& so we come the conclusion—last Sunday’s poem, “She Sells Seashells” is the last poem in the book The Days of Wine & Roses, & so is also the final poem for this blog. When I first began The Days of Wine & Roses blog, I thought I might use it for my poetry in general, but at some point it became clear to me that it should only be a online repository for the poems in my book, The Days of Wine & Roses. So this blog will remain online, but I won't be adding new content for some time. At some point in the next year or two, I'll be re-publishing The Days of Wine & Roses (book form) with ISBN & improved distribution. I did this recently with my book of recent poems, The Spring Ghazals. As a minor note: while this blog is inactive, I will be moderating comments just to keep spam out.
What remains? I would like to reproduce the Acknowledgments & Dedication:
I want to acknowledge those I believe were most crucial to the creation of these poems & this book:
I’d also like to acknowledge the readers of the Robert Frost’s Banjo & Days of Wine & Roses blogs for their encouragement.
This book of verse is dedicated to my beloved wife, Eberle Umbach, without whose love, hope, encouragement, & creative presence there would be very little poetry in my life.
If you are interested in this book as a book & not just as a series of blog posts, you can purchase it at lulu for $10.00 (US).
Thanks for your support, & all my best wishes to you, dear readers.
The tugboats are all in a hurry like clocks
& 7:00 a.m. is never far off
while the trolley's clanging its bell
It feels like
a glockenspiel looking for love all the while she sells seashells by the seashore
& we're all in the pink this minute like
a soap bubble floating downtown with nary
a cent to its name Meantime
the newsstands just now are opening their shutters
What heartbroken gladiolas! Still she sells seashells by the seashore
I suppose our sadness never quite gets ripe
& vermilion as mangoes blush
but the ocean gets tipsy sometimes
What can't it forget like a rainbow that's lost
its hat in the breeze? Nonetheless she sells seashells by the seashore
Hey Time slows down sometimes
It never sits down in the sun-
flower yellow sun on a beach blanket spread as
thin & flat as a snapshot
That's ok take my hand anyhow & anyhow she sells seashells by the seashore
Ishmael was walking into a restaurant where the walls were plastered with clocks. A pair of PF Flyers. A crabapple tree beneath which someone’s sitting skinning an apple with a paring knife. Alice is far away on a steamship sailing for Turkestan. Ishamael felt certain he was wearing a turban. A mischievous stop sign. A cup of lukewarm latté served by 1 of the dozen anonymous gals he thinks about at 3:00 a m in lieu of smoking cigarettes. The gobi desert seems so empty: nothing but dinosaur bones & sand dunes & a hot dog stand rising with its weiner dog sign grinning crazily in the orange & gray sunrise. A white hand was reaching thru the sky— as if she’d busted it open with her fist as she reached for this morning’s new bottle of milk & the newspaper. It wasn’t as violent as all that. Just a rupture thru the azimuth between True North & Modesto. True North/True West. A piano rising awkwardly off the lawn in the midst of Hungarian Rhapsody No. ? in ?. Ishmael is unhappy just now. Ishmael has a tootsie pop & a cup of coffee. There has to be more than this. The Royal Palms on Cumberland Island, GA were fucking the thunderheads. Lightning bolts scratching the black sky all the way to the ocean surface. The night sky as usual could be just abt anything: a time machine for instance. Ishmael could walk into it without scarcely getting his brown oxfords wet. It could be said he needs a shave. The night sky black as the skin of a Royal manual typewriter that’s black as the skin of a pit viper coiled in the mud in the Okefenokee swamp gorging itself on screaming mice. An alligator marching into the Winn-Dixie in Ocala as if it knew how much we love parades. The ticker tape raindrops, the glass busting kersplash as her hand busts thru the sky’s picture window. Makes me think of fisticuffs on St Pat’s in the Mill bar in Winooski, VT, Ishmael w/an infected set of stitches swelling his left wrist as he wallowed into the 3rd year of a 3 week binge. It was like leaning off the same bar stool 3 weeks running. Ishmael in a knee-length navy coat falling smack off the curb into the street onto his kneecaps. Somebody playing sweet jane from Rock n’Roll Animal & Ishmael gonzo in the bathroom trying not to drown in a urinal: I know a man in Christ who, 14 years ago, whether he was in or outside his body I cannot say, only God can say— a man who was snatched up to the 3rd heaven. I know that this man— whether in or outside his body I do not know, God knows— was snatched up to Paradise to hear words which cannot be uttered, words which no man may speak. & so forth. A Royal manual typewriter spitting out obituaries in the alcove back of a bay window & outside the winds getting especially frantic, the hurricane of ‘38 with its flipped out pea-green houseboats scattered across the Fenway— the sky which could be a time machine so dark it’s spitting out rutabagas & eggplants etc. Ishmael walks into the future with wet feet. He’s standing in slushy snow on a street corner in Washington state just outside a Rexall drug store. The ghost in the machine. An american chestnut bookcase. Emily drove a blue car. Jane reaching thru the sky to snatch the milk bottle. A rupture.
In a castle that's brainstorming atop a mesa,
in Istanbul under an orange street lamp,
the typewriter won't stop clattering—
which irks Max Gala, the infamous ballerina who's tipsy
in Istanbul. Under the orange street lamp
Jimmy Calypso does the sort of tango
which irks Max Gala. Infamous as a ballerina, tipsy,
sweating capsized stars from a dry martini,
Jimmy Calypso does the sort of tango
that also looks like a sharkskin suit
sweating capsized stars from a dry martini.
These love letters penned in the moon's ink seem hypnotic
& also look like a sharkskin suit
lacking a handkerchief. Max Gala stares at
a love letter penned in the moon's ink; it seems hypnotic,
& literally flies off the clattering typewriter
like a handkerchief. & Max stares at
the castle's silent films while Silent Alice
literally flies off the clattering typewriter
that keeps itself busy cranking out
the castle's calamitous films; while Silent Alice
is smoking Chesterfield Kings on the heavenly elevator
that keeps itself busy cranking, out
where there are just a few stars
smoking Chesterfield Kings. On the heavenly elevator
also, Max feels like a palm tree in an Istanbul saloon
where there are just a few stars.
Some are blondes, & some the are the red-heads
Max also feels like. Palm trees in an Istanbul saloon
are obsessed with Silent Alice, like everyone else;
some are blondes & some are the redheads
drunk on french kisses—the french kisses
are obsessed with Alice. Like everyone else
Max sometimes takes life for a 3-ring circus
drunk on french kisses, the french kisses
glowing like the whiskey sours
Max sometimes takes life for; the 3-ring circus
is sparkling in the oasis amongst the stars; they're
glowing like whiskey sours
the moon sucks through puckered lips
sparkling in the oasis. Amongst the stars there are
last cigarettes & then there are last cigarettes
the moon sucks through puckered lips.
Max Gala thoughtfully finishes off the sky's
last cigarettes. & then there are last cigarettes
rolled up in Jimmy Calypso's love letter
Max thoughtfully finishes off. The sky's
like Alice's rhinestone-studded sunglasses, absorbing things
rolled up in Jimmy Calypso, his love letters
& Max Gala's feathered Stetson & Alice's
rhinestone-studded sunglasses. Like Alice, absorbing things,
a beautiful brunette bird's soaring thru the miasma
like Max's feathered Stetson. & Alice is
also one of the Queen of Night's incarnations that's
a beautiful brunette bird soaring thru the miasma
flecked with light, & graceful as a leather jacket
that's also one of the Queen of Night's incarnations.
That's how night exists in the desert castle,
flecked with light like a leather jacket
Max sports in delinquent mufti. She knows
that's how night exists in the desert castle
where bubbly's drunk from the snakeskin boots
Max sports. In delinquent mufti, she knows
the last dance is saved for Alice who's soaring
where bubbly's drunk from the snakeskin boots
that are actually Alice's;
the last dance is saved for Alice who's soaring
where the moon's fez is also floating. These thoughts
are actually Alice's
in a castle brainstorming atop a mesa,
where the moon's fez is floating, these thoughts also
are the typewriter's, & it won't stop clattering.
Poems, some short, some long, some in-between; some old, some newer, & some new. The blog title is taken from a manuscript I’ve worked on for close to 20 years—it is a book (see below), but it'salso this blog, one poem at a time (usually), posted each Sunday morning.
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