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

Ivory towers like third appendages flipping of the sky.  Profane.
Rivers run cris-cross beetles in the bog.Traffic logjam.
Instant grats.                     Gratis time bomb ticking.

Age is an obstruction. mindless pursuits of Material security blankets.
Thumb suckers rule. Knuckleheads telling tales out of school. Glass house myopia.
A cornucopia a chorus of jabbernows.              Verbal diarrhea on wax. passes for reason.

Sin-taxes pay the way
Syntax gone astray. What the @*#* did she just say ?

Novocaine mainlined. Numb all over talking heads on the hill.
Need a few meg-volts to jolt flat-lined hearts to do the people's will.
War is raging, storms are raging. Quiet storms.

Oil. Fuels from long dead fossils. Habit handcuffs.
Cant get enough. Lites out soon.

Powers that be.
Juggernauts...Battlebots...  Taking giant steps backwards.
Chaos is local until in your locality.Doomsayer.
The Giant slayer kneels to place his head in the guillotine. Appease the ruthless.

Know it when you feel it. Babylon is falling.

The bovver knuckleheads
stranded him on The Road to Wigan Pier
without a maiden or a silver dime
'bad mistake' says he
for I am Pisces and mutable
can live in sea or land

The currents are my friends
I can float or scale the depths
worry not about me for there's lumpfish caviar
and fresh rain water in constant flow
there's on stress on Wigan's pier
no nine to five in the deep blue sea

Give my regards to the knuckleheads
keep them in line on the factory floors
they're bred to work
have they ever swam at the Revieria
or been to Saint-Topez
do they even know you can find champagne in Wigan

So the dingbats  Duvalier Tonton Macoutes
stranded him on The Road to Wigan Pier
I see an all expenses paid free holiday
here my friend the ultimate break from the rat-race
tell boneheads how many slaves died building your piers
and how many Irish navvies died building your roads
while your parents were suffering in Wigan

Check it, i hope yall understand me,
Like 19 keys, cop a few cuties out in Belize, please believe,
Money comes first, then the power,
To get enemies showered,
Well under and devoured,
I took a pinch of the flowers,
Scented in the garden of edem,
People saying dont believe em,
And i dont care if they don't feel em,
I got ninth dimensions, casting spells,
Putting marks on shells,
Nightmares of the holy grail,
Only time will tell,
Is my soul free or is it for sell?,
Valuable lessons, learned quick,
From gripping the smiff and lessons,
Knuckleheads getting a blessing,
Then have the nerves,
To say they stressin,
Never undermind a blessing, and curse to gift of guessin',
In this game of life, aint no fair shake
With the hand rolls on the dice,
Shorty looking nice, but i see the slit tongue spliced,
Demoness with breast, rising from the east to the west,
I manifest, only the realness when herbs fills within my chest,
Only reggies the best,
Dont **** with the kush, get ya soul pushed,
Back into other ****, thays counterfeit, money in my hands giving flips,
To stacks of hundreds, while im a slave to the hundred,
Years of freedom, went from the chattery, to the corporate daily,
Reporting to masters its crazy,
Broke the chains, of misery,
Now im lazy, nothing these days phase me,
Radio airways dont play me,
Realness is a menace to truth, i preach the gospel, with lonely tear drops,
Til i open the eyes of rhe youth,






Moneys the universal language,
Or better yet linguistics,
Hoes wana grab the biscuit,
Like they owning it,
But i stay showing it,
See how the loot, make hoes go round,
Carousel bound, like earth making its rounds,
Joker splitter, see the hitman markers his hitter,
Giving bodies jitters,
Like when im on the mic,
I treat it right,
Flip more rhymes than tongues to ****,
Better yet let it hang like Mike,
On a fadeaway, begans the takeway,
Fools putting false reps like MLK,
Say,
They down for the community,
But all i see piercing,
In the community,
Gangs and ****, sold out for cheap hits,
No leaders, just a bunch of court cases,
And the biggest killers always remain faceless,

no (apparent) rhyme nor reason
(satisfactorily) explains academic
     disposition, ideally suited
     (swiftly tailor made,
     and harried styled)
     unflattering venomous wicked xhenemy
     (fill in choicest expletive) **** cruelest
     "meanies" always in season
winter, spring, summer, or autumn,

     psychological rabid
     bullying and teas'n,
which only exacerbated
     ma deathly coffin and wheeze'n.
Avenging beastly, eagerly,
     and hungry knuckleheads, rip-snorting,
     analogous to Doctor Zeus
characters, vis a vis stomped,

     and trampled upon my wuss
self, who appeared as
     a listless, passive, ****
see footing, and
     timid complex edifice
christened Matthew Scott Harris,
who regularly got pushed,
     shoved, and verbally gored

in utero potential quintessential
     no salvation from Unitarian lord
ugly vicious wretched
     insults liberally poured
(pre snapchat, instagram,
     hash-tagged age) roared
increased spell of losing measured
     necessary pridefulness scored

requisite susceptibility toward
brow beating, name
     calling, plus tossed
     brickbats staged early life, viz
psychological schizoid state courtesy
     hateful nemesis within
     corporeal lodge warred.
malevolent habitués received

     permanent residency thence
"green lighted" status
     since birth I cannot sense
sub billy understand
     (near) total recall
     particularly names
     no matter offense
of classmates and/

     or teacher's, hence
especially dumb
     founding since defense
less "boy" did not
     shine as a star student
     as is if he (me)
     took emotional absence.
plus to add insult

     to injury, my mouth
     stayed hermetically shut,
near invisibility designated nut
tin beat pluperfect
     "scapegoat de jure,"
     such intimidation found me
     feeling thrashed in the gut
     where (stellar) qualifications

     only made cut
ting worse, (essentially attributed
     to genetically inscribed
     behaviors, characteristics,
   habits, et cetera)

     immediately designated yours truly
     most puny, and
     quietest convenient but
of any atheistic, ethnic,
     and/or idiotic jokes.