Picture Dusty singing
“Breakfast In Bed”
to Norma Tanega.
They touch tenderly
in places that Ed Sullivan
fears, the swingin’ sixties
a time when even famous
heads get bashed
against a wall and
careers come down
with a terrible disease
and die of truth. Norma
puts her head on
Dusty’s chest. The sun
has already gotten up
to make breakfast
for a hepatica blossom.
From his bronze bust, blasé,
Freud gazes at
the labyrinths of our libido,
his hands in his pockets.
Dedalus-like, the maze-exits
elude me like the thorns
of your absence.
Born by the blood
that cleanses us
like a resilient river,
at the junction
of our inner journeys.
I have to admit
even after all the years of drink
dad still has the bemused look in his eye
looking at a painting of a sailboat
recognizing its year of production
the class, the country of origin
the knots employed
and perhaps even connecting
classical music from that period.
Even after all the years of drink,
after all, it was only drink
while I’ve lost chunks of years
from all the dope
and can barely recognize a bos’n hitch
let alone tie one.
I have to admit, as he says,
“things havent’ only changed,
they’ve gotten worse,”
he might be right.
A hopped-up hippie
told me too much beef
will give me colon cancer.
I replied “once you quit smoking
Pot and Parliament
then you can lecture me
on clean living.
ran for Congress
Got arrested for nuke protests
And became a vegetarian.
Good advice is hard to take.
Mark Antony Rossi’s poetry, criticism, fiction and photography have appeared in The Antigonish Review, Another Chicago Review, Bareback Magazine, Black Heart Review, Collages & Bricolages, Enclave, Expound, GloMag, Gravel, Flash Fiction, InBetween Hangovers, Japanophile, On The Rusk, Purple Patch, Scrivener Creative Review, Sentiment Literary Journal, The Sacrificial ,Wild Quarterly and Yellow Chair Review. http://markantonyrossi.jigsy.com
All the babes at Positive Pie have
phones that go unanswered, phones
that bleep and glurg incessantly;
insistent phones that flash and flash
and stab their heedless owners’ eyes
and ears and only add to the general
beer-filled boisterous brouhaha, add
to the overall overkill of noisiness
to no avail:
all the babes at Positive Pie
ignore their phones. The more they ring
the more they get ignored.
The old man
at the end of the bar, at the bitter end
of his working Wednesday, watching,
has seen the babes ignore their phones
before, has heard the glurg and buzz
and, buzzed, he works to find the words
to turn it into certain verse, to turn the
worst of sounds around, to make the
endless ringing sing a song.
He finds, at last, the ink. He sings along.