Five Poems by Tom Pennacchini

 

it can sometimes does

 

I am looking out the window with my classical on as I ponder the rigmaroles of existence discussing such with the most fascinating person I know.  

Every time I feel I've made a valid point or observation during my ongoing convo I like to whip off my glasses to add further emphasis 

while highlighting a point that's been made salient and to add further punctuating resonance landing on a note redolent of conversational flair.  

For example as I gaze out I reflect to myself on the virtues of eschewing the virtual for the sake and embracement of tactility 

and doing the sharp clean whip on eschew.  

When I revelate that the only thing remaining is to become a saint there is a slow whipping on become. Like that.

Happenstance can work well and good sometimes.

Oh sweet exquisiteness, as I lovingly prepare an afternoon aperitif and just now at the ready of the first gentle sip (lord how I love my ceremonies!) the radio crows out "heroes" - Ah yes, aglow and a flow, I duly proceed to an illuminated bask.

The heart of the matter resides in the entire lonesomeness of the venture, and so dream, a much needed break from the prosaic, makes fantasy a much vaunted ally.  So it goes, the garden of eden and myself with menagerie of profound friendships and equipped with a 

fleet of canines are baying in unison at the rising moon each eve over the waters. 

I think of a bovine at dusk by the side of a country road,  looming and ruminating.  Life can be so wonderful!  And indeed the cat never ceases to contribute the phenomenal and to provide blessed insight into all things seriously absurd, a well rounded tutorial in surrealist burlesque,

It welcomes and relieves one from the strangulating  confinements of love and isolation, providing a delightfully futile longing 

for unencumbered innocence and a bit of air.

So it goes, the gallivanting ambition is to string two good days in a row together.

But for now, synchronicity dovetails to a tee and a thickening
of well and good in the here/now of slow nothing.

 

Master

 

A step outside into the new morn

is immediately met by the old
hub and bub of an air full of cellular contraption babble imbued with the shrill and inconsequential  

Cars whizzle by handled by louts with a preposterously overblown sense of themselves inhabited by a conjoinment 

of emaciated sense of decorum and bloated commitment to stupidity and who sadly feel that to drive is to lean on the horn. 

I step on in swift anticipation of my park sanctuary a few blocks due west. 

On arrival there is one of the elevated finely sculpted steel receptacles housing potted bouquet bushes that are currently filled with petals of yellow 

that ring wrought iron around the fountain.

I am duly summoned to my morning ablution which consists of a face full of plunge into its thicket and 

a deep inhalation of glorious morning proper sustenance.

This day tho I had to approach with some trepidation as there was a squirrel on one side of the structure that had its own ritual to tend to - knowing their propensity for brazenness I approached with caution and 

making sure there was a suitable bit of distance I take my ceremonial dip.

When I raised my head from the sweet intoxication the squirrel does so simultaneously and the critters face was a bearded coat of fresh soil -
right then staring direct- a sod pasted  kisser -  the air crackles with a flash of frivolous whilst enhancing and abetting a most enjoyable slow exhalation.

My dear friend you have provided a most blessed respite from the hum and drum and 

so many many thanks for this divine bit of illuminating simplicity in action and clarification of levity’s mandate.

Good morning

 

sense of reprieve

 

yes madness no

i cannot -

hear

for all the talk talk ...

nor see 

for the smile displays a horror

the 

odoriferous stench 

of the inevitable inimical political scientifical 

is a rough toughie 

I refuse the obligation when the 

taste 

rankles to a treacle so 

keep talking -

while I  

touch 

a leaf 

to feel my life

 

Newsie

 

He would come to the door ever so slow
Deep into dotage and well past prime time
I waited amid discomforts shade
Eager to collect and be on...

I liked the design of my route
All customers were conveniently located next to each except
for one lone house down the street a ways which was a drag on Sunday morning because that was the day I had to stuff all the papers and stack them in a grocery cart instead of the rest of the week's thin editions which were easily fitted into my portable sack and slung over my shoulder for an easy afternoon delivery stroll around the block (Saturday mornings I trucked out my bike and then I would treat myself to breakfast)-

Sweet Bitch Memory
/man oh man...

the frowzy chippy who blurted on
about the doings and going ons of the scotland yard
(what she meant specifically I could never ascertain)
the one who insisted I give change to the tune of a dime
on her 90 cent weekly tab
(my young self indignant at this outlandish chintz)
I henceforth always made an elaborate spectacle of fishing and searching all about myself for her "dime" whenever I collected from her (but always coughing it up eventually - I was a good kid) -

it was the year 1977 (we were there)
I had heard thru the neighbourhood vine about her demise and
went up to the white house to collect

He trudged to the door and we made our transaction
both of us looking down until the close of business then
He said to me looking up "my wife died"  and I responded "I know"
He slowly lowers his head backing away just as slowly shutting the door

I do my own slow lower into the realization (vague) that happens (if you're lucky?) that a goodly bit of life consists of pain and fear -- so much goddam sadness ...

I stood a moment - left and was
glad to go on and get away

Lo here in the current deep up to the neck of the boo radley years
paid up in full
my bridge burner dues
losing bits piecemeal

/ it's not so vague

I have often sensed the imperative of getting away ... kinda sorta before the reality boom lowers -

There/then
and now

I didn't make it

An Elliptical Labyrinth (Ob La Di)

 

The morning light has broken
Upon the wall
outside
I watch it sharpen
While sipping coffee
It broadens
over
The walls entirety
Into a full gleaming twinkle
I sip
Feeling the vibration

here

in the concrete hades

Such loveliness

Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC and has been published in numerous journals.