Dumbbells that were too heavy in the end
Daughter’s note, unopened, still
Decaying tea-cake still on plate
Dickie tie you wore when we first met;
Dress-suit, diamond cufflinks, pens,
die-cast cars, an unknown key, a stick of gum …
Dear God, was there nothing that you threw?
bruised cufflinks, scarred trousers
bleeding ties, marks of violence bear
featherless fedora, kicked-in once too often
lumps and bumps seen ‘midst thinning hair
life in the cosa nostra’s romanticized
~ eviction notices served traumatized
Does anyone still buy, for dad,
Some cufflinks on this day?
It’s what I sometimes bought for mine
When shirts were made that way.
It had to be a local store
Which carried varied clothes,
Including the accessories;
That’s how the mem’ry goes.
My dad’s been gone for many years,
Those cufflinks likely tossed.
His place within my heart, though,
Hasn’t ever gotten lost.
I wish a Happy Fathers’ Day
To all who fit the bill
And hope, with cufflinks or without,
Somebody’s heart you’ll fill.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The lace of her glove catches
on the splintered railing~
a pause, unnoticed.
He twiddles with his cufflinks
borrowed, mismatched
gleaming in the afternoon sun.
They stand beneath the white lattice,
two figures pressed like flowers in a book~
her gloves clutching wilting lilies.
Paper lanterns above them
sway like porous promises,
their glow diming at nightfall.
The minister’s words dissolve
into the hum of crickets.
A single bee drifts
through the maid of honor’s
yellow roses.
The gazebo,
weathered white,
holds them all
for just that moment,
before the photographs
turn sepia.
*You may read the accompanying memoir vignette that inspired this poem at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/last_train_to_paris_13604
In 2013 Amélie Ségarra danced on a Grand Piano with knives
taped to the tips of her feet.
The room is empty apart from a single man in a music box
He wears a black an white suit buttoned up to the collars with bronze cufflinks,
To get up she uses an old Woven Rope in brown
You can see her nipples as she looks up, Adam's apple following her gaze
along with everything else.
She starts dancing.
From above the waist her arms jut out, grabbing widely at air and trust
But below it's easy
At times it looks harder to be the piano.
Remember how close she got to the edge.
Rapidly tapping the tips of toes, taped into shoes,
Screwed onto knives.
At times the screech was louder than the music.
Engaging her hips she’d lift up her thigh, bent at the knee
The arch of her foot seeming to just hang there.
Before it drops she makes the sound of a boxer.
Something only rooms with loud figures giving orders to lots of people
doing the same thing in repetition can bring out.
The music has stopped, so now all you hear is knee engaging ankle,
Holding up a foot wrapped in pink ruffled straps.
Smalling down an into
a seemingly endless
Grand Piano.
The blonde went down
with not must resistance
shunning off a stressful afternoon
the scene played of society, high
as I peered at all the pretense
and pretend of an I want to be
better than you and me
old men with young jewelry
cradling arms and new cufflinks
with crosses that will never be blessed
but undressed with tightly shut eyes
Cubans smoked, killing air
drifting from an aging beat
chords crafted with ease
toes tapped on the edge of my seat
the moon peeks and says goodnight
the chair nods off unaccompanied
the grifters scrounge for a dollar
I stand up, it's time to go eat
"Gutter Hearts"
He’s got a gutter Heart
bleeds words that birth
diamonds sharp on his tongue
They hit her like
bullets from an Uzi gun
Silent, her heart implodes like molten marshmallow
She’s standing in the cafeteria
moving grease with a smile
that cuts his goat’s cheese like sharp steele
He licks his fingers
his tongue stings, he's still burning in Chile
while his mind calculates her
Unknown to him
She moves white white to black calculated,
his cufflinks are mounted with Pearls
She spells him
a long sentence
dripping from her eyes onto
an empty plate of dreams
He writes what comes to his mind
on a paper napkin, a story
smudged with tears and cigarette ash
the words slip out slippery
antiquated, smashed.
“What would you like?”
she takes his order
“A Normal Girl,"
he passed his payment in cash
She smiles
and thinks, he’s the No Go Zone
He’s living in another world.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
Wiseguys
when I was a skinny
eight-year-old boy
I knew him as
Willy Shoes
it was Brooklyn
in 1950 and
some men had
strange names
reflections of personality
deed or look
he and his friends
never seemed to have jobs
but gathered on corners
played cards in social clubs
always friendly always polite
Willy Shoes was handsome
with large dark Mediterranean eyes
dressed to the nines
silk shirts pegged pants
gold cufflinks and alligator belts
jet-black hair combed
into a perfectly Brylcreemed
ducktail and pompadour
you could see your reflection
in the high gloss of any pair
of shoes from his infinite
spit shined collection
Wille liked me
hey kiddo he would say
here’s a buck
take this here envelope
and give it to Thomazula
the bootblack
one day when
I was about seventeen
I saw a picture of
Willie Shoes
on the front page of
the New York Post
handcuffed and trying to
hide his face with a
neatly pressed
pin-striped suit jacket
Willie “Shoes” Sansone it said
charged with the murders
of eleven gangland figures
and I remember wondering
if he would let me have
a few pair of his fancy shoes
while he was away...
Man with cufflinks
Woman with fine jewels
Rubies resting on booby's,
Sick stories and inverted crosses
Orgies and they all yell more fish!
Secret Societies taking over nations,
Yates conspiracy and religions fantasy
Crossed bones those dark tales,
Corpses: 33rd degrees beneath the earth
I can feel earth's core;
The belly of the beast as it groans
And she roars with might,
Mortals building tombs fir the next wars.
Winds blowing in; destroying ceilings
And they all still yell more fish,
More oysters: those sea creatures
Waves opening revealing sea's treasures,
Diamonds and pearls:
Be mindful of the site of Atlantis view,
Contours outlining seashores
Hitting harbors as Poseidon swims to far-
from the submarines radar resulting in undetected gods
And fire torpedoes,
Lost islands and extinct species...
Scientists going deeper to discover the mysteries:
Deep tales and blue seasons.
I never bought cuff links for my father
never knew him really
I saw him at Christmas and birthdays
for a few years early on
That ended
Father’s day, a strange, empty holiday
Sticks and stones, they break your bones, and words they disembowel. Poetry is a dagger, linguistics a humble cowl. Lab rat hearted heathens pray the plagues consume the town. Iron sharpens iron, Don't let the bastards get you down. By our own devices we fell asleep. As I slumber softly, counting hordes of dead sheep. All was lost amongst the erosion. Why educate when you can occupy? Railroad stitches across this land hold together this monster with rubber bands. When the body rejects the mind the onlookers cower in fear. Political parties fan the flames. Kuru Flawed in feeble brains. Politicians regurgitate and feed. Gluttonous parasites polish cufflinks in a rigorous art of greed. I have foreseen the apocalypse, and it's mediocre.
Chateau Pl
A sleep walk guided by reflections
Although somethings were real
Not the front entry way
Or the stair case
Or the garage for that matter
Scrubbed and alcohol swabbed shoes
Eating off those would've been though
Pee sitting down!
And cologne must not be detectable
From more than an arms length away!
Nobody wore it
I think
The closet could've clothed a small town
And housed an elderly couple with a Pomeranian
A parked Steinway on sleek marble
Or maybe it was a Bentley, whichever,
The keys were misplaced
Handshakes are forbidden!
You may speak, however.
A stolli over ice seemed to be the only thing
Not surreal
Unless you would fancy triple dipping
Beluga caviar with a vacuum in your hand surreal
Or, perhaps, being seduced by homemade egg noodles
Can you describe that atrocius smell?
A Land's End catalog doused in kerosene
Ties & cufflinks & Jackets on fire sale
A whiff of ozone
Darkness
A hazy stare assisted by chirping birds
and a gurgling salt water tank
In an upstairs, 2 bdr. duplex
A peon awakens a prince
Hotel terraces art nouveau ironwork and interiors
Mother of pearl cufflinks painters actors musicians
Scooters racing around an antiquity filled Italian city
Mediterranean charm "How do you like your breakky?"
Feeling faint she lay on the comfortable chintz couch
And began to doze off to sleep...two cherubs red hair
Sea-green eyes turned up frecked nose sniffed air
Clove cigarettes perfume of sandalwood musk rose
Fresh strawberries slithered onto his awaiting lap
Beautifully chiselled shaven jawline elegantly poised
Handsome blue eyes dazzled like secret treasures
How it burns:
this image of you:
onyx cufflinks, pin striped suit, crisp black shirt
on your way to your funeral, your wedding, your song to sing
How it aches:
this memory of you:
tragedy smile, eyes of drugs, ragged stance
on the eve of every sweet goodbye you ever felt and kept inside
How it breathes:
this voice of yours:
sealing up the broken hearts, ebbing along on the violet wire
on the minds of some, the ears of more, the hearts of all
How it burns:
this fire from you:
slow smoldering, uncontrollable, in your crisp black shirt
on your way to your funeral, your wedding, your song to sing
And it burns, and it burns, and it burns.
(for Johnny Cash)
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