He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.
We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,
Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.
Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.
He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.
That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.
Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.
Categories:
leatherette, poetry,
Form: Free verse
His clothes were tattered, in vivid shades of red blue & yellow
he wore leatherette shoes blackly polished and gleaming with shine
Red fiery hair that summoned like a fire hydrant and a big fat rubber nose that honked when it was squeezed.
He had a polka dotted hanky that protruded from his well padded suit,
and a kangaroo pocket in which he kept all his most precious belongings.
Aside from the fact that those big blue eyes of his were undeniably sad,
every part of his retinue screamed, "I am funny, I can make you laugh"
People came to the circus to watch his goofy antics and
to forget their worries for a little while. One day while he was blowing up balloons for the children, he died of a massive heart attack.
In heaven the angels took Tatters to the children's room. Sitting on a big shiny
red stool he was asked to make balloons for every child in God's creative nest.
His eyes were never sad again for he knew that here,
he could make a child smile and never grow old, or ever be sad again.
The End.
Categories:
leatherette, analogy, people, strength,
Form: Narrative
When his father-in-law got him
into the poultry biz in Rhode Island
Joe had not fully contemplated that
first day to market when he
when he failed to truss and bag the birds
properly, a holy-moly cock-up so
when he tossed them into his ’02
Honda Accord LX to parlay
the beasties down 95 South RI,
they managed to wriggle free
the chickens did, got loose
from the burlap sack
the chickens did, flapping anarchy,
and mayhem, and bad policy about
the Aught-Deux’s upscale cabin,
the mad bastard capons pocking
fine leatherette and Boze while
Bad Chicken Farmer Joe flailed away,
fowl and feathers, feathers and fowl
flailing, clawing, at the faux cherry
wheel, finally rip-cording his failed way
down exit 8A for Quonset Point,
where, at the light, the cross-walkers froze
glaciating, mightily at the cockerel mayhem
unraveling inside a popular Midclass Sedan.
Categories:
leatherette, animal, car,
Form: Free verse
The red leatherette like frozen waves
in a sea of coffee'd air
Cold, plump so early,
there's Formica caught in its glare
Filling slowly with private dreams
while lunch time salad waits
coffee, sweetened, creamed
croissants slipped on plates
If I owned a monochromatic camera
I'd watch the procession of the phoney
Some days it would make a difference
some days it might feel lonely
The door opens like a grave
allows in the stabbing cold
The young not bothered much,
unlike the weak and old
See one is talking the other waits
to say something pertinacious
One is waiting while the other talks
ignoring a crash of dishes
“Would you like a refill sir”
No honesty not even there
All the sugar in the world,
won't change her blank dead stare
In the corner an old man sits
newspaper shakes in dark annoyance
The headlines spoke of eastern dead
while he fights arthritis
Categories:
leatherette, imagery, society,
Form: I do not know?
It is the girl in the car, on warm leatherette,
Who, in the Summer slipstream, teased the wheel
And gunned her engine heart;
She graced the passing furnace air, and angel sweat
Tracked slowly down her singing spine, for her to feel
Ignition spark and start.
And in her moistened loins the truth it rang
A clear and sensual focus, some chaste alarm
Forewarning her affirming stance;
She knew the throttle deviance, and words that hang
In glibness in a one track mind, such charm
Insinuate it's way into her pants.
She scanned the roads ahead, acknowledged fork,
Twin signs with arrows, nervous, highly strung,
And take a wilder stab at chance;
Procure the empty fast lane or get out and walk,
Race to cold and shallow sex and silver tongue,
Or ramble down the highways of romance.
The tumbling of the dice, herself to know,
When, the vulture Summer flying through,
Chilled in the Mustang embrace;
And remaining in the car, yet took it slow,
And holding on, and to herself be true,
And smiled within the smile upon her face.
Categories:
leatherette, introspection, life, love, people,
Form: I do not know?