troubled stars
Also by Raymond Sapienza:
Tumbled Streams
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2007
troubled stars
raymond sapienza
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copyright Š 2008, raymond sapienza pittsburgh, pa
all rights reserved
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to my girls, for the happiness they bring.
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contents book one (a little dark)
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book two (a little light)
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book three (a little personal)
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141
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book one
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10
troubled stars don't the stars seem forlorn tonight? as if they wished to cry; afraid that with the morning light their time may come to die? don't the stars seem forlorn tonight? would that i could ask them why.
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food for thought bury me at sea and let me be food for thought of creatures more interesting than worms. with sharp toothed derision to quicken decomposition till salt water licks clean my bones, laps out my marrow, and dissolves me into seascape.
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the lives of saints the lives of saints are brittle-bright. for halos to shine both day and night the polishing wears them awfully thin – next to nothing against the skin.
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the art of bones it is the art of bones the art of blood the sinew strength the bile flood that rushes us down this living stream that binds us man to woman to dream
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paving the way i drove past the asphalt plant last night. steadily churning out its blackness, it smelled of roads to nowhere.
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death death doesn’t wait in shadows, he’s not that shy. he stands in the open, taunting, teasing, exposing himself with glee. we’re the ones who hide as if we could avoid him while voyeuristically spying at all he does.
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secret self without keeping a secret inner self (be it as small as a grain of sand) we would each lose our souls in deserts vast or in the tight grasp of someone else’s hand.
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a few i’ve known george killed his wife seventy times with a knife then ended himself with what he thought was a smash but was only a smudge. michaele slew a friend (so she thought, till the end) while wearing his favorite clockwork tee; a samurai sword in his cowardly hand. Sara’s life was her own when it dropped like a stone; the highs and the lows just too dizzy. of these three, she alone do i understand.
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gaping if i had eyes i might look into this hole in my chest and be able to follow the blood trail to where my heart is hiding. if i had ears i might be able to hear it beating and follow the sound down whatever alley-way it slid. fingers to feel for it, nostrils to sniff‌ but none of these work without it. it takes a heart to find a heart and all i have is this hole in my chest.
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Li(f)e Ayn Rand convinced me of why I shouldn’t be false to others. Shakespeare enlightened me on the necessity of being true to myself. The Bible says all men are liars. Including Ayn, William and me. I’m not going to argue with God. And that’s the truth.
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inevitability when my esophagus finally crumbles as it surely will (i being the son of my father the brother of my brother the nephew of my uncle) they will put tubes in me to replace it, pathways for liquid nutrition and morphine (but not life no, not life. merely prolonged death swallowing me).
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it happens it happens no matter who you follow whether you do or don’t read the signs. it happens on east and west roads, the ascent and the decline. you never will avoid it however hard you try. the best and worst it happens to: we all must say goodbye.
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travels like seafarers of old i have widened my eyes at the edge of the world; like Icarus, at the fast approaching sun. with fear and doubt i have traveled alone. the valley of the shadow of death is a place in the heart.
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so much slips so much slips away unnoticed... we turn one day to reach toward all we’ve taken for granted, pausing in wonderment, standing empty handed.
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again i scaled this mountain yesterday and the day before, yet here i am today once again at the base facing the uphill climb. unsure that i’ll make it this time, unsure that it’s worth the effort. Sisyphus had no choice, but i do. i could walk away. i could. i begin my ascent.
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thirsting When humans for love go thirsting it’s not a pretty sight The jungle floor awash in blood the timid in panicked flight When humans for love go thirsting it rarely turns out well The flames that scorch the mortal heart burn second to none but Hell
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sunset i lit a match against the sunset, compared the fire, compared the burn of the sun darkening in your heart and the flame extinguishing on my skin.
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a shadow a shadow in the woods in line of sight from your kitchen window. or down the hall, just at the edge of your peripheral vision, moving between the linen closet and the bedroom door. nothing that you can touch. no particular shape that you can see. but a feeling, a sensation, a shiver. a shadow. me.
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choices i see the road from the brambles here; its surface is smooth, well lit and clear. and yet i choose this tangled way of thorns and roots, of darkness and fear.
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outside the window outside my window sparrows titter nervously behind wisteria leaves, aware of the red tailed hawk, silent in the sky above.
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coupons our friendship died quietly, like a coupon kept too long folded in your wallet, the expiration date passing without notice.
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there are caves in dreams there are caves in dreams where nightmares hide, from which to spring on unsuspecting prey. where subconscience plies its double-cross to lead us down a dangerous way.
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spray we spray sex on each others walls where we can squeeze it between the graffiti of a death-spewing world that hisses and claws for the space it claims as its own, chasing us off. and all we ever wanted was a few bricks here and there, in an alley, by the dumpsters, to mark as our own, to claim as our territory before we are smashed down, empty spray cans clutched in our impotent hands.
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universal equality all that universally matters in this, our finite universe, can be found in the corner of any waking eye a moment before it’s rubbed when, like Hamlet bound in a nutshell, we are equally yoked to a hell below and a heaven above
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forgive us our trespasses daily i bludgeon my own sensibilities and bruise a better self, ignoring heavens invitations to indulge in banquets of hell.
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‌lest we be judged we are all but a breath away, just this side of a moment, from becoming all we disdain and all that, in others, we lament.
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the next big thing fifteen second cell phone video clips of life will soon be all that brains digest between flyby electric billboard commercials of tampons, condoms and the next–big–thing and everything you ever thought you remembered that you always wanted to think or do will take too long to even consider when the next–big–thing runs over you
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close to home it’s the turning of your stomach it’s the acid in your eyes it’s the weakness of your arms and legs that makes you realize that the courage you have known before is not a guarantee but hangs upon how intimate is the horror that you see
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an evening at home how many nights do we sit content while tragedy shrugs through its bleak job just around the corner; just out of knowledge. anguish not penetrating our eyes, our ears, our hearts. until morning, over coffee and tv news: "Oh My God, it happened so close!" and mixed with horror, a vague feeling of guilty celebrity attaches as we find ourselves just left of the center of attention.
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frolic the blood of children splashing at our feet seems barely to engage attention as we daily dance and drink and eat and frolic in self delusion
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sociology blood soaking into porous concrete gives life to the structure of society (as behemoth licks his jowls)
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longing tongue is a poor translator for soul fumbling hands and flailing arms are beyond control legs refuse to carry where thoughts bid me fly eyes alone grasp heart’s desire ‌would that i were blind
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vacation tired of work and needing rest drives five hundred miles outer banks to spend a day enjoys beach sun and sand people watches politely smiles at sunset walks through lapping surf colors bounce from stainless steel rubbing now in hand wades to naked waist at twilight for sharks they say it’s feeding time deftly incises inner forearms sighs and swims far as he can
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feasting i devour myself from within, becoming an empty shell of meaningless movement. a vacant simile, a mirrored photograph, more nothing than anything. the inevitable crumbling of the faรงade is imminent, yet i banquet on.
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darkness plans are laid in corners of night, darker than you can imagine. and hatching, crawl into the light, bringing darkness with them.
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twisting unrequited love, the knife that ever twists, till in death's mirror we see 'twas ours... the hand that thrust.
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exposed it used to make a difference when the rain and when the sun the day the night the warm the cold but now it’s all as one this skin is just a vacuum jar whose seal has come undone
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too much the world has become too large & too small all at the same time. I have to see too much. I have to hear too much. I have to know too much. too much. what are they having for breakfast in Darfur? who’s killing who in the near & far east? why do Pakistanis not trust Indians? why do North Koreans not trust anyone? what’s on sale at Harrods in London? where are the hotspots in New York, New York? prime ministers, presidents, celebrities & talking heads and what they all meant when they said what they said. I don’t know the names of my neighbors four doors away.
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pressure as i shave in the morning, i think about the weight of water at a depth of ten feet: 4 pounds per square inch. as i drive to work, i think about the weight of water at a depth of 50 feet: 22 pounds per square inch. as i sit at my desk, 250 feet: 108 pounds per square inch. on the drive home, 600 feet: 259 pounds per square inch. eating dinner, 1,300 feet: 562 pounds per square inch. as i lie in bed, i consider the sinking of my soul and think about the weight of water at a depth of 5,180 feet: 2,240 pounds per square inch. one ton of water. bearing down. i close my eyes and try to sleep.
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last call toe tag body bag zip me into darkness bells toll wheels roll facing death defenseless last call over pall leaving life so breathless earth dug fit snug nevermore be restless
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book two
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impressionism when the sharpness of life begins to press, i remove my glasses and let near-sightedness transform the world into scenes a’la Monet, Pissarro, or Cassatt.
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artless smiles sub-atomic, is the chaos of happiness in an artless smile. penetrating all filters. infecting all passersby.
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paint paint me in a tropic Gauguin Tahitian ‘scape, mango in hand without apparent care the sun will never set nor rise and never a worry will cross my eyes
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pseudo-ranges origami Himalayas paper-machÊ Apennines poly-vinyl Appalachians should life’s mountains loom too high construct scale models for your climb
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complex numbers there must be a mathematical principal involved in the process of taking the child stumbling through arithmetic problems to the teen trying to learn where train A meets train B (depending on their speed and when they left the station), to the young adult whose found the algebra of life but hasn’t quite mastered the geometry of love. there must be a mathematical principle involved, a formula, or hard and fast rule, that brings us to the trigonometric age where the angles don’t seem to relate, but still we count on calculus to ultimately quantify. someone please tell me the equation. or at least give me a textbook with answers to the odd questions in the back.
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horizons i’m tired of man-made borders, rules and regulations, fences, walls, and bolted doors, limits to imagination. from this day on i’ll recognize only boundaries God has set: rivers, lakes, and mountains that i haven’t traversed yet. and when he leads me over them to any new horizon, i’ll know, because those lands are his, that also, they are mine.
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perfume gather your time in armfuls; every moment a blossom to be crushed to your breast and tightly held. while hours and days overflow, breathe their living scent till petals fade and fall, leaving little but brittle twigs and memory. but oh, the perfume of memory!
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wishes so many wishes in the back of my mind, for which i know it is far too late. but one of them is not to go back and do it all again with different choices and different outcomes, leading me to a different now. because heaven only knows what my wishes would be then.
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me and my _______ said my foolish shadow "with you i shall not stay. i'll cast my lot with another, i'll seek a brighter day." but after a dark night's searching, none other has he found to fit and as the sun climbs overhead he sulks here at my feet.
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predictability i miss the cold war. life was predictable, so was death. we knew where both were coming from and where they were going. at least that’s what we told ourselves.
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always friend of mine,
oh friend,
we have touched the beginning; we shall touch the end. between the sun at morning and a star-crossed night will be found darkness, will be found light, and always, always, an horizon of hope. friend of mine,
oh friend,
we have touched the beginning; we shall touch the end.
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first love first love was a red haired girl, one i worshipped from afar. first jealousy, when a bolder boy held her hand and moved her heart.
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flickering thoughts by the flickering thousands this moment fill. shimmering moths of ideas jostling to and fro. subconsciously vying for the light, for conception, for elevation, for birth.
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a fine line a fine line divides the good and pure from the raucous and bad, but everyone knows its razor sharp steel can be oh such fun to ride!
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merge should conversation falter, words being insufficient; let us still here linger, hearts merged in sweet omniscience.
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bore war i am terribly tired of conversation (which is to say i am tired of you) it is not that i mean to be insulting (but if it quiets you, yes i do)
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shades right and wrong, black and white, are clearly defined in a material view. but the anti-matter of the heart blends shades of gray with shades of blue.
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forced to wait not bullet nor blade, uncertainty of youth nor fragility of age can cause a stagger in life's gait as can love when it’s forced to wait
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stretched in there are those who are called to dance among the stars and those whose place is stretched in meadows, hands folded behind head, enjoying the choreography of the lights.
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Kon-Tiki i learned to love the sea long before i ever saw it, while rafting the Pacific with Thor Heyerdahl. in the pages of Kon-Tiki i found that adventure had nothing to do with swordfights, gunslingers or secret agents and everything to do with risking all to satisfy the quiet voice in the depths of your heart that sings to a different tune than those around you.
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go fish the fish that rushes from the sea (the hook, the line, the gaff to flee) soon discovers upon dry land a readied net in every hand.
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the L word love requires no contract love requires no deed love is not concrete, but abstract love plants and nurtures its seeds
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readiness travel circumspection’s path, leave conquest to contentious men. but in the quiet of your peace, ready the means of self defense.
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disapproval it was most certainly my shadow opposite me upon the wall though he wasn't mimicking my actions as i knew he should (having been brought up with the unimpeachable knowledge that that is exactly what shadows do) no... no matter how i flailed my arms in protest, stomped my foot in anger, or waved a threatening fist he just stood there with a blank expression ...shaking his head stupid shadow
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Rothschild if‌ i could go back in time, i would not hesitate to go to the Algonquin Hotel, circa 1924, where i would scavenge about for an opportunity to have even the most casual of contact with Dorothy Parker. i wouldn't need to actually meet her, mind you, maybe just hear her laugh.
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gods of war standing armies in the backyard driveway gravel mortar rounds a drainage ditch as the valley of death plastic mayhem battle sounds neighbor's puppy, the hound of hell hand held jet bombers soar no surrender, no quarter, no season of peace for nine and ten year old gods of war
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means to an end though justification of the means may be found upon the end, along the way the means may cause the loss of many a friend.
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on a breeze feathered thoughts on a breeze adrift in daydream flight, in search of soft landscapes below; new reality on which to light.
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i saw it snow i saw it snow on a summer day, flakes burning bright in reflected sun. they touched the earth to foreseen dismay, their time to fly now done.
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path of love i will follow the path of the implausible the path of the impossible to its dangerous end its mysterious source for there i know i will find you
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crow’s feet it's not so far, as the crow flies, from my head to the tip of my tongue but that damn crow sometimes walks miles out of the way. in conversation, leaving me dumb.
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slow-pokes they can't be pulled they can't be pushed they're always last out of the starting gate. and though they may never win the big race they'll always enjoy the course that they take.
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comprehension i understand the big picture and know why we are here i know why the lion stalks us and why we stalk the deer but comprehension of the world as it is as it was as it will be does not restrain the tear in my eye when claws grasp those around me
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unscheduled i'd rather fly blind into that mountain side, an unscheduled stop on my red-eye flight. departure signs sighted from too far off might prevent my heart from traveling light.
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short i was almost, once, myself. i came so close to being me. felt my pulse, caught my breath, heard my voice begin to speak. then, like so many similar souls who've stretched their hands the brass ring to seize, i fell just short. i fell
just
short.
i fell just short of being me.
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dancing the edge love is a perpetual cliff that we long to dance the edge of. should we be pushed back from its precipice, we struggle to reach it once more. should we plunge from its height, we immediately contemplate the climbing of its face once again .
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spring flinging love loosely scatters like litter on a breeze lusting down lanes & alleyways (she’s such a little tease)
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bird watching most would choose eagles or hawks with sharp talons, strength, and courage to spare. others look to owls for their wisdom or peacocks, haughty beauties with never a care. but i turn to sparrows (small, peaceful folk) with little to recommend them except diligence doing their daily best to enjoy the small pleasures around them.
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cutting through plain speaking tongues are knives to our forks, their truths are sharp to see. they cut through flesh and into bone; no waste on delicacy.
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all or nothing there is all and there is nothing while the body dwells in the in-between the mind tends to choose either or
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gum our parents told us stories of sticks of gum stuck to bedposts, saved every evening to make them last all week. no matter that the flavor fled, the joy was in the chewing. see: they lived for the doing; that's a flavor we don't all get.
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science and philosophy we are scientists, you and i, observing the world. philosophers as well, each developing our own method of dealing with it. let no one tell you different or make you feel less. the world as individually perceived is a private experiment in living.
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angels among us sits, he does with thumbs a-twiddle; nothing settled on his mind except the texture of the bench where plants he his behind. a smile for every bird and squirrel that drops him gifts from overhead but not a glance for passing people who care not if he’s live or dead. day in, day out, communicating with angel-sprites behind his ears who whisper pretty poetries that fend off tears and fears.
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Shakespeare for my pillow subtle, sly and dog-eared book, full of wily words and all that i could wish to think and say, did twisted tongue not pervert my way. if i could but rest my head on you and sail melodic sonnet seas, a whispering dawn not shy might be of staging my tragi-comic dreams.
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illusion of security better a wall, however thin, to give the feeling of strength within, than expose the heart to naked view and risk the scorn of friend and foe.
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a simple lunch we tossed our politics over salad, football over soup. the main course, our respective families; work was our dessert. and now that coffee has arrived, the time for small talk over; across the table a touch imparts what words cannot discover.
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you,i,sand,waves. beaching as we easterly went; warming sun in waves west spent, though notice not was taken. new heat we were creating.
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epitaph for a senile poet I knew him for a letter man and ne’er was there a better man till dark and cloudy came the day his alphabet was disarrayed
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adagio take this love on clarinet, this pain on violin. sonata, concerto, symphony, relieve the pressure within.
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reminisce look ahead to better days but if they can’t be seen, walk with me, your hand in mine, to find those that have been.
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dijestion when truths are hard to swallow, though needed for nutrition. coat them in a bit of wit as aid to smooth dijestion.
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moments there will be moments scattered through life, moments that flicker like the eyes of a deer in the dark. moments that take you by surprise, like the first few drops of rain on a cloudless summer day. moments, sudden yet fleeting, when you realize that the world and all of its wonders are yours and yours alone‌ if only for a moment.
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in the blink of an eye in the blink of an eye our current distress will be a few pages in a history text; a true or false question on an 8th grade test; a distraction to students from their daydreams of sex.
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marriage you soliloquize elaborate while I prefer a sotto voce and yet when we collaborate un rumore molto piacevole
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required reading thrift store shopping two books for two dollars brand new looking like they’ve never been read a biography of Stalin and a history of the Gulag remind me that monsters aren’t just under beds
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something more the earth revolves around the sun and rotates upon its axis. and gravity, I know, is the power that holds me to the surface. but as the day wanes and the stars begin to appear in the heavens, it is something more than gravity that brings me to my knees.
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the future is now or in order to make sense of anything, it is first necessary to understand that not much makes sense anyway all that is is merely. all that is is was. all that was was will be and will be what it was. but all that merely isn’t was never just because.
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fame preen, if you will, in the spotlight of fame. stroke your swollen pride. but remember, it is also a searching beam from which you cannot hide.
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day to day dangling by a thread world thread bare cotton coat world hand to mouth daily bread world bodies sold dirt cheap world a footfall south of my world a paycheck short of your world off balance on a windy ledge
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lover’s leap lovers’ cries o'er the rocks resound: 'twas worth the leap for the rushing down.
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holiday i celebrate but one day a year, not under flag nor steeple. the first of April i signify as the holy day of my people.
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making sense i have long heard it said that Iceland is far greener than Greenland and that Greenland has more ice. which never made much sense to me until i had fallen both in love as well as hate once or twice. thus discovering how we love to hate and how hateful we can be to the lovers in our lives.
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philosopher’s sink mesmerized by the steady drip, contemplating plumber and plumbing. circling the drain, a heady trip, but forget not the business of drinking.
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pews how many years have these pews rested here listening to Scripture read? the Word of God vibrating along the grain of the wood, polishing brighter than the hand of man could.
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the worth of us there are words as short as a wink or a sigh, such as 'you' or 'us' or the singular 'i' and words that are longer than summer vacation, such as 'floccinaucinihilipilification'. when weighing these words in the balance for worth, the alphabetically heavy may seem a thing sure. but 'i' would rather take 'you' and together be 'us' than crowd conversation with uselessness.
*Floccinaucinihilipilification (FLOK-sih-noh-see-NEE-hee-lee-PEElih-fih-KAY-shun): The action of estimating something as worthless or useless.
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reading when i was younger and had more time i would sit against a tree on pleasant days reading books on the history of men with my eyes, while with my back i would read the braille of the bark, telling me of the history of trees. and only for a fleeting moment would i consider that one day the history of this particular tree might suddenly stop, perhaps at the height of its glory, as in the last twist of plot it becomes leaves in a book of the history of men.
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one day after storefront windows being washed, sidewalks swept, produce being brought out of doors by people we greeted yesterday and every day before. i see them all - and see them not at all on this particular morn’ as i walk down our street one day after you’ve gone; connection between eyes and mind shorn.
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our visit as we sit and have coffee in the afternoon, the sun shines both above and here below. all we have ever wanted to say has already been said, eyes now speak all there is to know. i leave a tip, the waitress smiles, saying come back soon. i raise my paper to the rain, setting out alone. dark clouds and dark winds whisper a somber tune; our visit, once again, merely imagination.
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all the world’s a stage it wasn’t to see the moonlight over the ocean or its reflection off the seashells as the evening tide washed over the sand. it wasn’t to feel the cool breeze or hear the tinkling of music that it slinkily carried from nearby hotel bars. those were simply ploys, invented to arouse you from your seat in the café, down to the beach, where i could watch you as you walked. all of that dullness merely your background.
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pacing pacing in the driveway curly brown hair shorts and t-shirt back-pack pacing east to west – head down west to east – looking up toward the direction from which dad will come mom in the window watching shaking her head east to west – tears in her eyes west to east – anger flashing toward the direction from which dad should have come
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pictures at an exhibition i’m standing in a gallery staring at a painting of a dog barking at the moon, aptly titled dog barking at the moon. which, of course, reminds me that we are all dogs, we men that is, and barking is something we tend to do. i stand for quite a while looking at the dog, and at the moon, but not very carefully, as the majority of my attention is focused, via peripheral vision, on the painting just to the left, that of a lovely female nude with the title female nude, which i am taking great pains to appear not to notice at all. men, barking, flea-bitten dogs. you get the picture.
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eye contact we turn away, embarrassed, when eye is met by eye. a compliment too heavy for the timid and the shy.
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masks there is love and there is that which masquerades as love. in the shadow of death, when all masks are removed, many are found to be faceless.
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reciprocity synchronization of tactile relations (she felt a pebble in her shoe) nerve ending stimuli reciprocation (removing it would be the thing to do) an opposite but equal for every action (find a pebble for the other foot, she must) an ever controlling obsessive compulsion (or else her world will crumble to dust)
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measuring grief grief cannot be gauged by flow of tears alone, nor by wailings, nor eyes rubbed red. there is a grief that flows a harsher, harder way, down long, silent, dry as dust stream beds.
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rule perhaps poets should rule the world. would it then be a better place? or would poets find new reasons for war: pitting rhyme against free verse; the constitution of a true haiku; what shall govern the scheme of sonnets? was The Bard a them or a who?
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transcontinental speech spray painted cryptic communiquĂŠs multicolored meanings splayed across reinforced concrete railroad bridges waiting to hop a passing freight and roll from coast to coast relaying their messages on the flanks of tank and coal cars leaping off on trestles, tunnels and stations in cities and towns where other boarders wait their turn to tell to tell the world to tell the world to tell the world to rail at the world: We Have Something To Say!
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the value of peace the desire for peace multiplied by its elusiveness equals its value.
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truth truth is truth; believed or not. fire still burns if you deny that it’s hot. light still shines though you close your eyes. lies remain lies; despite their disguise.
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hurtful words words, tossed about so lightly, can be heavy weights indeed. especially when tossed by those who should love and care for our every need.
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with faith with faith a mountain can be moved, with faith a sea be parted; but easier tasks are these for faith than to heal the broken hearted.
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Eve although 'twas Eve that first succumbed to the serpent's words, so slippery. a careful read of the tale will tell how 'twas Adam's responsibility!
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softness harshly shines the sun. so many imperfections its glare apprehends. better, the softness of stars; the world’s face to comprehend.
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the hard way jaywalking pigeon crossing a busy street when he could have easily flown. missed, by a feather, twice being hit; he and i have much in common.
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the apple of your eye perhaps the visual layer has lost a bit of savor. and even the flesh, once sweet, no longer holds its flavor. but swallow now and rest all sense, while revealing acids endeavor to reach the core of what was once the apple of your eye forever.
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if you must go If you must go, don’t go softly, not with caution, not with care. Let the neighbors feel the door slam, let their children hear you swear. Let the gossips fill their coffee cups with every word and fact. Let our friends know, just as I know, why you’re never coming back. If you must go, don’t go softly, not with dignity, not with poise. Let them know, when love like ours dies, it makes a hell of a noise.
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true reflections i imagine that if i were to go to a carnival funhouse and stare at myself in the funhouse mirrors, see myself stretched thin and pushed flat, rounded, squared, skinny in the middle and bulbous at either end, that i would in fact see myself more clearly than i do here in my room, looking into the mirror which supposedly reflects everything as it truly is.
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each breath the faintest whisper on the wind may tell of long ago distant lives for the wind has traveled near and far and each breath we take has been breathed before.
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book three
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closing time this afternoon i am one of those husbands that you see sitting, on a bench in the mall, across from the JC Penney, waiting for the return of a wife who is shopping for clothes. a few bags of already purchased goods at my feet; waiting and watching busy shoppers go by. occasionally standing to stretch my legs and glance over the railing to the mall’s lower level at a pretty girl or two. a few yards away from me are clusters of old men, also sitting, also watching and waiting. not for wives, who have long since purchased their final winter outfits; but for closing time, when all lights dim and they must leave here.
143
Nate we worked with attempted suicides both real and attention criers, heard the countless stories from the hurting and the liars. held the hands, gave advice, pulled our shifts and went home to our lives. but a job like that can’t be left behind. it follows every footfall and tempers every view, especially when failure stalked and nothing we could do. you seemed a mountain and not one to fall. no one guessed at your demons, no one saw to your soul. what we learned in that job, not from lectures or training tapes, was if you really wanted to do it: how to do it with success.
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Lynn Lynn, you were rough around some of your edges. You were tough in a lot of your words. And although I played victim to some of your teasing it was always the smile in your eyes that I heard. Acquainted because we shared a few classes, you traveled in wilder circles than I. Still, I laughed when you laughed, knowing we'd someday be friends. Fifteen is just too damn young to die.
in memory of Lynn D. Hadley 1958 – 1974 145
cowardly lion kindergarten Halloween memory room to room costume parade facing the older students with my ferocious lion mask. behind which hid the coward who saw them only as bigger better smarter. more athletic more attractive more accomplished more more more. and every ensuing year the same with or without costume holiday or any day. always the same feeling and even now I often long to cover my face with that ferocious lion mask.
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summer days we hiked Summer days we hiked the woods, sometimes following, sometimes splashing through the creeks. Laid pennies and nickels on the tracks, and cheered the trains as they thinned our budgets. Till being chased away from the turnstile by the ever grumpy rail yard watchman. Then we’d climb to the catwalk under the Route 22 bridge and, with the roar and vibration of trucks overhead, read the graffiti left by others but add none of our own. for we were not messengers, only travelers.
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pocket knives John and Tommy and PD and I were kings of the backyards back in sixty-nine, till Tommy moved and Kent took his place [though Kent died with his parents in a terrible crash]. but i’m straying away from my point, which is pocket knives. more specifically, the games we played with them: Chicken and Stretch and Pocket Knife Catch. Chicken was the game that hurt the most. you remember how it was played. no? face each other, legs spread apart, toss your knife between your opponent’s feet, each moves one foot to where the other guy’s blade stuck. soon your feet are touching each other. it’s no surprise where the last throw sticks because nobody’s brave enough to chicken out. stretch was calmer and involved no blood, just stretching in a split to where the weapon was thrown. but Pocket Knife Catch, ah, that game was fun! throwing knives at each other from across the yard, waiting to dodge as long as you dared. the loser being the guy who “caught” a knife. we were short on brains, but it was an exciting life.
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the W shelf Upon entering any bookstore, my first stop is always The W shelf of the poetry section, scanning in vain for Elinor Wylie. But the space between William Wordsworth and William Butler Yeats is always too thin for even a single volume of her poems. Not an exceptional poet, but one with a certain way with words which struck me when I was young. I've yet to find her anywhere. Too much room taken up, no doubt, by the lengthy works of Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams. Should you happen to see her in your own perusing, I would greatly appreciate your letting me know. My searching has not left me completely empty handed though; today I happily came across Wislawa Szymborska, inadvertently misfiled on the W shelf.
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swimming i never swim anymore. when i was young, i swam often; for leisure and for sport. competitively, i was average, not as fast as my older brother or my younger sister. in leisure is where i excelled. easing into the cold water of the pool, pushing off from the cement side and soaring over the vast blue painted bottom where i imagined small villages with interconnecting roadways, peopled with tiny villagers who would stare up into their watery sky at the breath-holding boy who was at times their dragon nemesis and at times their super hero. now i only swim in my mind, over landscapes that are no longer imaginary, but those of my daily life. over cities and towns with interconnecting roadways, peopled with friends and foes, 150
relatives and acquaintances, who seldom look at me at all; no longer the boy, but still holding my breath.
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____ some hundred years ago [or was it some thousand?] there was a man named ____. ____ lived in a time of trouble, as did his parents, as did his children, and their children too. ____ did what he could to make life tolerable for his family and for himself. he tried to do this without bothering anybody else. he tried to avoid the troubles of his time unless they came looking for him; at which time ____ stood up and did what was right, just as his parents taught him, just as he taught his children, and their children too. you won’t find ____’s name carved on any monuments or scribbled in any scrolls. you won’t find ____’s name in any history books at either the high school or the college level. ____ is never mentioned around the campfire or dinner table. but if you ask me, i’ll tell you. i’ll tell you all about ____. and i’ll tell you that of all the heroes that the world has ever had, ____ was the most heroic of which i’ve never read.
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parade i saw flags flying and stopped awhile to watch a parade that slowly wandered down the street where i took my walk. i noticed those around me going on about their business with frowned annoyance at blocked traffic and impatience mixed with stress. indifferent to the goings on, they’d seen it all before; a parade like every other that had ever passed their doors. but i stood, silently attentive, as the participants floated by with painted expressions and fine apparel, with bright and flashing lights. small purple flags on hoods of cars, faces masked in grief, as they paraded one they honored to a long and last relief.
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islands Driving in and around the city, I began to consider the small areas of wilderness that, I imagine, can be found in every city. Those places where concrete has never been poured, heavy machinery has never traversed, and the trees have been left to themselves. Out of the way patches of forest that the city, in its growth, has wrapped itself around. That are largely ignored except perhaps for the explorations of school skipping twelve year olds, teen-aged lovers, and walkers of dogs. But what else has been seen by the trees of these small islands as cities have swelled around them like oceans? As they stood, in alarm, while their kindred were engulfed? The rise and fall of buildings? The birth and adolescence of industrialization? The political upheavals of insignificant men? The island trees in your city may have different stories to tell, of agriculture, flood, drought. But in my city: coal, iron and steel, American revolutionaries, French and English soldiers, Iroquois hunting parties, and ages of time surrounded by none but their own and the creatures they sheltered. And in the far distant past: peace, quiet, the movement of the wind and the Spirit of God.
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Billy i was with him on the night he died; he and i alone but for a nurse who waited there to tell me what i would already know. bullets had missed him, and mortar and fire; stealthy ambush had missed its mark. yet this cancer now quenched its desire to drink the strength of his good heart. chemicals to rid the field of nature where the enemy hid and chemicals to rid the air of nature that chewed upon his skin had left him with this gnawing end he chose not to begrudge. better to be lying in this bed than to have fallen in jungle mud. i was with him on the night he died; felt the tear that left his eye, held his arm and stroked his hair; this brother, this best friend of mine.
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wasting for my father
his waistband has loosened as his appetite has slimmed. even his dentures slide loosely back and forth in his mouth. the mouth once eloquent in speech, before the emaciation of vocabulary. favorite foods spoil, untouched, and the news of the day goes unread. as a once heavy mind slowly frees itself of the weight of memory.
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each memorial day each memorial day, for twenty years gone by, we’ve cleaned off his grave, my wife and i; scrubbed the residue of fowl debris, trimmed the long grass, pulled the weeds, brushed away leaves lingering from the fall and cut away turf that threatened to swallow his existence into the belly of the earth. it wasn’t him we had at first come to see. my wife’s great grandmother rests just to the east of where the earth had all but overwhelmed him. we uncovered his marker on a whim, after cleaning great grandmother’s stone that day; sad, that no one had remembered where he lay. and so we continue year upon year, as will our children when we’re no longer here, so that he is remembered each memorial day.
Domenico Timpone 1889 ~ 1917
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Homewood-Brushton 1968 In the Spring of 1968 we rode the school bus from suburb to city past soldiers posted on every corner. We stood in our playground, fingers laced in the chain-link, watching the glares go by. Our skin being the wrong shade for this neighborhood and this time. This neighborhood where our father once played football and delivered newspapers. Where our grandfather once gave clarinet lessons. This neighborhood where we still came to church on Sundays and school during the week to learn the elementals of life. Life that now included soldiers on street corners and stones thrown over the chain-link.
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social work The 3 guys at the card table outside the front of your building don’t give me a second glance as I walk by. They know I’m not here for them, just like I know it’s not cards they’re dealing. If I were a cop I’d be trying to blend in better and wouldn’t avert my eyes. You let me in and we talk about:: can I ask the project office about the leaky toilet and the shit stained rugs and can I ask again about getting screens for the kids rooms and please please please can I call the security office about the guys at the card table ‘cause you’re scared of retaliation if you call yourself. I promise to make the calls (and I will, later this afternoon). But first I have to make another stop; this one to a girl and her newborn who are living with her boyfriend’s family in a house with boarded up windows and a big screen TV that gets 220 channels. The family told her they don’t like me coming around. They think they can’t smoke dope while I’m there (like I give a damn). I avert my eyes when I leave your building.
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coffee shop i am happy here, espresso in hand. one dollar and seventy-seven cents worth of caffeine to get me through the next hour. one dollar and seventy-seven cents to purchase not only the drink but also a chair and table by the window for as long as i care to sit and sip and read from a book of poems by Billy Collins while watching the passersby. there should be more, i know, but still, i am happy here.
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About the Author Raymond Sapienza lives and writes in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania but no longer enjoys the weather there. He is married, with two children and a cat. His poems have been published in Medusa Literature and Kill Poet Press. troubled stars is his second collection of poetry.
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