested mule,” he said.
RIGOR MORTIS INCIDENT
How comfortable are you
these days?
I ask that question because
you should not be comfortable at all.
There is an epidemic
of epic proportions.
It is called Rigor Mortis.
The new Rigor Mortis.
Not the kind your grandmother had
when they found her on the floor.
No, true death isn’t part
of the equation anymore.
It is Rigor Mortis from the neck up.
My advice for you to recognize
this irreversible matter
is to be uncomfortable.
Maintain the jitters
& accept that the rest of your life
must be like a cat on a hot tin roof.
Recognize permanent stupidity
& stay on guard.
The new age of Rigor Mortis is here
& the situation is getting worse.
Oh, sure.
You’ll sit there & laugh at me.
You will cavalierly dismiss
my words of alarm
& tell yourself this is
a convoluted concoction
just to make you giggle.
But no.
There is nothing lighthearted
about this new strain
of Rigor Mortis.
It is a shocking, inflexible,
rigid malaise.
Populations from
Minneapolis to Munich;
from Detroit to Dunkirk;
from Wichita to Warsaw;
from Rochester to Reykjavik
are all getting sucked in.
Symptoms are stiffened arms
holding thingamabob doodads
up close to congealed,
indoctrinated heads.
And through the bowels of these gizmos
mechanical fools transact
phone calls & texting & Candy Crush,
all of which create a contagious
stiffness of brain death.
Today’s Rigor Mortis presents
a rigid, stooped posture
embraced by trendoids
who seem to be 1 step closer
to walking on all fours
& sucking their thumbs.
From the neck up these days
it’s cool to be paralyzed.
How can you be comfortable?
SERIAL KILLER INCIDENT
2 things at once.
Listening to radio play-by-play
of the World Series,
while following a line of investigation
into a local serial killer.
It was game 3,
Washington & Houston
contending for the MLB championship.
Baseball was the soundtrack
to my exploring the web
about a spree killer.
They were calling him
the Pittsfield Strangler.
I was paying attention to
2 things at once.
My apartment was quiet,
no noise from the game,
I was wearing earphones
& my research showed
Roy Gilbert Cannon as
the bad guy,
who choked his victims
with his bare hands
& never got caught.
Then someone was knocking
at my door.
It was the new guy
from apartment 323.
Barked at me, said my radio
was too loud.
I said: “What do you mean?
I’m wearing earphones.”
“Just turn it off,” he hollered,
“or I’ll kill you.”
I pushed the door shut
& double-locked it.
Back at the laptop,
my research was showing a headshot
of the Pittsfield Strangler,
the serial killer on the loose.
Same face as the guy at my door.
I called down to the lobby,
Debbie was working the front desk.
“What’s the guy’s name in 323?”
“I can’t do that,” she said,
“I’ll get fired.”
“Just look it up for me, Deb,
“come on, this is serious.”
She said 323 was the new tenant,
Roy Gilbert Cannon.
It was the 6th inning,
Chirinos homered to give
the Astros a 4-1 lead over
the Nats.
The killer from 323 came
knocking again,
this time to apologize.
He said: “Sorry, friend,
that noise before wasn’t
from you. It was the couple
next door. My mistake.
And I took care of the problem.”
The Pittsfield Strangler
silenced the couple next door,
meaning he was doing
2 things at once.
QUARTERBACK INCIDENT
The quarterback
was in front of me at 7-11.
He was asking the cashier
for cigarettes & scratch tickets.
For scratch tickets, he wanted
“Break the Bank,” “Diamond 7s,”
“Red Hot Slots,” “Topaz 7s,”
“Powerball,” “Mega-Millions,”
“Lucky for Life,” “Block-O,”
“Blackout Bingo…” all one of each.
He paid for his items,
winked at the cashier
& spun around to leave.
My turn now at the checkout.
Then the quarterback
recognized me.
“Bobby?” he said.
His breath heavy with Fireball.
Bad skin, bad teeth.
“Hey, Nick,” I said, “what a surprise.”
I paid for my milk & bread
& walked with the quarterback
out the door.
“Hell, Nick. We always thought
you’d make the pros.”
“Well,” he said, “I set QB records
at Notre Dame,
but then I got lost in the draft.”
“Lost" was right.
The quarterback went astray
& wasted his football skill set.
Cocaine & women
& no common sense & cocaine.
Notre Dame sacked him hard,
bounced him off the grid
into the South Bend night.
The quarterback remembered me
from high school,
class of '68,
when I was the slapstick funnyman
in search of an audience.
He was the big star
on the football field,
the darling quarterback.
Big star, darling…
but he was also a one-dimensional
shithead.
Deflowered schoolgirls
with the ease of smoking cigarettes.
Bullied weak classmates
into helping him cheat on exams.
Stole cash from teachers’ purses.
In the 1970s I was a letter carrier
for the post office.
Quarterback’s father came
running up my street, naked.
60-something old man,
popular guy, prominent CPA,
running back & forth in the street
like a scrambling quarterback
looking for a hole.
Panic on his face, moaning,
waving his arms…then he was gone
down a side street.
I brought that up
with the quarterback.
Said he was too busy
with ND football back then
& couldn’t get away.
Coke & sex & no common sense
& coke.
His father died that same naked day,
complications of senility.
1970s, too early to say dementia
or Alzheimer’s.
Maybe he was just lost
without his boy,
the big star, darling quarterback.
"Wanna hang out, Bobby?" he said,
"show ya my trophies & scrapbooks
& my Notre Dame games on tape."
I said: "Some other time, Nick,
but thanks."
He keeps fumbling
with the good old days,
scrambling, looking for a hole,
but the good old days are gone.
Long gone.
RHINOCEROS INCIDENT
Today you are marking
your wedding anniversary alone.
You are alone because
your husband is dead.
If you had taken a more
conventional approach to marriage,
like tying the knot with someone
from the same species as yourself,
well, I guarantee your husband
would be right by your side
right now,
rounding out your dreadfully boring
ways & means.
But no.
You married a rhinoceros.
All of a sudden you were turning 50
& you’d never even been
French-kissed.
Too busy, too neurotic.
Then with time passing you by,
you looked in the mirror
& saw a petrified prune.
You bit you nails.
You were fidgety.
You had the shakes,
You had intestinal butterflies
& circulation of just plain
botheration.
You’ve had a successful career
as a real estate lawyer
with Johnson, Peters & Wood, LLC
down in Myrtle Beach.
But while rotting as
a 50 year-old virgin
you collected a handful of pills,
a big thick rope & a stool
& set yourself up for
eternal nothingness.
But then Craig’s List posted
something from a horny rhinoceros.
Horny rhinoceros.
Made you wild & gooey inside.
You met & flirted at the zoo
& lucky for you, the zookeeper
was a justice of the peace.
Well, because of the rhino’s size,
he had to live in your garage,
which meant improvisational
consummation.
And after the obligatory
period of adjustment
& learning the expected
matrimonial drill,
your rhino ran off with
a lascivious quarter horse
named Citadel.
So, today as you mark
your wedding anniversary alone,
be grateful for the rhinoceros
Kama Sutra experience
& next time try to keep
to your own species.
BOOK INCIDENT
That book you sent me,
the one about your love affairs,
I mailed it back to you.
Did not crack it open.
At my age,
in my imperial wisdom,
I can easily judge a book
by its cover.
Yours is titled
“Lucky & Luckless in Love.”
That tells me right away
that I’m not in it.
We were a bad fit:
Bridgeport by the Sound,
Queens by the river,
Berkshires by the lake…
A few days of being love-sick,
a moment or 2 of tingling
in our body parts.
Maybe once in red heat
we hit the high spot.
But not lucky & not luckless,
just a droopy mismatch.
Sending your book back,
Honey.
I know I’m not in it.
But you can't say we didn't try, right?
CEMETERY INCIDENT
The 24-horsepower
Cub Cadet lawnmower
made its final cuttings
for the season.
Grass mowed up & down 142 acres
of Pittsfield Cemetery landscape.
Fall leaves getting chopped
& mixed in with the grass.
The Cub Cadet with Corey Boggs
at the controls.
Corey in her 11th year
working maintenance
at the cemetery.
Forgoing wages to live rent-free
on the grounds.
Money in the bank
from a bad guy,
a drunken bad guy,
years ago plowing into
a carload of Boggs.
Father driving, mother next to him.
Corey & her brother
riding in the back.
Death in the vulgarity
of a drunk’s collision.
People said:
“You were the lucky one,
honey. By the grace of god
you survived.”
But no.
She knew that god fucked up.
“No reason for me
not to be dead,” she said.
But the drunk was a state senator.
Plenty of money, plenty of guilt.
$4 million made the problem
go away.
Berkshire Bank promised
not to let her money go astray
& she could live off the interest.
Corey Boggs working that boneyard
& living right there on the campus.
Works hard riding that Cub Cadet
& won’t accept no pay.
Every blade of grass
belongs to Corey Boggs.
And here comes
those hot-colored leaves,
mix & mulch with the last cutting.
Good sunlight on these autumn days.
The shrubs on her family’s plot
are tilting in the direction of the glare.
And that heavyweight front arch
looking like a prison gate…
nobody knows there's
a cozy apartment carved out
inside those blocky bluestones,
home sweet home to Corey Boggs.
PHILDELPHIA SEWER RATS INCIDENT
It is exactly 1 year since
my mother became dead.
It is exactly 1 day since
I received my inheritance check.
5 figures, big numbers.
My first inclination was to go
to Saratoga
& throw it at the horses.
Then I thought that maybe
I would invest in a heroin addiction.
I hate the money & I particularly hate
the hungry rats from probate court.
Especially 2 Philadelphia
sewer rats.
Mother & daughter,
who spent the last 20 years
sucking up to my mother
for a piece of the cheese.
One of them thinks
she’s a blood relative.
Not part of my bloodline, she ain’t.
No fat, ugly rodents are
linked to me.
Real kinsfolk know better
than to disgrace the memory
of Marie Balogh, my mother.
Over the years these 2 parasitic vermin
would make regular visits
from their rats’ nest
in the Philadelphia sewer line
down to Virginia to brainwash
the old lady, Marie Balogh.
They would put yellow Post-it notes
on all of my mother’s belongings.
First dibs.
Post-it notes on the back of
furniture, appliances, TV,
stereo, bedframes, rugs, antiques…
disgusting.
Plus fill her cognitive declining head
with mercenary bullshit.
I hated these 2 frauds all of those
20-something years
& I hate them worse now.
My great hatred for them
could only be eclipsed by
how much my mother & father
both despised them,
right up until that special
split second when their holy souls
flew out of the Milky Way.
Exactly 1 year since Marie
became dead.
25 years since Red & Marie’s last kiss.
And exactly 1 day since my prize money
showed up in the mail.
If these 2 fat, ugly, Philadelphia sewer rats
weren’t so inconsequential
along with their cretinous credentials,
I’d give all my new cash to Terminex
to search & destroy these rat bastards.
No, I’ll start with a new trumpet
for the grandson.
We all loved the way he played “TAPS”
for Marie exactly 1 year ago.
WINNEBAGO INCIDENT
I parked my Winnebago
on the White House lawn.
Listened for sirens & choppers.
Waited for bullets & RPGs.
Watched every direction
for killer squads
in camouflage or black suits.
But it was quiet.
It was lonely.
So, I made a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich.
Opened a quart of milk.
They must know who I am, I thought.
If you’re me, you’d expect that,
especially on the White House lawn
in a Winnebago.
Bet Obama knows me.
Bet he spread the word
that a barrage of gunfire
at my sorry ass
would have been extravagant
& just plain wrong.
Then Obama
leaned in the passenger window.
“Something you want to talk about?”
he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I was just passing through,
wondering if you wanna hop in,
share some adventures for a few days.”
“Can we head down to the Outer Banks?”
“Hell yeah, get in.”
He drove most of the way,
one hand on a peanut butter & jelly,
the other one steered the Winnebago.
He was wearing that big campaign smile,
waving at motorists on I-95.
All of them jaded, all thinking:
“Jerk don’t look nothin’ like Barack.”
And Prez enjoying a taste
of being mistaken for a nobody.
But he said:
“This is a one-time thing, you understand.”
He looked at me sideways
from the driver’s seat.
I said: “Sure, Mr. President,
just keep your eyes on the road.”
LOLLIPOP INCIDENT
Lopresti was told
that he would outgrow the problem.
He heard from all the adults
about the power & value
of ignoring the cause of his troubles;
the cause being the kids in school.
They taunted Lopresti
by convoluting his name
into “Lollipop.”
Lollipop Lopresti.
Tall, rangy child
bukly head,
big greasy pompadour.
1962, age 12.
“My boy Lollipop.
You make my heart go giddy-up.”
He reacted with embarrassment,
then obscenities,
then he’d grab a provocateur
& bang his fist
into the motherfucker’s nose.
Teasing Lopresti
soon became high risk & no fun.
The Lollipop years lasted
less than 12 months.
It took the routine practice
of following the adults’ advice,
of ignoring ridicule
to make the problem go away.
But in a jam,
he might bloody a challenger’s face
with his knuckles.
Yesterday,
Lopresti is on the front porch
watching the sunset.
A silver Lexus pulls up.
“Hey, Lollipop,” says the driver.
Lopresti walks to the driver’s window.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
says Lexus, a cigar & a big grin.
No comment.
“We were in school together back in the day.”
No comment.
“Come on,” says Lexus.
“Howz about all the fun we had?”
He sings: “My boy Lollipop.”
No comment.
“Shit, Lopresti. You’re still a freakin’ weirdo loser.
Same old sour-ass Lollipop.”
Comment:
Lopresti throws a strong left jab
breaking the bridge of the driver’s nose.
On the front porch
watching the sunset,
Lopresti is rocking his golden years.
Can’t quite outgrow
that old schoolyard problem.
Tries hard when he’s hard-pressed,
but still gets sucked in.
Lollipop.
Just an all-day sucker
with shame past its prime
still making his heart go giddy-up.
FALSE ALARM INCIDENT
There goes the false alarm
& here comes a stampede
in the hallway.
The elevator is knocked out
& they make a mad gallop
down the stairs.
False alarm,
with a shriek & pulse
that says incoming nuke
& forthcoming coronary
& shit in the pants.
But it’s a false alarm.
Lisa, from the 4th floor,
just got pissed off
because I wouldn’t give her
cigarette money.
So she pulled the emergency lever.
This is the effect I have on women now.
Lisa & I are the only ones
who haven’t evacuated the building.
We know the score.
While 4 floors of people
are out on the sidewalk,
distress signal still stinging their ears;
they are deafened by a false alarm
& listening for the wrong answer.
SUNSET INCIDENT
The sun sets
into the Berkshire Taconic ecosystem.
You see it 3 or 4 times a week,
best viewed from the upper deck
of McKay Street’s parking garage,
the ugly downtown whirley-gig parkade,
the dirty car ramp spiral
that nobody mistakes for Guggenheim.
But up on the roof,
there goes the sun,
unrivaled in dropping dead.
You lean against the rail,
best seat in the house,
watch another day break down.
Up on the roof,
where sunsets are better heard,
not seen.
And you are getting the melody.
And in wonder you are saying:
“That used to be my favorite song.”
CARDBOARD INCIDENT
Cardboard boxes
were not part of my moving equation
this time.
I moved two weeks ago,
packed, loaded
& drove 3 miles
from point “old” to point “new,”
with personal property,
stuff, gear,
bits & bobs,
shit & Shinola,
forensic evidence of an unspectacular life.
But no cardboard boxes.
For once, I moved out & in
strictly with milk crates
& some wonderful, sad, smelly luggage
from the thrift.
And not one cardboard box, hear me?
Shipping the miserable cargo at age 64.99
with no help.
All my best friends had sacroiliac dysfunction
or a yoga class
or they were out
changing the course of history
with placards & megaphones.
No help, no problem.
No cardboard boxes,
mnemonics for all my glum moves
moving backward;
missteps & dead ends,
worn out welcomes,
cleaning out nests
& compacting everything into cardboard
wrapped with duct tape,
Sharpie scribble on the sides saying:
kitchen utensils,
bathroom supplies,
office supplies,
books,
CDs,
photo albums,
junk drawer debris,
breakables reinforced with newspaper,
scratchpads of genius,
journals of madness,
convoluted resumes,
C-4 & hand grenades…
then take 5 when a bottom falls out.
But not this time.
Milk crates & valises
& an elevator at the new place
made for a low-key heave ho.
I am intact.
I am ready for the championship round
& so far
I’m not a cardboard cutout of myself.
copyright (c) 2015 by Bob Balogh
All rights reserved