Don’t you want to
Achieve the vision
He said with eyes
So crystal blue
We can see it
Written on your
Face I sense
No connection
To these people
We can all be
Top performers
If we elevate
One another
Hey your onions
Cut too small
This is me
Elevating you
I smell onions
And tortillas
And vegetables
Oil dishwater
Carbon on the
Grill top scrapings
She has got some
Vague expectation
Written on her smear
Life is like a
Postage stamp
Her makeup is
Too thick crossing
Over leopard print
Tattoo underneath
Her left arm
Message managers
Are wondering what’s
Wrong with you
My gentle restaurateur
You and your wife
Are wondering why
A child this June
Another restaurateur
A new store opens
Every two days
Like a virus spreading
Smiles of cold blue skin
I dreamt last night
My breathless image
Of being caught
Inside an elevator
Of an old casino
I was parked on the
28th floor security
Was out to get me
I want to be
The tired reason
Your brand new magic
Realization
The dream you
Don’t wake up from
I want to fall into
Flesh disappearing
From the white spots
Of your eyes
No sounds heard
Settling in your head
Spread out among
The cold far reaches
Of your yesses
Coagulate like
Hot black venom
In your fingers
Be drawn into
The cracked corners
Of your lips like
Raised beds of
Cacti in the sun
Holy stolen
In your boots
I am no sinner
Cast me thru the
Farmlands of the
Black seed
I am going
Home to where
Your eagle’s waiting
Eyes of plenty
Vines that
Creep among
The tangled people
In their fever dream
Announcing lampshade
Shadows holding
Form from in the
Broken molding
Here I watch my
Not-self wonder
At the wretched
Timeline of reactionary
Heroes
Tired old mothers
Wandering up the stairs
To their misfortunes
Glasses brought back
Full of orange juice and water
I am drawn upon
A silver second
Lost into a fog
She is obvious in
The way that she is leaving
I am almost out of
Oatmeal and songs
Silver for my floors
Time evaporates
This instant
Like a clean and subtle
Memory of everything
You say or do or wake to
All your riches and your fables
Are a lamb sworn
Into custody
Of the same slate asylum
Battered boats near docks
Knocking water
Into snake holes
Wandered under
Painted bridges
Holding no collapse
Spending hours and days
Washed up on drowsy
Shoreline nettles
Chipping flint stone fire
Extinguished under floodlights

Nos jeunesses avec Monsieur Snoopy


C'était le noble fils d'Isky
Yorkshire au caractère vif
Betty l'avait eu en cadeau
De Ginou, comme un joyau.
Dans ses jeunes ans, vêtu
d'un pelage noir et boucle.
Il semblait une variété
d'écureuil plutôt qu'un chien
Mais sa passion était de jouer
Et de mordiller aussi .
Mais ce chiot était déjà
Un jeune combattant téméraire.


Venu avec nous a Lille
Il apprit a courir les pigeons du Beffroi.
L'été prenant le cargo avec nous pour la Corse,
Il débarquait aphone ayant aboyé toute la nuit.
Dans l'île, ce chien anglais se portait comme un charme,
et se jouait des ronces du maquis.
Il dégotta même une ruche sauvage d'abeilles près du ruisseau le "Fiume".


Mais de caractère dominant
Et n'ayant pas appris les mœurs de la meurtre,
Il refusa la soumission au dogue de "Zeze"; "Fakir",
qui le prit dans sa gueule et le fit tournoyer sous la camionnette du boucher ambulant.
Il en fut quitte pour quelques jours de peur panique,
Puis ne manqua point de frétiller de sa queue pour saluer le chef de meute selon la coutume des chiens.


Rentrés a Lille, je vis un film de Claude Lelouch,
Ou un restaurateur avait entraîné un coq a saluer les clients,
Aussitôt, je m'efforcais de renouveler l'exploit avec Snoopy juche sur mon épaule ou l'appui tête de notre Fiat.
Mais ce chien indépendant et fougueux ne voulut rien entendre.
Las et envolées les idées de montreur de chien savant.


Le chien Snoopy n'aimait guère l'eau, ni douce, ni salée,
mais une fois plonge dans les flots,
de ses pattes il se faisait des nageoires pour rejoindre sa maîtresse se baignant dans les flots.


Âgé  de seize ans, la grande vieillesse venue,
dont le malheur veut qu'elle marque le cadrant de cinq fractions de vies d'hommes,
Une année fatidique le désormais vieux chien fut gardée à  Luchon par mes parents pour lui éviter le chenil du cargo,
Aussi un soir attablés au restaurant "La Stonda" nous apprimes l'affligeante nouvelle,
Le vivace Snoopy n'était plus, Je nous revois encore les yeux baignés de larmes comme si nous avions perdu, la meilleure partie de notre jeune âge.
Car il fut le premier chien de notre âge adulte,
Notre fille Celia mêla ses pleurs aux nôtres,
et cette nouvelle pourtant bien prévisible apporta une touche de chagrin à ce mois d'août d'ordinaire, si plein de Lumière et de soleil.

Nous avions perdu notre premier chien et notre grand ami de ceux qui ne vous trahit jamais.
Snoopy fut pour nous notre premier amour de chien.
Solide cabot au poil argenté, aux oreilles en pointe dressées au moindre bruit.
Il accompagna nos jeunes années de couple, alors sans enfant,
et enjolivait notre vie par sa fantaisie et ses facéties.
Joli descendant des chiens de mineur du Yorkshire, il sut nous donner pour toute notre vie l'amour des chiens anglais.

Paul Arrighi

Diamond-studded, velvet black,
skies invite eyes to search
to wonder at the planets' track
angels on their perch

Endless their revolution
no false step or fall
perfection in execution
Of their Master's call

the stars on high stand forever
testimony to their Creator
the amicable Restaurateur,
Inventor, Innovator

Prancing along a jungle path,
A monkey found a curious box.
Not to investigate the contraption
Would be for him unorthodox.

A number of small holes had been drilled
Into the side of the box, so he
Could see inside to satisfy
His boundless curiosity.

The box contained a tempting nut.
If he could only reach inside
And pull it out! How marvelous!
If not, he'd be dissatisfied.

He put his tiny, searching hand
Through a small hole, grabbed the nut,
And tried to pull it through the hole.
The nut was way too big. "What?"

The monkey exclaimed. "It won't fit!"
What was the poor guy to do?
He sat with his hand in the hole for hours,
Frantically trying to pull the nut through.

Soon a trapper came strolling by
And found the monkey next to the trap.
He tossed the monkey--along with some others--
Into a bag and tightened a strap.

Off he went with his catch for the day,
Happy that he had taken great pains
To make good traps so he could supply
The restaurateur with monkey brains.

How much like the monkey are we!
We grasp onto possessions, views,
Our pride, our ego, our sense of self…
And though we suffer, we refuse

To let things go--to gently release
That which ultimately constrains us,
Closes our minds, hardens our hearts,
Blinds our eyes, or firmly enchains us.

-by Bob B (11-25-17)

Despite being an amateur
paperback writer wannabe,
whose storied protagonist
stars colporteur wannabe
(thinly veiled cover as yours truly),
whereby his antagonistic doppelgänger
donned as a frotteur trumpeting
animalistic, chauvinistic, egoistic,
averse to gradualistic, individualistic...
narcissistic, opportunistic hauteur
with a penchant for littérateur,
whose favorite genres
constitute the blending
(think Louis Pasteur)
of one criminally and mysteriously
hellbent expert pathologist,
whose found role of self chosen prosateur
loosing overactive imagination to guide
and to craft believable scenarios,
whereby provocateur earned himself
title of master raconteur
this side of Schwenksville,
actually a double agent
gussied up as rapporteur,
whose burning side kick
(splitting hairs over being primary
most intrepid gumshoe),
dolled up as a répétiteur
and co-owner as restaurateur
catering to Norwegian bachelor farmers
freshly baked Powder Milk Biscuits,
(cuz heavens they're tasty and expeditious
made from whole wheat that give shy persons
the strength to get up and do
what needs to be done
your family must try them),
and also serving the chattering class,
yet always being affronted
courtesy basket of deplorables,
the whole bunch of rapscallions
nothing but nattering nabobs of negativism
buzzfeeding, growing, and jump/kick starting
wild asparagus and overgrown kudzu
in serious need for secateur
to be placed in the hands
of well muscled olympian shamateur
adroit to handle tools
of the horticultural trade
with both his arms and legs.

I ask myself the following rhetorical question.
How does that hot germ oven idea coalesce
from figment of imagination
to fully fleshed out magnum opus?

Lucky those prospective and potential authors,
who start writing at a young precocious age,
perhaps when in utero,
hearing mellifluous cadences
of punctuated words
courtesy family and friends
(constituting a veritably healthy melting ***
of diverse creed (dancers
fluid in movement as clear water
in attendance at a revival)
ethnicities, genders nationalities,
political stripes with the caveat
(so long as each person
considers him/herself a Democrat)
races, religions, et cetera
comfortably ensconced
and seated within or upon
a cozy environment
of lazy boy chairs, and bean bag pillows,
thus auditorily exposed to countless languages
spoken with various and sundry
naturally uttered modulations and amplifications
particularly homeschooled with access
to online material and tutorials
writing their first of many
New York Times best sellers,
when just a lad or lass.

Bennett Cerf, Theodore Geisel
(otherwise known to children as Doctor Seuss)
Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein,
represent a small number of popular kids writers
during growing up years of mine,
which came to mind courtesy Google search
videre licet list names of children's authors
during the 1960's and 1970's,
when Beatlemania in full swing,
though yours truly
totally oblivious to the fab four,
who burst upon the scene
skyrocketing to fame and fortune.

Ineffable and mindblowing
how ingenious an attention grabbing
an innocuous sounding title
(many times an obscure author
whose book(s) purchased
at Worthwhile Thrift Store
in Collegeville for pennies on the dollar
(more so when color coded tabs
confer discount on certain days,
plus getting that senior discount
knocks the total price even further),
yet within minutes attention of mine riveted,
where I must continue reading
until sleep overtakes me,
or less likely death do me part.