Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.

Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.

head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes

Black, tamed, tanned fleshes
Backs that have bent under the lashes
White, knocked, stripped bodies
Souls that have cried under the follies.

Here they are, numbed and weak
Here they are, abused and bleak
Here they are, numbed and wicked
Here they are, afraid and naked.

Broken, divided, lost knowledge
Minds that were pushed towards the edge
Bullied, bucketed, libel laws
Bones that were eaten by jackdaws.

Here they are, tortured and whipped
Here they are, tainted and with, wrestled
Here they are, gagged and secluded
Here they are, gunned and, for, settled.

Where are you, mockers and dealers
Horrid hearts who have robbed the beggars?
Bullied, bucketed, libel laws
Bones who were envied by the caws.

Here they are, accusers and lawyers
Here they are, robbers and buyers
So let me ask you a question,
Where are we in this garrison?


March 23, 2013

none more than I,
surprised and wary,
that my all-my-life
urbanized body,
be so unnaturally well attuned
to a slight degree
temperature modification

I,
proud city dweller,
born and bred,
urban dust,
the sandblast used
to erode and etch-a-sketch
my body's skin pores hollows,
by definition, pride and myth,
a tough skin necessified
to survive where
plants cannot

the chill of fall,
and the follow up of
it's 'whiteout' afterwards,
faintly dimly but
remarkably present,
unmistakably different
from the chilling moisture
forming on the ice bucketed bottle
of dinner's colden, golden,
waiting white Sancerre

the lowest, coldest single note
any viola can exhale,
I,
hear coming from Itzhak Perlman's
so close, Shelter Island retreat,
a foghorn warning
clearly felt, smelling its deep fried heard mournful warning,
tonal hum, swelling from the outside in,
not despite, but to pointedly spite
the surrounding humidity condensation of August
on the air cooled window panes

the very same humidity
that makes humans
curse the blessing of sweating,
registering slews of
no-one-cares complaints to
no-ones-listening people,
about the drying out everywhere
wet dampness of the end of the
simmering season

a sliver, a musk,
a prophet's portent,
so subtly well entrenched,
secretly by nature sent,
a realtime single line of code,
message that winter is indeed coming,
but not to the Seven Kingdoms,
but to the Czar's literary summer palace

I,
the sole prosecution witness,
to winter's germination
as the evening cools,
testifying about the acorn droppings
felt beneath flip flops,
like hurtful peas
beneath a princess's ten deep mattresses,
reminders of too soon time to be mourned
as gone, gone, gone
the summer,
the peak of the foliage, the zenith, the crest
of this old and very peculiar man

but one?

how can this be,
one **** degree
of Fahrenheit
leads directly to
sniffles and endless
gesundheists?

one **** degree,
separates the operatic arias,
the shower sing-a-long songs of his summer soul's
contented tented revival,
which now, in these sultry days of  August,
he sings, so swell,
practiced with an artistic style of
summer lazy's 'doing nothing'
so, so well

soon to suffer the mysteries of
the longest day
of wintery night,
where silent snow falling,
beautifies but makes the man
put down his pen and
reread his summer poetry

tonite,
we fine and dine
dressed in summer attire,
sock-less, coolest linen with cotton blended,
only ******, good natured,
political discussions allowed,
some daring souls,
bare their left shoulders,
more tan skin out than in,
while others defend
the natural human right
of man to wear in tandem,
white socks and ugly cargo shorts

all the fabrics, all the friends,
crinkling wrinkling upon the tannins
of sweet brown sugar of caramelized skin

some wearing bright pastels
clean new white T's,
so eye brightening-whiting-delighting,
that they are legally required,
and illegal to wear anytime else,
except for this one abbreviated quarter
of the best days of his life

smell the snow,
hearing  the boots and parkas,
making tramping noises upon snow cleared paths
swimming unhappily across
slushy street corners, almost mountain pass impassable
all these molecules, wafting in the coolness
of the August shore breezes ,
fedex'd  up from the polar south winds
of wintertime Argentina

all of these hints,
present and accounted for
in the atmosphere,
but of them,
I,
do not speak
not out loudly anyway

why,
to be lost beneath,
under the munching noises of summer corn
summer fruits, tongue exploding,
clinking of happy glasses,
toasts of "what a great summer eve!"
the wisdom of silence loudly asserts

for who am I to
rob us the deceit,
the human natural conceit,
that the future is the identity of our
permanent press present

that the unpracticed pleasures
of lapping up breezes,
the genteel salted aroma of
heated sweated forehead beads and sea water,
the cocktail odors of barbecue sauce,
fishing boat's diesel, Campari,
root beer floats,
strawberry shortcake's speaking of its peaking,
little children laughing with carousel joy at
running unshod and free upon bunnies and frogs,
all words and thoughts somehow miracle rhyming with...
forever

soon to end in the
disenchantment of reruns on
a flickering black and white tv night,
once again, no longer obsolete,
unlike the man

the eyes glisten from held back tears,
all come to give me hugs, thinking
the old man, in his white apron is
joyous simply happy or simply,
grill smoke got in his eyes

but that one **** degree...

My eyes  sore from the teaming rain that Bucketed down ,
drenching my cloaths and skin , yet became transfixed
On a crow busy plucking parasites from a stags backside ,
It was early ,
the Sun had just risen  , and a frost still clung to the shrubs chilling by bones as I stood
there alone for what seemed like an eternity .

For a week we lived like Kings on bread and cheese and beautiful things my wife , daughter and I
With fabric to mend , wash and sow ,
how the work came in .
A good fire at night that kept us warm ,
a few shillings for lodging ,
a roof over our heads ,
Curled up in our beds ,
Warm and fed .
Then skin and bone ,
as winter called ,
and hale and gale ,
and famine .

No bread ,
to feed our famished souls ,
On chicken feed ,
my daughter fed ,
From the baker I begged,
Swollen stumucks ,  
Frozen nights , cast out .for a penny of gold
A bed in a slum ,
a new days begun ,
To ***** the streets ,
from dawn to dusk ,
Looked Down by the well to do ,
afraid to buckle my shoe .
I walked for days  .
Then down to the Docks where hundreds flocked ,
Crammed in like cattle .
If death has no power over love , then why do I stand here , alone , in the freezing cold.
With no room to breath , or turn ,
no air to fill my lungs ,
a mass of bodies ,
Thousands of men ,
a surge of bodies behind me ,
I slipped and fell ,
Now here I stand with deer and crow before me

When word and deed is done , then cometh the truth .
Bread of life for common man the Son of God did say ,
Now tomorrow morn , before the great White throne ,
I must plead my case .
For where my sinful soul once trod a good Shepherd kept his flock ,
To pay before a holy God .
A red deer to be culled for Christmas .

My Crow took flight once more. and as
The sun rises and sets ,
What is new under the sun ,
but a Holy God before me .

So it's a thought
upside down
Bucketed
and banging
in here
going *******
for a way
to be strung out
up even
going for not easily
gotten over

What did you
Huh?
say
all this banging
has me
I'm doin
can't hear
you

why can't u
hear me
can't u see
what's going on
in here
standing
mouth open
you're no help

thought u wuz
my friend
hunh

Thought like this
banging in me

Thinking like this
ahm clanging
hanging me up




Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

I’ve a friend
With a bucket for a head.
His desires
Are rather misled.
Or maybe it’s mine
Which tarnish these lines
And wished for
A cone friend instead.

If one
With a cone took his place,
If the bucket
Had left not a trace,
Then this blood-covered train
Of thoughts in my brain
Would never have
Once shown its face.

So when my
Bucketed friend lies his head
In the sun,
And on over I tread,
I’ll fight with my foot,
And I’ll make it stay put,
Cause I’d hate
For my friend to be dead.
Yet still, in the grass,
He has bled.

I made my life an art, a career;
A gold star among black skies glowing
******-red.

I was his queen. Still am, though
He kept women in our bedroom closet while I wept.
I was delicate back then.

But Page Six and The Times had me
on my toes. Marilyn, Marlene, Judith - Dave Powers running
a knife down from my crown to my hips, brushed it off with a hair flip.

Young Marilyn wants my crown.
Young Marlene wants my money.
Young Judith wants my soul.

I let Marilyn take my crown; I don’t want blood on my sleeve -
I let Marlene take my money; I don’t care for empty parties -
I let Judith take my soul; I lost it along the way with all

the drinks and doleful dinners - a banquet with this
man and that Duke, and the other dunce from that foreign country
in the South China Sea because we have agreements here and there and everywhere.

Marilyn can have Saigon for all I care.
Marilyn can stain the White House red with blood; bombed and bucketed
with orange flares.

She can take my man to share,
She can rip me to shreds with diamond fingers tearing at Jack’s coat;
Loving, lusting, shaking, shivering - daring.

But she can never take away my wedding day.
She can never scrub away his sticky blood
on my pink tweed ’till I lay to rest beside him.