A Bay Wolf in the Apartment of Eagles
Come the dawning
Regardless of mood
I like
To take some moments
To
cut
the
Rug
in the morn light of my room
dip
move
vibe and shimmy
I do the spasmodic
To the
Radio
Amusing me self
And digging
The reflection of my Moves as
Silhouetted
in the Van Gogh prints
On my walls
Oh yeah
I Got It
A RocknRoll kid
from
Get to Gone
It's my
Days
Dawn
and
Regardless of mood
This is my private morning
Clarion Call
and my
Free Flying
Fuck It All
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.
Incompletist
It's all a bit sketchy don't you know what with the RMS and all.
Formal education and I didn't work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfil my own peculiar
and
particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi - conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.
(Oh essential humour I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure).
We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.
After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.
I rushed outside after a constricted couple of minutes to tell you something but you were gone.
I was consistently lacking in effort
and all done and said
pretty consistent in afraid.
I do at times wish that I had more of more
than all this less though
but the wish won't make it so
At a certain point, I guess, we got
uncomfortable around each other.
I'm glad, though, that I said what I said before you went.
I will add now that I am sorry I made you nervous.
As I think back right at the now of this
now
I was at a loss
then
and still am
so I'll leave it
at that.
Winged Ones
Bustling old fella dashing biddly bop by dressed to the nines
with briefcase stuffed under his arm equipped with fixed maniacal grin jabbering to himself while confirming his expressions
to an equally jazzed and jaunty westie he calls Ralph trailing exuberantly behind
let's me know
that there are actually still some living beings out there
to learn from
Lone Folkie
There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot'in and holler'in.
I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style
nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It's/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse
yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.
His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/
You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style
Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC and has been published in numerous journals.
No comments:
Post a Comment