april 11 1952 Mom gives birth to beautiful blue-eyed girl Mom takes name Penelope from Great-Grandma Penny who died week after Odysseus was born Mom and Dad are not educated to know greek mythology and homer it is odd coincidence they picked Odysseus’s name out of book of names thought it sounded strong  anglo old money Odysseus is thrilled to have sister to share childhood with when Odysseus is 6 and Penelope is 4 Grandma Betty invites them to visit her house block away she serves them oatmeal cookies orange juice shows them her latest small painting of field brightly colored flowers birds in sky lower left corner is horse or dog painting is still wet she shows them magazine picture she copied from Odysseus realizes it is pony in lower left corner when they return home Mom yells at Odysseus “where were you? why didn’t you think to call or leave message with Teresa? do you have any idea what a nervous wreck you’ve made me!” she slaps hard Odysseus’s face reprimands “don’t i have enough to worry about without you pulling something like this? you only think about yourself it’s so typical of your selfishness wait until your father gets home he’ll deal with you now go to your room!" every time he gets caught in mistake he is punished the drill is Mom gets upset with Odysseus flies into rage yells slaps him around threatens him with Dad gets home has a few drinks Mom tells Dad explodes beats Odysseus Mom is judge jury Dad is executioner afterward Dad goes back into living room pours another drink sits in celadon green lounge chair Odysseus is trained to wipe tears put on pajamas go to Dad apologize admit fault promise to be good kisses Dad and Mom goodnight goes to bed that is the drill

Odysseus is barefaced curious exploring discovering tries to connect with Mom and Dad but they are unavailable they are his parents not his friends as far back as he can remember he lives in world of “it’s safe free here Mom and Dad can’t see us” children are smarter than parents think figure ways to self-protect something stirs inside Odysseus creature separate from Dad and Mom whatever psychological or emotional patterns are developing he does not understand obediently goes along

Mom and Granny Mattie take Odysseus and Penelope to browse shops on oak street at one store little statuette like kind Granny Mattie collects catches Odtsseus’s eye he slips it in pocket on drive home he takes statuette out to show Penelope she asks where he got it Mom Granny Mattie overhear ask Odysseus where he got statuette he confesses took it from store Mom gets livid steers car back to oak street Granny Mattie insists “it’s just a figurine let him keep it Odysseus meant no harm i don’t see why you want to make such a big fuss Jenny!” Mom replies “he’s got to learn right from wrong!” they all return to store mom explains to sales clerk what son has done Odysseus hands back figurine apologizes when Dad gets home he dishes out punishment years later Penelope remarks “that was the first time i realized Odys you needed to reach out for something beyond the family”

Odysseus wants to die he is 7 years old and wants to die he knows his life is critically messed up wants new different existence person he is becoming is too error prone ruined already he is way too ******* himself Dad’s temper Mom’s criticisms subsequent self-absorbed social demands drive him to ideas of suicide Dad and Mom are too busy to notice Mom always uses sleeping pills placidal nebutal seconal miltown whatever is the latest Mom says she does not dream Odysseus guesses she does not remember her dreams on account of those pills everyone dreams years later Mom remarks i need sleeping pills to forget about you Odys as Mom describes “i run a formal beautiful household” she delegates chores to weekly staff of brown skin ladies it is house of feminine décor matching pillows sheets pulled tight under elegant bedspreads everything put away in proper place furniture in precise order little dinner bell servant’s foot buzzer beneath Mom’s chair at dining room table maids in servitude once a week white woman with big shoulders foreign accent shows up to give Mom massage Mom is not to be disturbed during that hour Odysseus knows first names of each laundress cleaning lady doormen deskmen garage men janitors caterers at holidays tall black effeminate John comes twice a month on sunday to cook serve traditional american breakfast along with fried bananas apples afterward he cleans up shines silver first 13 years of Odysseus’s life are lived in buildings with elevators staff of residence employees

Mom’s closet is vast with colors textures ground level hundred or more neatly arranged clear plastic boxes containing pairs of expensive shoes walls of imported French and Italian designer label dresses skirts suits blouses top shelf fashionable purses hats other feminine accoutrements also two large dresser chests filled with drawers of sweaters scarves girdles lingerie hosiery more accessories Mom often wears joy by jean patou arpege by lanvin chanel # 5 Mom shops at saks bonwit teller occasionally marshall fields within several years most of her buying will be done at fantastico, exclusive import boutique on oak street clothes jewelry cosmetics are important to her but most important is hair she prefers bottle blonde color wears hair trimmed medium length fluffed up sprayed fixed as do many women of her generation social stature she visits beauty salon twice a week must enjoy letting her guard down with other women while being served by homosexual men her hair prevents her from driving in car with top down all other outdoor activities that might threaten hairdo Penelope mimics Mom though she keeps her things in less tidy fashion she is being groomed to be queen like mom maybe Mom is more sympathetic to Penelope because both innately share female experience Mom portrays herself as lady of elegance Penelope is different from Mom more earthy bumbling routinely scratches Odysseus’s records leaves her drawers messy Mom takes baths so her hair will not be disturbed Dad takes showers Odysseus and Penelope take baths together then apart as they grow bigger ****** is normal in Schwartzpilgrim household Dad hints reserve Odysseus follows takes showers Mom leaves bathroom door open while bathing she is constantly changing clothes traipsing around in robes slippers elegant silk lingerie

Impregnated with uncertainty
Long overdue

Waiting on opportunity
My patience is subdued

Attempted abortions
With 4th trimester distortions
Stillbirth ensues

Screams inside the sirens
Struck with hospitalization
Bedridden doormen
Realization…

The time arrives
With labor pains
And liberation pangs

I cut the umbilical chains
Only a piece of me remains

I feel the guarantee
The time is now
I feel parturiency…

It took a very long time for A to find B,
and possibly even longer for A with B to get to C,
then D shadowed, and along came easy E,
F hurried, G stumbled, and before you know it,
H pushed, I shoved, J fell, K and L bullied,

doormen and bouncers hired,
and hooked red velvet guest rope installed.
M and N showed legs and other stuff,
O accommodated, P arrived peeing and puking,
Q wandered in by mistake,

R flashed cash, S slid unscathed,
T grinned teeth, U did what?
V spread, W wowed,
and the rest, X, Y, Z,
is history.

If death is nothing, why fear it?
Is it the indifference of nothingness that disturbs the living?
All the energy and effort spent?
Unfinished business? Dead silence?
Or is it the tickle on skin of summer breeze?

Astonishing possibilities?
Privilege of existence?
There are moments when I
almost do it,
a very fragile brink, I want to

call, see, be with her so bad.
No matter what, I miss,
adore her intelligence, sense of humor, moods, body, beauty.
Why?
If death is nothing, why fear it?

Eyes perceive
group of young men approaching
momentary assumptions of danger
passes as inner fear and distrust
process high-spirited partying.

Z: “This is confusing. Put your thoughts in order.”
Y: “But there is no true order.”
Z: “Before you speak another word,
      what you got to bring to the table?
      Money? Property? Prestige?”
Y: “I offer poetry, ash drawings, new architecture.”
Z: “Lay it on the line, you ******, or be punished!”
Y: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Z:  “Burn this ******* on a stake,
       then eat remains.”

******* runs in pleading for *******’s life,
but it’s too late.
******* sits chewing charred flesh at table.
Biscuits get passed around vigorously.
No talk about death.

A: “Who’s the one?”
B: “You are, Daddy.”
A: “But I’m just a tiny force of nature.”
B: “Let’s go see about C.”
A: “Am I not enough for you?”

C: “What and where is love?
      Is it an illusion
      I strive for an impossible chance?
      When will we find each other?
      Will I feel belonging?”

At first there are only the linens,
Soft as a breath.
I am lost in the snow,
In that gentle place on the edge of sleep,
Not knowing my own name.
And the moment lasts for hours

Until the first touch,
An explosion of light and heat.
We are two blind cave creatures
Feeling our way toward each other,
Moving under the covers
Like continental drift.
A surge of blood and memories
Drawing us together to discover
and remember ourselves.

As we become aware,
I clutch you close to me
And swear I'll never let you go,
Because I know what that will mean—

We'll climb out of bed, dress,
And open the blinds to let in the city
Before stepping into
Your parents' Fifth Avenue apartment
To eat like royalty at the round marble table
by the bay window
Where we look out at our subjects below.
 

Sometime after breakfast,
Reality slips in.
Your folks are on their way back
From some business trip or spa,
So I'll pull on my coat and scarf
Eager as a condemned man.
Rise and fall of the elevator, a guillotine.

You'll walk me out
Past whichever doorman is on duty
And on Fifth Avenue,
Under the shade of the scaffolding,
We'll kiss madly and hungrily and
Finally.

You return to Xanadu
While I take the train downtown,
Waking from a dream
To a life with no doormen,
No housekeepers,
Just cigarette butts
And bills to be paid.

Yes, I'll miss the bay window,
And its view of the city.
I'll miss the plush linens and all of the marble.
But it's not those things that I remember
In the cold quiet of my bed.
It's the warmth of your skin in the morning
And your smile as I open my eyes.

(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him

I said I would zig
And right then I zagged
I tip toes into the vault
Found the cold box
Numbered 5545
And slid it out
The treasure trove
Of what you never wanted me to see

Oh but I'm coy
Confounding
Slippery and seruptitous
Admonished and allay
Of any blame

Cause you left the key
On my ring
And the doormen know my name
Who needs a Nixon mask
When you can walk right in
With fling flongs and a parrot hat

I came for what's in the back
And when the sword was unsheathed
The container cracked open
The glow of your hidden life
Shone upon
What is now my bug bitten face

But the the glow of horror
A man can stand only so long
And the chest
And it's keepsakes
Crashed onto the tile dropped
But just before I faint
I loose my liquid lunch

lay this body down, where shelter is..

<>

maybe you’ve been here, HP, awhile,
faintly remember the nook of poetry,
the four old soldier chairs, worn to a gray shade indescribable,
facing the merge of the river and the bay, lookin out southwest,
today, in nearly summer over Sunday best,
wearing a new old navy lime t-shirt,
ancient Champion grey cotton flannel shorts,
summer uniform of the generation that went boom and bust

as the sun escapes through apertures of now and then,
interrupting the partly cloudy forecast,
lazy me risking an end of summer skin reddening chastisement,
but life without danger, no life at all, especially poetry danger

the windy breezes jabbering quite excitedly,
deep in conversation with the waves
that loudly enough are washing the shore,
beneath my feet sitting in the poets nook

the gulls are squeaking their point of view,
at will, saying to me,
who asked you poet?

discussing they, the day, when the humans will be leaving,
they tell day and season by the degree of temperature reductions,
knowing full well it harbors hints that our departure sooner,
till next we poetry nook

the Adirondack chairs, with no cushions, are now described
as “scratchy,” by the Wendy of my life,
two and something granddaughter, who returns next weekend,
with new insights and open to opportunities to “use her words”
to teach me anew how to see the loveliness that is my blessing

sometimes a human takes an inventory of life’s stuff,
the ex and in-terior terrain, wades through the moraine
that his glacier has dragged behind, the coarse detritus of his course,
de icing/deciding what to keep, what stone skip throw into the bay

I could sail from our dock to the Atlantic,
meet you over a pint or a pinot, or head down to the Panama Canal,
north to Portland or Seattle, cruise the Willamette,
go as far as Vancouver,
before the spring winter runoff,
show you my shock, the shock of well past gray,
now the white feather of my head, signifying...old warrior, as it
falls over my forehead, a new signature of my ever changing body,
the city doormen see, shocked, now call me honorifically “abuelo”

read a story from a harvard doctor who believes living past 75,
makes little sense, cause we use up more resources
than we could ever add back

no, not saying go die, but give up the meds,
the artifices to extend life
once you pass past the inflection where you’re nothing but a taker,
which maybe explains why wrote a dozen poems this weekend,
trying to expel what resources I can add to the world before I

lay this body down

the cloud bank covering the southern fork of long island,
thickly viscous like fresh honeybee secretions, after which,
some will

lay their body down

next weekend is labor day, and maybe I’ll labor more,
disgorging poems too long and too varied, perchance you will
enjoy one or two, as we both be closer to the day when labor ceases,
and we can unhurriedly

lay this body down, sheltered at last

from wind waves and gulls jabbering,
the alternating current of cloud and sun



8/25/19

3:40pm
SI

they really shouldn't have stressed their point
on education:
      i got educated... and so what?
i would have been happy working my way
up from in a supermarket -
         or any other faint job resembling robotics -
it's harder to get higher education
and start from the tomb-rock-bottom -
too much Disney got fused with your nerves -
and imagination isn't that powerful coupled
with consciousness to make yourself hallucinate
debilitating experiences - it's not that powerful,
however much those who think so argue the point -
i once said: i want to write poetry like Wordsworth -
not really, i want to write poetry like the Boss:
yep, Springsteen - i want to write the lyrics
that Bon Jovi and George Harrison wrote:
that's what should be potatoes (i.e. arable) in poetry:
the inability: the vouchsafed last:
                                                     a void attired to
a crowd: the conductor and the massed-up orchestra -
the magi wand: the larynx and the last breathed chord.
but in reality getting mail from U.C.L.
makes me think only one thing:
hey! i dropped out halfway through the semester!
i didn't go through the second periodic,
i wet mad, but you took my money anyway,
can i have those 3 thousand quids back?
no? well... that's my donation to your sporty-sports
gagging for money... ever hear Oxfam was a
country named in Africa... you're not donating
to starving infants... you're donating
to keep bureaucrats in their jobs -
all post-colonial nations invented charity organisations:
take the money, you have no honour,
or rap left in you -
all post-colonial nations invented charity organisations:
money is the easy way out:
namesake gambling or playing the lottery -
their shark-like-leeches: they prey on hopeless
old women - once again with the
Berber pirates: old age is a curse, rather than an
achievement: we'll never outlive the Galapagos
turtles: they're born with wrinkles and an
expectation to live beyond 100 years...
no, i don't feel anything having been achieved
with me receiving the Portico magazine from U.C.L.,
they shouldn't have hanged that carrot in my face
given my father is a roofer and a former
metal worker - they sniffed me out via their class
warfare jealousy - they sniffed out that i was
an avid reader and beyond comprehensively literate,
that ****** them off... i continued on my road
to demise, wishing it was truly a ding-****
resemblance of Sonny Clark... i shame the fates
invoking the furies that it wasn't the similar case
of lessened concerns - and death, or Samael -
like antoine de aaint-exupéry's little prince
in similar caste to understand: once more,
death the most curious of children -
for it is said: when born with weakness once
easily accepts it, and focuses on the beauty
beyond - but when weakness is forced upon you
without genetic explanation, as a crime:
one takes to kindred involvement with the cancerous
child, who, in his weakness, sought beyond
the immediate: the aesthetic at being so little
time to find so little beneath the potential:
as life firstly peppered with drink, woman and song,
to be later salted with drink (alcoholism), woman
(celibacy at best, or ****** and general abandonment),
and song: rain drools on the parapets like
angry gods, or friendly dogs.
and you think the winner of the english x-factor
2015 got a record contract? have you seen her lately?
they make the people already broken doubly broke...
elevation of ******* i think...
                  the karaoke tribunal and sentencing -
they are worse off than they were before,
    like me, being fed the lie of getting education,
becoming an educated chemist,
    not catching the fisherman's tackle of money
and suiting myself to the robot clause of entertaining
those that pay for waiters, doormen and shelf-stacking creeps,
  i should be there, not here, not writing these
poems: i should be there.
               i'm not even born to entertain,
   hence my precursor to meddle in shelved toothpaste.
          my best gambit joke?
           i've got nothing to lose -
unless it's a library of books and compact disks...
   beyond that... talk of honour and *****
  is pretty much tied to kingpins and stilettos -
        and life... well... i like the way it sounds:
  and lastly god: well, i don't blame the Utopian
fetishist on all the grief... i just like to turn people
into simple coordinates of pointing my finger:
                    nits                          nits
      and an old lady knitting a scarf to catch
                       a forgotten wind from the north:
that hushed the Eskimo into yawning -
             from breath a sculpture in the Arctic:
                                    an electron cloud,
  rigid dogmatic orbits elsewhere, and for some other fools;
            as i was once.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.c­om
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com

                             That Chinese Spy Balloon

                       “Number Six is dead. Rover got him.”

                            -Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner

A spy balloon lurks over Montana
And nobody seems to know what to do
Against the intruder Top Guns launch themselves
But only circle around it piteously

They slink away, intimidated by a balloon
That takes its pictures and samples with insolence
Unmenaced by our Merovingian regime
Generals bemedaled like Russian doormen

Our leaders stumble over each other’s gaffes
While in Shanghai the Politburo laughs

it wasn't popular or ascribed as necessary because it didn't govern both crown or the crowd - it invoked a rebellion that didn't attract crowds since it didn't involve a crown.*

when the Englishman uttered the word:
neanderthal - subsequently - or how are we connected
to a Chimp and not the Gorilla -
meaning the involvement of the existence of
doormen at nightclubs - the Slav said neanderthal -
and in the evolutionary rubric suggested
the cause of extinction with the words: why are they
so stupid? measuring craniums it became evident:
watching the sun for too long will not make
you see the spectrum of ultra-violet - after all,
evolutionary demands are met with keeping
common sense, these individualised explanations
will not keep you prone to exercise a stiff one -
some of use rebelled and said: god speed, but don't
include me in it - the rascal brigade in Iraq
is the same over-knowing under-sexed partition
of what needs to become extinct, like the neanderthal;
some said: amazing! others said: that's stupid!
they measured skulls - and who said the school motto
of boys: smells like an oyster (concerning female
genitalia) wasn't true - given the current economic
environment? it's either a jungle or a zoo... either
jungle or zoo, you can leave the caves a mediated in-between
or a mortgage loan - i'll probably die disgraced,
but i'll bath in laughter first - they can pay
for diesel, they can pay for knives, they can pay
for heating, precursor failings of health via insurance,
supposedly champion science with care homes,
they pay for butter, for bacon... but they end up
stealing from artists! dumb monkey dozes
right now, and ends up articulating a.m. v. f.m.
a day later - but that doesn't, cheap-thrill-thieves -
like prostitution un-masked while watching **** -
a conversation about feminism and dating conundrums
about who pays a fair share or runs out from a restaurant
altogether...

I did not want
to know you. Then why-
asking the way
to your home.

The dilemma of the
musky scent. Do you think-
it was a traditional
way of carrying the love
of unknown.

This world does not
suit me. Shame to the doormen,
how did you reach there
unannounced under the night's sounds.

The tone you will miss.
The tree has walked away.
No sin was left.

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That Chinese Spy Balloon - poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.c­­om
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com

                             That Chinese Spy Balloon

                       “Number Six is dead. Rover got him.”

                            -Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner

A spy balloon lurks over Montana
And nobody seems to know what to do
Against the intruder Top Guns launch themselves
But only circle around it piteously

They slink away, intimidated by a balloon
That takes its pictures and samples with insolence
Unmenaced by our Merovingian regime
Generals bemedaled like Russian doormen

Our leaders stumble over each other’s gaffes
While in Shanghai the Politburo laughs