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Lou Costello’s
bronze semblance
dipped and danced atop
his granite pedestal
spinning miasmatic tales
of enigmatic hope and
resplendent labor

“the sweet
unbounded
expectation of
hope once
surged down
this city’s streets”
... said Lou

"I was a self made man
until someone thought up
the idea to cast a bronze
caricature of me and
bolt it to this grand rock”

nostalgia
is the boldest form
of fiction
culling from the past
the things hoped for
in the now

“growing up
here
I clipped school,
played ball,
rolled drunks
and fought
nickel ante
prize fights
to get my
daily bread,
I literally
punched my
way out
of this town”

a smith smelts a
batch of liquid bronze
pouring molds full of
a fervent wish
a madman's delusion
a priestly promise
a Pollyannaish illusion?

baskets overflowed
gushing hope, offered
at the holy altars by
honorable workers

it was said that
a morsel of labor
could feed 5000
starved families
breeding hopes as large
as a half cup of water

hope
the size of a
mustard seed sparked
recovery of 1000 sick children
dying from the Asian Flu
at St. Joe's

hope
willed an end to war’s slaughter
which ironically was bad for
Paterson's war profiteers
forcing layoffs
sparking labor actions

hope
ignited conflagrations firing
the resurrection of dead industries
lately there is a lot of hope
circling this one

miracles spring
from the pronounced
lips of trembling hearts

the hopeful amassed
slogging forth on bloodied toes
along razor thin slices
of expectation
hoping to begin again
eager to build anew

new starts sometimes
grow old fast soon
hope expires
winging back home
on broken wings of
misspent labor

hoping for the snow to stop
a lump of coal to last
the labor of a budding crocus
rewarded, breaking through
the hard crust of winters end
blooms for a day then expires

hope is a beggars wish
gods give yearnings heft
prayers earnestly chanted
willing paradigm shifts

prayers of absolution
play the angles
calculating odds
of probabilistic mathematics
a sure thing long shot
the prayers of the
righteous availeth much

we hoped for jobs
we hoped for leisure
we hoped for love
we hoped for labor
we hoped for rest
we hoped for luck
we hoped for a life
wealth health blest

laughing at our follies
crying over defeats
our city a tragic star
a comedy of schemes

our
hope and labor
is the keystone of
our self construction
cornerstone of
a grand city’s edifice
its negation our
deconstruction

tragedy and comedy
invested and spent
falling and laughing
foibles and faith

belief trumps evidence
happenstance slays surety
horror and beauty
compose a life's mural
nothing happens
by mistake

learning and ignorance
fate and chance
the risk of randomness
expiration dates arrive fast

predetermination a bold
conviction, suspicion,
intention a splendid  
kismet  

banality becomes
sublime  
laughter is ******

...the mystery is in
the loam... says WCW
...the finished product
is what I’m after...

“what the
**** are you
doing here?"
the bronzed Louis
gagged

"Hey Abbott
look at these clowns
in the yellow plastic
garbage bags!

bobbing in a sea of
midnight mist

a posse of
neon clowns
donning glad bags
on the most dismal
night of the year

twinkling under the
gloom of my playgrounds
faltering streetlamps

“twinkling targets
easily tracked,
a trained eye,
a steady hand
could pick you off
at a thousand paces
what gives?

“what the **** are
you doing here?

“what the **** am I doin
here for that matter?”

“the second question
is easy to answer,

“I’m Paterson’s
finest son....

...“Wherever he is tonight, I want him to hear me," and went on with the show. No one in the audience knew of the death until after the show when Bud Abbott explained the events of the day, and how the phrase "The show must go on" had been epitomized by Lou that night....

"Mr. Bacciagalupe
he use to live on
Cianci Street

“who’s on first?
what’s on second?
I don’t know is on third?
was a riddle one recited
to get into his speak

“his Ginnie Red was legendary
and no one was ever known to
die from drinking his bathtub gin”

the old world ways
are made new
by the arrival of
new old worlds
supplanting old Italiano

“where is all the goodwill capital
we invested in this place?”

successive generations
thought it best to export
the capital of the
expired generations
elsewhere

it was ferried
across the river,
crossed the
city boundaries,
leaving for Wayne
and the fairer lawns
of Wyckoff and the
greener grasses of
Franklin Lakes

all the old wise guys
died off or were sentenced
to life by their children,
some still doin time in
old age homes in
Rockaway

all the sport clubs
boarded up but their spirit
lingers like an espresso
ring on a post slurp
demitasse cup

“hell my body is buried
in Hollywood but here
I am, holding court in
Costello Park
talking with you
knuckleheads
a baseball bat
my royal scepter
a brown derby
my crown, truly a
King of Nothing,
Lord of All

“the soul of my city is
eternal,  like the comedy
of tragedy or is it
tragic comic?

“here I remain
omnipresent,
spinning about
frozen forever
in a magnificent
bronze age,
erected to my likeness
beholding me
to stand witness
to this litter strewn park
decorated with corrugated
Big Mac boxes, plastic
Big Gulp tops and discarded
rubbers bagging the ****
of this cities arrested
citizenry”

never actualized
never naturalized
citizenship denied
at the commencement
of ejaculatory flows
of joy

unfulfilled spirit
of citizenship
never to experience
the splendor
of yesterday’s
modernist
metropolis and
Lou’s stand up
routines

“look at that John
over there, that guy
wheezing like a
ruptured blacksmith’s
billow, pounding away
laboring to get off

“the poor little
******* just hopes it
will end soon

it does
**** he’s done

I” knew that guys
grandfather,
getting off
runs in the family
and remains one
of the few things
that draws the progeny back
to the old neighborhood

“you can still glimpse
snippets of the old ways
rising in new ways

“an Armenian
sports club
around the corner
is a new
incarnation of
the old Neapolitan
social clubs that
once demarcated the
neighborhoods

“these days
great grandsons
of once proud
Sons of Italy
come back to the
old neighborhoods
begging for hand-jobs
from crack ******

“welcome to my
burlesque world

“since the Gumbas
moved to Franklin Lakes
the wannabe wise guys
became ***** whipped
dumb *****
making ***** of
themselves with
their painted ****-job
Jersey Housewives

“they ***** their families
out for a bit parts on
MTV and a free lunch
at the Brownstone

“their grandfathers
labored long hours
to assure the well being
of their families in the expectant
hope of a better shot at life
but the children squandered
the hard earned bequest lovingly
bequeathed by reverent forebears

“in the wee hours
one can sometimes hear
a weeping chorus
of concrete Madonnas
musing melodious lullabies
to the sleeping
Lombard's lying
in uneasy repose at
Holy Sepulchre Cemetery

“they twist in their graves
dreaming of a last dance with the
Lady of Unending Sorrows
at weddings for unrepentant
wayward daughters and prodigal sons

“its small
recompense for a
lifetime of an
honest day’s work”

the dashed hope
of squandered labor
begets a city of ruin”

at the
parks northern corner
the Salvation Army’s
rumbling bivouac rests
in a dreamless sleep
its residents
patiently waiting to
inherit this city
abandoned by
nuevo wise guys

this tragedy
is all comedy
the comedic hope
of tragic labor
buried snoring
the millenniums away
awaiting resurrection
day

Lou was getting ******...
“get outta my park

“the artists
in the rehabbed
factories across
the street
are resting

“nothing much
going on there

“if you're hoping
to find some
homeless slogs
head over to the river
you should find some there”....

Music Selection:
Frank Sinatra, High Hopes

jbm
Oakland
3/26/13
Part 5 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Mew
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Written Sitting against an Oak tree outside of a family friend's farm in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin
Jonathan Witte Jun 2017
His wife is as
assiduous as
a mother bird.

She keeps
the windows
clean with rags
and buckets
of vinegar and
steaming water.

What happens here.

He sweeps
the ceiling
and ponders
the meaning
of the word
perspicacity.

There are
mornings
spent fussing
over underused
demitasse sets.

What happens here.

There are
afternoons
side-by-side
on the front
porch glider,

watching clouds
attenuate across
a porcelain sky.

What happens here.

The smallest
sounds never
fail to surprise
them.

How sparrows fold
like feathered paper
below rectangles
of polished air.

*What happens here,
happens over there.
Stuart Zukerman Mar 2012
My existence is taunted by the mesmerizing aroma,
The delightful demitasse of her Mocha brown essence,
A mere arm’s length away yet still an unreachable distance,
The inviting warmth of her crema’s supple surface,
Intensifying temptation to unending heights.

Espresso feelings brew for an eternity,
The barista’s pressure refusing to cease,
Steaming desire straining at every point,
Ever seeking release from the torment.
Ground, grated and pulverized am I,
In the grip of my addiction –
A tortuous thirst that can never be quenched.

But for the warm dark brew being wrapped in the sleeve of another,
I would pour her in to the most precious Italian ceramic bowl,
  Embrace her warmth in the palms of my adoring hands,
Breathe in her rich exotic essence,
Explore her complex depths each day till the end of time.

And still I’d wake each morning anew,
Longing in my never ending desire for another sip,
A deeper understanding and appreciation,
My lips longing to embrace but one more luscious drop,
Love’s ambrosia - the hot dark brew.  


Stuart Zukerman
Vancouver, B.C.
Dorothy Quinn Jul 2013
He doesn’t owe me the very breath I just savored
so I yell at the stars,
“I think He owes me a favor.”
He does not.

Yet, there's mercy.
Even more, there's love,
and still I spit
on jewels wrapped in burlap
I don’t need You.

What more, I plead and bargain
for light to peak through a crack
in the crevice of your soul
that cannot feel, nor love
because precious, precious jewels wrapped in burlap
do not compare to an explorer’s find of Alexandrite
in the cave I call your soul.

A fool, an explorer – one in the same,
there was not one jewel in burlap,
but many.
What imprudence! I still long for
one glimpse of Alexandrite
hoarded under hate and lies,
deception and malice.
What nerve! To demand for
light to leak in caves
that are not mine to reconnoitre.

An explorer is a demitasse
for when she is graced with eternal diamonds
she selects coal instead.
athena Feb 2017
the ice sliced the street while counting the paced steps under my breath. we're all here for the temporary feeling — the things that kept us alive, the books that were written, the songs that were sang. your demitasse of cold coffee and glass of sangria with fruits that was drenched in the cold blood of wine. the intervals of your horrible sanity, the tingling edges of your pulse and the pain in its very unusual degree. the infinite possibilities of what can be taken away from you until you actually run out of things to write about or realizing that nothing is meant to last for more than lightyears away in time.
- please stay, i want to write about you.
Death dropped by this morning  
With espresso in a mug
Not a dainty little demitasse  
And he sat down on my rug
His face was rough with stubble
But I didn't ask him why
Some things you just don't ask
So I let some time run by

In course he gazed upon me
And in a hoarse voice spoke
“I really do not mean you harm
It's just that when I woke
I found that I was lonely
And I hoped you wouldn't mind
If I dropped by for just a while -
If that's not out of line.”

“You see I know about you,
I've seen you once or twice
And I watched you comfort others
And I thought that you seemed nice
So though your own appointment
Is a fair time away
I hoped you might allow me
A few moments here today”

“I know that people fear me
Though I never knew just why
I do a vital service
I'm really a nice guy
Do people really want to live
Forever without end?
Because that's not as good as it
Might sound to you, my friend.”

“The life you live is precious
But it's not all that there is
You can take my word on that
Or if you like, take His
There really is a purpose
And I'm part of the plan
Even though you might not see
It from this mortal land.”

You may not think all of this real
But I tell now, it's what he claimed
And when he finished up his mug
I feared I would be maimed
But that much of his words were true
He did no harm as he did say
As for the rest, who knows for sure
I guess we'll see another day.
This poem started with just the first two lines - they popped into my head as I was making espresso the other morning and the rest, well, it kind of took me by surprise.

Copyright June 22, 2010 by Timothy Emil Birch
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
Everybody's in a tea-mood these days.
At the moment,
I prefer Chai,
but the greens are still my favorites.
I love white monkey
& silver rain
in my pottery cup.
There's nothing
like a warm demitasse
& the comfort
of spinning
a prayer wheel,
watching the flags
fluttering at base camp
below Heaven
with my good friends.
Nicole Apr 2021
aromatic and deep mahogany
decoction swirled with steam
a cupped nectar of rebirth
morning glimpses of heaven
first sip a remembrance
nuanced tincture
delicate demitasse
mmm...Mine
This slipped into my mind this morning over my cup of coffee...
William Rogers Apr 2016
London, 1999

Oh the fences they hold true,
wandering through heavy woven forests of tree roots
to pastures of sunken vegetation
along dirt roads nestled in overcast shadows,
as a family picnics, or so it would appear.
A rejoice of sorts if only you were still here.
I see your silhouette appear and reappear,
the wind etching your likeness
upon each cairn that dots pastoral.

The walking path becomes overwhelmed by sunlight.
Perhaps you are still working in the fields,
Your wind-burned and calloused exterior
holding rough rooted abhorrence in your lowered brow.
You remain sanctified and unpolluted,
piling sun bleached stone upon sunken roots,
the dark shadows solidified in foreground fate.

Oh how your canvas womb gives heartless birth.
Thrice mangled memories,
of dark French roast in an earth tone demitasse
and crumpets served slightly charred on the veranda
on a chipped porcelain Victorian saucer
with only a faint shade of lavender along its edge.

As the dark brown stain in the once white silk tablecloth
glowers through the prongs of your tarnished silver fork,
You stare across the table
at the emptiness of the once filled bookcases.

I realize that your only genuine notion of remorse
is in the severed piece of an antique plate.
Robin Carretti May 2018
Who what why
We feel enveloped
Like we were licked
E---Tricked frightened
Secretly eloped
Who do we elect?
Why all signs
Horse, Of course
monkey, Divorce
Tiger Eyes strong heart
This world falling apart
The presidential
minds over
shock waves
surfboard
Or somebody is a great asset
_
The brain waves hand slaves
boardroom
Ready set became
the schoolroom
The study
The speed walker
sturdy built
She had a heart
of a magnet lover

Recharge to be reset (Elect)
Main course subject
lips met to
be picked
when the sun
goes down
electrified
Our sunset

Ms. Marrionette
The trick misery
chair
To be tricked like a
hollyhock around the
ticking sticks
and stones
clock
United Nation
security
council
being spied upon

Mr. Sherlock
holding his
unsharpened
pencil

Pop Eyes poppy flowers*
Sun-lit showers overload of hours
Over the amazing hills of
Ireland my pick
He takes you
the hand like a
stranger in paradise
like a dream lips like
divine shades the taste
cream demitasse

You're sleepwalking
He is Jaywalker
Jack climbs
up pins of the
cactus sting bean-stalk
Being pinned to the
election talk small talk
Moms' crock-***
He's the spacewalk
Taking my arm
Armstrong+
__**
Proud but now its
the forgotten land
Needing a brighter future
(Night owls Neverland)
Nighthawks of
Disneyland bringing

(Ray of sunshine)

The more  I see you
the more I want you
As years go by love talks
The luck of the
Irishman shamrock walks
All pranks
Flinstones of bedrock
Going to the
boardwalk
*

Coney Island Baby,
he is half-cocked
A piece of the rock
More like gridlock
The hat was flying
windy
__City
Cool electric, please
stay calm don't panic
Your face was
the ice puck
Goldilocks Grandmas house
three bears acting like
someone's spouse
Dog of pugs big bark
The lights bright electric
Fell over her porridge dark
Robin red breast bird fly
His Mark cornstalk but why?
The heat intensity
Everlasting
chemistry
no drilling so
hot heat beat
blasting electricity

If I had to
pick something
Let me be well
Crystal ball met me sanity

Your husband has his
toothpicks you
are his lady
dental floss
You're both
better off with
prays of God
Never to be tricked
by the cross
Electricity came a long way but we are still acting like we are from the stick playing pick up sticks throwing rocks I am hanging out by the waves and the sea breeze docks please come join me
mike dm Jan 2016
her gravity, that next morning, was one heaping demitasse
of swirling dense nebula ebbed-not-yet. we drank coffee
in silly mugs together while looking at the sun
as it came up for us,
bathed in freezing cold blues. she stretched. yawned.
she struggled to wipe a sleeper from her eye.
her kimono opened,
showing a cascading ledger of ribs behind vampirewhite skin -
my namesake was now scribbled on its rounded surface;
hers, on the inside of my femur, calligraphic.
she was too young for me, i know that.
no worries though,
her soul was older. it was sacred stone. megalith glyphed.
we held each other and
downing that bitter morning brew
watched the sky flick on.
then we picked up our heavy bodies
and went back to bed,
and ****** so hard i got a cramp in my left foot when i came.
dm micklow
Kaitlin Evers Jun 2016
Find out what makes you happy
A demitasse in hand
A moment to yourself
What you’re enamored with
Discover your inner soul
Be who you are
These are the stones that begin your excursion
Into a life you can enjoy
If you’re feeling out of place
Maybe you’re not being you
zebra Feb 2021
i'm as tiny as a fake something 
in the middle of nowhere
on the edge of nothing
wing-like 
with brazen teeth for grinning bites 
and the knee of listening 
howling into a phone
telling of hunger for food and herb
in a dream of diagraming sleep

~~~

she has no respect for the weak
hating her vulnerability
shrunken living in a cardboard room
stiff and dry the size of the sky
ranting tears in braids of rain
a five o'clock shadow of begging meditations
until deaths' lips formed the shape of O 
shaping a tunnel rimed in late afternoon
telling me her body is but metaphor
for orbiting angels
a fashionable estate of limbs
in apple fruited curved headlands
and demitasse islands of past desire
floating in pink glimmering heavenly clouds
licking the blue
where the emptiness of life used to be

she shimmers rainbow tranquilizers 
packaged by twos 
in shinny tinfoil marvels
slick as icicles
for the perfect dose 
you can feel in your hand like braille 

at tongues touch 
it folds into dark warm nothing
showing her that death 
has it's own special charisma
like calico tattoos
or syncopating neon moons

deaths mouth opens like an opera singer 
and eats her eyes 
till these sunken alters liquidate
and breath ascends distant from the ache of want
in the knee of forgetting
red and wet
black as crows
"Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis"
translation = thus always I
bring death to tyrants.”

Above the fray of twittering,
squabbling, and madding crowds,
an arrogantly belligerent creature deified,
yet vilified gauche, haughty lumpenproletariat
decreeing blind, deaf and dumb obeisance,
whereby upon forced Sacrificial Altar
erected golden Olympian fleeced perch,
(he acquired, effected, indoctrinated
vis-à-vis bloodless coup d'etat)
absolute dictatorship jump/
kick starting  veneration,
albeit forced subservience

buzzfeeding, fostering (long)
totalitarian reign crafting ship of state  
into figurative unwieldy beastly Leviathan
through present Century21
incorporating deterministic, fascistic,
masochistic, narcissistic, opportunistic,
and shamanistic trumpeting
holier than though malevolent fiery bombast
fulminating laws, exuding self worth
hortatory exclamations decreeing
(by fiat, that no commoner
lest they want an Escort into Crossover realm

he/she cannot afford to Dodge commands,
especially if and when Porsche
comes to shove Fiats promulgated)
absolute valued flat out sharp devotion
pledging (née requiring) pilgrimages,
where his birthplace sanctified
as cultural heritage site,
(a humble abode in backwater of Queens)
dammed, deemed, and donned
for populace to worship
and pay requisite penance de rigueur
in order to avoid premature death;

said consecration viz complex edifice
analogous to Taj Mahal
self declared god enshrined provenance,
where pathway paved with gold
courtesy self declared demigod;
(one blimey, flimsy, nasty
shortish and brutal Attila the *** wannabe),
who served daily dollop of dregs
in ***** deeds done dirt cheap demitasse
admiring, fawning, kowtowing,
primping, et cetera himself,
i.e. a Beatle browed, bobble headed

mop top orange hirsute Talking Head
(though likeness of his trademark
coiffed haired countenance
plastered across every square inch)
detested, and feared unto Caesar,
whose reflection shone thru
and across wall to wall hall
of mountain king mirrors;
meanwhile Blood, Sweat And Tears
for Fears Beastie Beach Boys
and Goo Goo Dolls with ******* aplenty
painstakingly enslaved away

raspily, tentatively verily warbling words,
(while simultaneously severely afflicted
with heebie-jeebies) sung,
(albeit barely audible) Stayin' Alive
amidst noise of torture chamber
smells of burning flesh  
as evidenced by branded, pierced,
snd tattooed rebellious insubordinates
invariably found culpable regarding lèse-majesté,
thus futilely skittering helter skelter
from his majesty paw sized hands
adorned with precious jewels monogrammed

with initials of  Frederick Christ Trump Sr
within whose grotto the heir
found solace, perserverence, and divine guidance
inspiring blistering, glorifying hymns
punishing, and withering edicts
totally tubular proclamations pronouncing
matter of fact, unquestioned imposed fealty
larger than life persona, endowed
crowned, and accorded self  supremacy,
where even divine
cosmic consciousness bows
and trembles acquiescing

toward ornery primate,
whose self crafted patriarchal
mandates imposed unquestioned vows,
where punishment meted out if questioning
of authority appeared to furrow brows
allowing, enabling and providing
totalitarian usurper re: free will ordains wows
be uttered and furor
squelched via militaristic might,
whenever fuhrer didst rouse
the public to pay homage

(even if coerced, forced, and induced)
toward faux courtly house
of seized role of Caesar Augustus
enforcing abrogation,
whence sun t'will
dance and rise to douse
the chill from the dawn
early morn, and mother earth
will be delegated to serve
world wide wagstaff slow caucus
as surrogate spouse, parent, big brother.

Dictatorial modus operandi foisted
upon ******* up public enemy re:
guarding Visigothic, oligopolistic,
hedonistic, and cannibalistic
adopted heir of vested gentry
meted staked, and yoked
fancyfeast sovereignty
intolerant per crowd-sourced
crowing diehard fulminations
denouncing trick air re:
qua hoodwinked treaty
against opprobrious, serious
reign of terror breed

ding steely dang LifeLock
self proclaimed deity
czarist gnome *****
to be (habeas corpus) writ
since this anonymous
cloaked drafted ensign gainsays nothing
as one among populous proletariat
bound and gagged if I don't claim
tyranny rigged by bourgeoisie
and get hung drawn and quartered
as a dire warning damning social compact
left to rot in hell
as a capital one threatening misfit.

Postscript:

I started with the premise
and idea of constituting
the cult of personality worship,
but found thoughts trotting off
in another direction,
and thus felt obliged
to saddle and pony up to thine
predominant sad dulled end
product te deum!
I was raised
by a strong gulf wind
Muddy rivers and people
with perpetually brown skin

They say the sky's
the limit
Under a humid full moon
I've danced all night
hungover to the dawn's early gloom

Slide guitars sho' nuff boil my blood
Mudbugs and beer
make it easy to cheer

And I sleep
wherever I fall
Inside a shotgun house
made with cyprus walls

I drink cold dripped coffee
from small demitasse cups
sweet with the aftertaste
of fresh hazelnuts

C'est Chaud !

— The End —