waiting on my pay-check,
I been squeezing this nickel so hard that the
buffalo is screaming.” he showed me the
nickel.
tough, but no beer, I walked away from him,
my face white like a bright headlight, I walked
away from him and toward the faces of the nonwhites
who
hated me with a natural
ease.
long gone along the way, the landladies’ faces,
doomed, powdered, old lilac faces, old lovely dolls
with husbands so long gone, the agony diminished but
still there as I followed them up stairways nearly a
century old to some cubicle of a room and I always
told them, “ah, a very nice room…”; to pay
then, close the door, undress, lay upon that
bed and turn out the light (it was always early
evening) and then soon to hear the same sound:
the scurry of my old friends: either the roaches or
the mice or the rats.
long gone along the way, now I wonder about Inez
and Irene and their sky-blue eyes and their wonderful
legs and breasts
but mostly
their faces, faces carved out of a marble that
sometimes the gods
bestow and
Inez and Irene sat in front of me in class and learned about
algebra, the shortest distance between two points, the
Treaty of Versailles, about Attila the Hun and
etc.
and I watched them and wondered what they were
thinking?
nothing much,
probably.
and I wonder where they are tonight
with their faces these 5 decades and 2 years
later?
the skin which covers the bone, the eyes that
smile; quick, turn out the light, let the dark
dance…
the most beautiful face I ever saw was that of a
paperman, a newsboy, the old fellow so long gone
down the way
who sat at a stand at Beverly and Vermont,
his head, his face looked like what they
called him: The Frog Man. I saw him
often but we seldom spoke and
The Frog Man died suddenly
and was gone
but I will always remember him
and one night
I came out of a nearby bar,
he was there at his stand and
he looked at me and said, “you and I, we know the same
things.”
I nodded, put both thumbs up, and that big Frog
face, the big Frog head lifted in the moonlight
and began laughing the most terrible and real
laughter I have ever
heard.
long gone along the way
victory
what bargains we have made
we have
kept
and
as the dogs of the hours
close in
nothing
can be taken
from us
but
our lives.
Edward Sbragia
puffing on tiny cigarette butts as the world washes to the
shore I
burn my
dumb lips
think of
Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen
und sein
Fliegerzirkus .
as my cat sits in the bathroom window I
light a new
stub
as Norway winks and the dogs of hell pray for
me
downstairs my wife studies the
Italian
language.
up here
I would give half my ass for a
decent
smoke…
I
sneeze
then
jump: a little red coal of ash has dropped onto my
white white
belly—I
dig the fiery bit out with my
fingers:
a bit of minor
pain
I type naked: see my sulking soul
now
with a little pink
dot.
you see, I have my own show going on up
here, I don’t need Vegas or cable
tv,
the label on my wine bottle states
in part:
“… our winemaker, Edward Sbragia, has retained the
fresh, fruity character of the Pinot Noir and Napa
Gamay grapes …”
the dogs of hell pray for me as the
world washes to the
shore.
wandering in the cage
languid conjecture during hours of moil, trapped in the shadows
of the father.
sidewalks outside of cafes are lonely
through the day.
my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and
I look back and am pleased to feel
the same
about him…
reading 2 issues of a famous magazine of 40 years
ago, the writing that I felt was bad then,
I still feel
is
that way
and none of the writers have lasted.
sometimes there is a strange justice
working
somewhere.
sometimes
not…
grammar school was the first awakening of a long hell
to come:
meeting other beings as horrible as my
parents.
something
I been squeezing this nickel so hard that the
buffalo is screaming.” he showed me the
nickel.
tough, but no beer, I walked away from him,
my face white like a bright headlight, I walked
away from him and toward the faces of the nonwhites
who
hated me with a natural
ease.
long gone along the way, the landladies’ faces,
doomed, powdered, old lilac faces, old lovely dolls
with husbands so long gone, the agony diminished but
still there as I followed them up stairways nearly a
century old to some cubicle of a room and I always
told them, “ah, a very nice room…”; to pay
then, close the door, undress, lay upon that
bed and turn out the light (it was always early
evening) and then soon to hear the same sound:
the scurry of my old friends: either the roaches or
the mice or the rats.
long gone along the way, now I wonder about Inez
and Irene and their sky-blue eyes and their wonderful
legs and breasts
but mostly
their faces, faces carved out of a marble that
sometimes the gods
bestow and
Inez and Irene sat in front of me in class and learned about
algebra, the shortest distance between two points, the
Treaty of Versailles, about Attila the Hun and
etc.
and I watched them and wondered what they were
thinking?
nothing much,
probably.
and I wonder where they are tonight
with their faces these 5 decades and 2 years
later?
the skin which covers the bone, the eyes that
smile; quick, turn out the light, let the dark
dance…
the most beautiful face I ever saw was that of a
paperman, a newsboy, the old fellow so long gone
down the way
who sat at a stand at Beverly and Vermont,
his head, his face looked like what they
called him: The Frog Man. I saw him
often but we seldom spoke and
The Frog Man died suddenly
and was gone
but I will always remember him
and one night
I came out of a nearby bar,
he was there at his stand and
he looked at me and said, “you and I, we know the same
things.”
I nodded, put both thumbs up, and that big Frog
face, the big Frog head lifted in the moonlight
and began laughing the most terrible and real
laughter I have ever
heard.
long gone along the way
victory
what bargains we have made
we have
kept
and
as the dogs of the hours
close in
nothing
can be taken
from us
but
our lives.
Edward Sbragia
puffing on tiny cigarette butts as the world washes to the
shore I
burn my
dumb lips
think of
Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen
und sein
Fliegerzirkus .
as my cat sits in the bathroom window I
light a new
stub
as Norway winks and the dogs of hell pray for
me
downstairs my wife studies the
Italian
language.
up here
I would give half my ass for a
decent
smoke…
I
sneeze
then
jump: a little red coal of ash has dropped onto my
white white
belly—I
dig the fiery bit out with my
fingers:
a bit of minor
pain
I type naked: see my sulking soul
now
with a little pink
dot.
you see, I have my own show going on up
here, I don’t need Vegas or cable
tv,
the label on my wine bottle states
in part:
“… our winemaker, Edward Sbragia, has retained the
fresh, fruity character of the Pinot Noir and Napa
Gamay grapes …”
the dogs of hell pray for me as the
world washes to the
shore.
wandering in the cage
languid conjecture during hours of moil, trapped in the shadows
of the father.
sidewalks outside of cafes are lonely
through the day.
my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and
I look back and am pleased to feel
the same
about him…
reading 2 issues of a famous magazine of 40 years
ago, the writing that I felt was bad then,
I still feel
is
that way
and none of the writers have lasted.
sometimes there is a strange justice
working
somewhere.
sometimes
not…
grammar school was the first awakening of a long hell
to come:
meeting other beings as horrible as my
parents.
something
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