"victrola" poems
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
132k
Right off of the 7 train,
Irish Catholic schoolgirls spilling
out of Jahn's like marbles
Their plaid skirts against exposed brick
bellies full of kitchen sink
The produce stand next door
eggs .60 a dozen, milk one dollar
Now converted into a bodega
or maybe even a small
Muslim prayer room
I bought my first album
at a record store on 82nd
The brown paper bags, thin as bible pages
It spun on the Victrola in my
parents' Tudor
The yellowing wallpaper smelled of
my mom's Virginia Slims
And sounded of my dad's Vermouth
His own liver fried
with onions, just as he liked it
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
Nobody Loses All The Time
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
—by ee cummings
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
I left my heart in our broken city
deep beneath the dark and crushing sea
In the cold and crumbled streets
where you and I used to run and hide.
We'd stick each other with syringes,
and ****** black eyed waifs
from off the backs of violent giants.
Set them free for a taste of their blood.
We'd listen to Django and Stephanie
on that old Victrola,
while we snacked on chips
and drank pilfered gin
from the busted Circus of Values.
Because, your tightwad *******
brother, couldn't spare a dime.
I still have that snapshot,
of you with your Tommy gun
mowing down splicers,
a puddle of Eve at your feet.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it in the half-flooded sections,
were we hid from Ryan's rampage,
before he made me smash his skull.
Or was it that last gene tonic we split,
after the reactor went supernova.
Somebody Rapture me, already.
I wasn't made to last anyway, my lovely.
I just wish I could have lived long enough
to see the girls grow up,
under the cerulean and cream sky.
But, all dreams are destined to die,
the fire and freakshow was fun
while the liquor and shotgun shells lasted
The only thing I know for sure,
is that what they call freedom
is just Dystopia waiting to happen.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
You make me want to sip white wine
In the dim light
Listening to Frank Sinatra
Graceful dancing
Fainted laughing
The old sound of the victrola
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Shards of glass are twisting in my heart
Shrapnel I didn't know could already be there.
Funny how I know, how I knew,
My worst fears would tumble out of your mouth
Into my ear, down through a phone chord to my heart.
A chord with your name on it
That's played only victrola music for you
Ever since my lonely eyes met you.
You checked yourself in
Now you're bailing yourself out,
You say to keep the hurt and my heart apart...
Well, it's too late, you already played that part.
The shape of your hands, the roll of your pen,
My soul was just beginning to memorize.
My mind sings don'tleavemedon'tleavemedon'tleaveme
But my eyes are looking straight ahead.
Because I,
I see you
And this poem is far from being finished yet.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
There once was a season
for each vintage treasure
spread out on the flea market tables -
items once useful and perhaps a mite cherished.
each with a story to tell.
An Erector set unwrapped in a flurry
on the floor by the Christmas tree -
a bridal quilt for a favored niece
and a hutch from the castle of their dreams.
A clarinet with tarnished keys
rests in a velvet case
whose weekly treks to the music studio
ceased how many decades ago?
A row of antique watches that
used to mark the fleeting hours of
anonymous men and women
sits neatly arranged in a glass top case.
Time advances without mercy
for all that we've left behind
and the flea market speaks eulogies
for our fallen artifacts:
too dated to keep - too dear for the dumpster.
All are for sale now -
(everything is negotiable).
I stroll slowly from aisle to aisle
where shades of my childhood
awaken to merge with the present:
The new Schwinn bicycle
I rode that bright Christmas morning
when the church bells rang
throughout the falling snow.
and there's our wind up victrola
that spun out Sinatra tunes
from the laced covered table in the parlor.
Any of this can be yours for a price
(everything is negotiable)
except for the turning of the wheel.
July, 2015
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
On a vine grew the loudest tiny flower ever to grow,
Glowing blood-orange in the yellow day’s sun,
It sprung from the brightest green stem
Like an old victrola horn into little
Powdery pistolas firing from the center, piercing ears
Like sound. Inside out along the walls of
The horn shaped a star that daydreamed of first kisses
Dismissive with bliss, or the first feet to ever
Leave their heavy prints on the cold blue surface of the moon.
On a vine grew the loudest tiny flower ever to grow.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC