• Life’s Little Lessons

I don’t know who was President
I don’t know what war we were in
but it was all going on
in Paris in 1991

The Parisians were so busy
and the tourists were so busy
and the immigrants were so busy
but me I had a revelation
in Paris in 1991

You ain’t seen Paris
unless you saw Paris
in 1991

in stars and stripes
news from home
the bastard's dead
from way over here it seems odd
the news from home, the headline is something about you
you hate the bastard
now he's dead, good for you
news from home
your home is gone, wiped away like a frown
in a hurricane
it's your personal nine eleven
your neighbor asks
you want to say how do you think I feel?
your nonna asks
she visits in a dream, being long gone after all
you have to say ok
I'm OK.
you add your name to the board
listing OK names
your town is gone, wiped away like a scowl
mopped up by a sudsy froth
around the world another town is wiped away
all the men taken out and shot
boys too
in a town around the world
where your nonna did not live
but has the memory in her blood
she remembers a future war
she comes in the night to find you grieving
when that town went down, where were you?
soaking in a frothy tub
feet up, sipping grappa
melancholy
relaxed
quick to forgive
yourself
gasses fume and steam in mucky streets
gassed and rank and sad
that's not how he died, though
that's just some TV news
those people could be your people
but they are so much darker

the first shower
after days of it
it feels like it will never be enough
not enough water, too much water
more soap please
not hot enough
the water you soaked in for days
it has a film, it has teeth, it grips you and infects you
this shower water lacks any strength
it's far too congenial
it will take a dozen more showers
to feel clean
you open your eyes and your arm is brown
that's OK, that's normal, you think
you close your eyes and the brown is a grey black green
it crawls up your skin
it drips down your skin
the warm street water
the stale humid street air
you close your eyes and her dead face smirks
her wet bloated face, laughing, forever laughing

a new book waits, flat on its back, legs spread
hot and dog-eared

it’s got smells and stains and leathery thighs
it sweats and sighs and wags its tongue

the book smokes and drinks and curses you
makes fun of your pecker

the new book is not new at all
it’s seen its better days
the new book just shows up
like that

So that’s how it is, you say.
That’s how it’s gonna be.
makes fun of your decor
makes noise late at night

You will have to say sorry to the old lady
You’re in too deep
the book with all those beautiful lies and whys and wherefores

smarter than you
enticing you
makes those lies beautiful
but still

you have to say sorry
or else you ain’t gettin none tonight
sorry doesn’t cut it
makes you wonder
where all those finger stains came from
all that tobacco, I guess

You worry about the other books, what they will think
Will they be jealous? Will they judge?

the book is yellow and weighs an ounce
it’s barely there at all, really
the author sneezed, and out came the new book
this effortless thing, this body spasm, this nasty habit

You offer a drink, but the new book clinks ice cubes
in a sneering gesture that says
Scotch, remember? Like you could forget.
Like you’re sitting around, waiting for word
or words
What does the new book drink?
What does the new book smoke?
The new book drinks Scotch like a fish
smokes Winstons
who the hell smokes Winstons?
The new book does. Better have plenty

grab yourself a glass
it’s gonna be a long night
you beg the book, Forgive me.
you say sorry.
it’s never enough
no matter how many times you read the new book
you lay in on the new book

you can’t take no more
you tell the new book how you really feel
how you’ve always felt
no more secrets
no more lies
no matter how beautiful

you hate the new book
for ravishing you so
you hate the old lady
I hate that old lady, you tell the book
But it comes across too strong.

the book is hoarse and out of breath
the book cackles with derision
outside it is raining, storming,
one of those Mississippi downpours
out on the porch, the author sits in a rocker, but still
you pull the blinds ’cause you want no part
of the storm, or the author and his rocker

You know where this is headed.
Why fight it?
you and the new book go at it
it’s indecent
a rough night of love and mean words
muscles and fingernails and papercuts
until words stain your dripping chest
and purpled words smear across your mouth
and you light yourself up a Winston
what the hell
there’s nothing left of the book
just ink stains and pulp
there’s nothing left of you, either
it was pretty much a draw
we’ll soon forget
this night, this book
until one day next Spring
a new book waits, flat on its back, legs spread

I decided to include randomly selected, randomized pomes here on the Foo, just cause. Please feel free to add lines to existing pomes or create a new one.