OLD THINGS
Franky Giambrone is 64 years old
And says his best days are behind him.
The only reason why he goes to work
Is so he can teach his son how to trade.
“Ah Purs,†he would say at Harry’s,
“You think I give a fuck about a piece of ass?â€
“At my age? I’m much more interestedâ€
“In a good trade than a good piece of ass.â€
Old men are so depressing.
The Nestors of the world,
Always so cynical when the
Beer gets you thinking about the sadness.
Life, youth, girlfriends, shoes -
Ephemeral things, without meaning.
(2003)
I SAW HER TONIGHT
I saw her tonight.
Toshiro and Company
watch me religiously
like a soap opera
every day
from the sushi bar
across 1st Avenue
on their smoke brakes
and in between
serving miso soups,
spicy tuna rolls,
and shrimp gyoza.
They saw us smile.
They saw us hug.
They saw us cry.
They see everything.
Without saying anything,
Toshiro brings a large
sake and Sapporo and puts
on Tom Waits
starting with
Waltzing Mathilde
through
The Piano
Has Been Drinking
because
Toshiro knows
I saw her tonight.
(December, 2002)
IRISH DRINKING SONG
I was a gallant gallowglass
And she a lithe colleen.
Then one day I lost my wits
And called her mavourneen.
(1995)
OUR LOT IN THE CAVE
I am prurient and take delight
Abiding in the street all night.
I’ve known two women at once before
And would’ve accepted Lot’s offer at the door.
But my concubine because she is the same,
I wish God would turn to salt and make lame.
(1995)
MY TROIANESS
I’m writing poems inside my head,
After smoking weed and drinking mead,
About the lovers I’ve lost and the dead.
There was one I would follow wherever she led;
She was a sexy succubus at making seed,
But her nails and lips were Troian red.
One night we had a fight in bed.
I couldn’t believe the things she said.
Now I know we will never wed.
And though she had a models head,
She caused my fragile heart to bleed;
Thus long ago I should have fled.
(1995)
I SAT UPON THE SHIP DECK
I sat upon the ship deck drinking gin
When out on the ocean I spyglassed the fin
Of the callipygean Nereid my heart would win.
Naked thing I love your wet skin
And on the sandy beach your body I pin,
Chest against breast – an amorous din.
Forgive me, Philosophers, for this sin
But Nature is responsible for the mess I’m in
And so is the gin that I’ve been drinkin’.
(1995)
WINTER
Every January is the same:
The winter paints me white,
The cobbles and tombstones
Start playing hide and seek
In the snow, and the telephone voices
From the people of my past sound
As my best friend lies six feet under
Cold earth. I pass the time
Breathing clouds of whisky fog
Upon the window glass, and watch
Carpet after carpet, snowflakes
As innumerable as salt in the sea
And galaxies in the night, fall
Silhouetted against a leafless tree
So similar to myself, nothing to say,
Only isolation amongst
The cold flakes of winter.
(1994)
venezia
for Charles Bukowski
what fool would
give someone money
in order to take a leak?
my Lire is going
to go towards Chianti,
not into the purse
of some paesan, and
so I take a quick
look around and see
that there is
this man just
staring at me.
obviously he
finds my foreign
appearance offensive
but I don’t care so
I walk down some
long and deserted
alleyway, under
a ceiling of
clotheslines,
and take a piss.
I stand there a
while and watch
my urine stream
into the sewers
of Venice.
and when I return
I see the same man
scowling at me like
no one should, but
I just smile at him
knowing that he knows
what I’ve done.
my laughter can be heard
all the way to the Ponte Rialto.
(1992)
PISA
The lascivious ladies
Stare at your face
And drink wine from café
Tables covered in lace.
(1992)
TO THE TROLL BRIDGE
The process is short but
Exhilarating as for a Somalian
In that moment when his emaciated body
Is given the first meal of the week.
We stare back, over our shoulders,
And are relieved to see the brown
Paper bag emerge from the doorway,
Filled with our red blood.
Like on Golding’s island,
There is a rope that hangs from
The jungle and leads us to the
Ocean and the little cove
Where the drunken waves crash,
Hopefully unlike a wine bottle,
And then the uncorking of the vein.
The first sip is always the best.
(1992)