WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES
(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )

I once knew a man
who knew a man
who had seen

F. Scott Fitzgerald
drinking a milkshake
in a drug store

(vanilla or chocolate
he couldn't be sure)
flicking idly

through a magazine
( no he didn't know
which magazine )

in the company of
some blonde
"I'll never forget what he said!"

"Let's go
to the supermarket
Shelia!" he said

and that's it?
"That's it!"
his voice caressed

each syllable
as if
he were on stage

but he was
like a man
becoming a manakin

like in that episode of
The Twilight Zone
you know the one?"

in a future
that had as yet
to happen

"I don't know
what I had
expected..."

the man who knew the man
who knew the man
who had seen and heard

F. Scott Fitzgerald.
"Maybe a Gatsby or a Gatsby
who had survived

the novel's
tragic ending
and wished he hadn't!"



Here now at home
Mr. Fitzgerald
sits in his armchair

eating a chocolate bar
checking out next year's
Princeton football team

suddenly like a puppet
yanked on a string
he stands up

hand on mantlepiece
like some bad acting
in a silent movie

before falling
to the floor
he will never get up



Nick and Gatsby
come
stand by his dying

so do Monroe Stahr
and Kathleen Moore
even though

words fail them
yet they now
more real than he

Monroe reads
some last
scribbled lines

"There was a flutter
from the wings of God
and you lay dead

your  books
were in your desk I guess
and some unfinished chaos

in your head
was dumped to nothing
by the great janitress of

destinies."
Gatsby
closes his eyes.

*

WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )is of course the wonderful poem by Cesare Pavese.

Monroe and Kathleen are from Scott's last and unfinished novel THE LAST TYCOON.

I also knew a guy who knew a guy who peed beside Richard Brautigan. He was so in awe as to who was at the next ****** that he peed all over the top of his shoes.

"FOR HE WILL NOT DO DESTRUCTION IF..."

everything in the room
flowed like a river
towards the open window

that held Spring in its grasp
the billowing net curtains
holding the season prisoner

a blue so blue
one has to gasp
a green that made

one feel so alive
even the walls
rushed towards it

trying to escape
their own room
a chair

lying on its back
like an insect
trying to right itself

but furious
at failing
a picture had been

knocked sideways
and a trail
of broken mirror

led to the ledge
showing the room itself
in small and smaller fragments

the clock alarmed
to find itself
on the carpet

its battery flung just
out of reach
time gone quiet

the cat careless
of this trail of destruction
now poised

upon the shiny table
knocking over
the geranium ***

gazing in green
eyes towards
the portal

of the open window
that led to
the great beyond

the feline
leaping
into the what's

to come
leaving this human
room behind

*

The title is taken from one of the most delightful and best-known poems in praise of a house cat, Christopher Smart’s “My Cat, Jeoffry” which is actually one section of a much more complex and difficult work entitled Jubilate Agno (Latin for “Rejoice in the Lamb”), composed while the poet was locked in a private madhouse because of religious mania in 1759 or 1760.  

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.

'OH...I SAY!"
( for Harry  Owen )

"I bagged this one
out in In-dee-A!"

...the braggart's boast.

"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"

And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth

above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.

He looks startled as
he has been shot just -  that second.

"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache

...& monocle!"

One feels that one could
pop next door and there

would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon

sticking out the other side.

The glint in the eye
the sneer just so

...right.

"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.

Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."

"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."

The white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.

White Rhino's
collection of colonials

is the envy of
all the other animals.

"Some more hot *** old chum?"

But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.

Declines.

The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.

The shadows making
the humans almost

come alive

as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon

and say
"OH...I SAY!

OH THERE'S DEATH FOR YOU!

I didn't like my death
I asked my friend to die it for me
". . . but I'm already dead!" she said

I ask for a less messy death
something that fitted me better
"This is the only death we have left. . ."

"Oh you lucky *******!"
grumbled a ghost
"Why wasn't I given your death?"

yes I admit
my death is spectacular but
"I don't like the losing the head bit!"

I asked God
for a change...an exchange
He only give me religion

I was now suffering from
too much religion
a fate worse than death

I swopped my death
with a little chap not born yet
I had a lot of time to ****

killing time
good god
it was ******

little chap
took his time being born
"Come on,,.come on!" I urged him

awakened by Death
"Shhhhhh!" she said
kissing me tenderly

A HUMAN IS CRYING

The dog is dreaming
under the piano

asleep across
its foot pedals.

The clock announces
the seconds

in a loud hear ye hear ye
town crier's voice.

A bumble bee is arguing
furiously with the glass

of a cracked
window pane.

Time is defeated.

A human is crying.

Time is different
for the clock, the bee and

the crying human.

Time ceases to exist
lost in his grief.

His brother is dead.

Somewhere in the journey
around the sun

he has left the planet.

Earth continues on
without him.

He sees his brother
everywhere.

Strangers
wear his face.

Walk with his gait.

He almost expects
to hear

his voice in the dark
at the turn of the stairs.

He sees him many times
in many mirrors.

Or in the back of a spoon.

His face trapped
in a cobweb.

It always appears
as if...as if

he has just left
the room and

will be back
any second now

but: he isn't. . .

The dog is still
asleep under the piano.

The clock has run
out of time.

The silence is terrifying.

The bee it seems is
dozing on the window ledge.

The human
is crying.

*

My brother's death stripped me of everything...the who I am...my name...my identity...I was reduced down to this human symbol...just like the dog...the this...the that...who as it happens is...crying. As if a computer was merely registering the things in the picture.

THE MUSEUM OF LOST THOUGHTS

here( under glass)
the Christ's last thoughts
His doubts...His fears

even some say
( though some doubt their provenance )
his lost tears

here Caesar
as the knifes plunge in
the tattered thought "Et tu..?"

thought spattered
with the red rich
blood of history

the thoughts of man
displayed against black velvet
thoughts one thought were gone forever

pity you got here
just in time
for the closing bell

come back tomorrow
maybe you will be included
in the various exhibits

you the ordinary man
as the heart attack strikes
the lost voice "I love my wife!

TUSCALOOSA

when I woke up
my name...was gone
as if it had jumped ship

took a train and
ended up incognito
in Tuscaloosa

as an unsuccessful
travelling
salesman

who the hell
I was
...I couldn't tell you

it was as if
I was being
slowly erased

things too
started to lose
their names

looking at me
startled like
people

shocked to see themselves
suddenly in the ****
walking down the High Street

only a telephone
remembered its name
and started talking to me

in a high shrill voice
"Ring ring ringringring!"
it said

"Ring ring ringringring!"
it said again
but although I

remembered its name
I didn't remember
what it was for

So it just rang and rang
itself into
silence

"Shut it!"
I shouted silently
"Honey..?"

somebody who
claimed to be
my wife

( what ever that
was )
handed me words

like hieroglyphics
written upon
the air

"Tusaloosa! I said.
"Wot...?"
she hieroglyphed

"Tuscaloosa...that's
my name!"
I told her

for want of
something
better to say

"Tuscaloosa!"
I kept saying
trying to make it

make sense.
but it didn't.
nothing..didn't

my wife started weeping
into the telephone thing
and that's how I

came to be here
wherever here
...is?