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A sky as dark as the one that dawns
Over the club “Il Cuore Nero”
Serves as omen to the miserable old men
Veiled below, in shrouded shadow.

No family mired in treachery
Can compare to this laylow meet of Fathers;
Capo di Capi is the aim to every Boss who came,
Every mind on the claim once thought theirs.

Don Egoisma plops down in front
To get the best view of the table
Next to Don Fretta, who already sat
Ten minutes before he was able.

Donna Gelosia reclines to his left,
But is already starting to plot
On how to snatch Don Rabbia’s seat
Since a bargainer he is not.

Don Lussuria sits next to her
For a breath of the feminine scent
On both sides, for Donna Assenza
His left has already spent.

Donna Sogni grabs his seat
After Assenza yanks it from out beneath –
While Don Amore and Don Passione
Quiet neighbor Rabbia, much to his grief.

The raucous table – Called to order!
But fails to stop our first contender:
Signore Fretta stood, always rather rude,
But boasting the greatest number of members.

“First to live,
First to wed,
First to take purpose to bed –
First to start,
First to quit,
First to call for better shit.
First to try what hasn’t been done
And first to break what hasn’t been won.”

The Dons agreed, being first is good
In many forceful occasions;
But, when the heart requires delicacy,
Fretta rubtures from frequent abrasions.

Donna Gelosia takes her stand –
Fouled by Fretta moving first –
Though distracted by Assenza’s beautiful dress,
She proceeds along with verse:

“I fight for what is great, since
The best’s our only fate or
Else we’re in a wanting state.
A wanting state is never great
So fighting is our resting state
To seize early and never wait
So satisfaction comes never late
I anticipate.”

The Dons agreed, to fight for more
Is a motivational trance;
But all this eager need for fill
Leaves no room for patience.

The room is seized by Don Egoisma –
As always, in his mind –
When he announces himself, dictating
All’s proper course, refined.

“I am the best, therefore
I will do what is best for me
Since what is best for me
Is best for all,
So there.”

The Dons agreed that priority
To oneself gives priority to all
Until those priorites are at odds
And the self lets the rest all fall.

Don Rabbia erupts in a fury –
About what? No one quite knows –
But he soon tires his own self out
When vain blustering draws to a close.

Donna Assenza rubs Rabbia’s shoulder
To make sure he is actually there,
Then uses it to push unevenly up
And directs towards the distance glazed stare.

“Higgledy-jiggledy piggle lee doo,
Shashapa mikkida bazzil la-oo –
Sert? Lat! Figgle-mcfee
Scappadapadeedappadeedapee.
Helkxjachtevertz-“

The Dons stopped Assenza at this point
For her made-up language made no sense;
Always being stuck in her head
Made her creative, but left them tense.

Don Lussuria, slapping Assenza’s rear,
Sprung with a spring in his pants –
Energetic, crafty, and a teensy bit wild,
He accompanied speech with a dance.

“Brothers, I love the woman –
As much as I love business, I love the woman –
As much as I love killing, I love the woman –
As much as I love life, I love the woman –
As much as I love myself, I love the woman –
As much as I love the organization, I love the woman –
And so, mi friori, you see
I love the woman too much
And must refuse your offer.”

He sat down with no further sound
Which left the table confused
Since his deluding their attention
Had been, by pride, abused.

Then all eyes and ears directed
To the youngest of the bunch;
Those three most prime contenders
Who’d surely beat the punch.

Don Sogni cleared his throat
And drank his dish of cream –
He spread his arms out wide
And professed a profound dream:

“I dreamt a dream that I could fly –
My mind would wing me past the sky
To a place where I don’t have to think
Of violence, sadness, kitchen sink –
And look below upon tiny Earth
Which has all since become our turf
Where mankind exists for our gain –
To give us love, take our pain –
A power beyond autonomy
In set responsibility:
To fashion meaning for those in debt,
Help them feel safe caught in our net,
Force them to feel equal and content
Until our leaking lifeforce spent.”

Don Sogni stretched back, satisfied,
Though not one word he said;
This dream he pontificated
Remained safe inside his head.

The Dons were rather curious
By that knowing smirk on his lips;
But he waved them off, not wanting to break
His imagination’s grip.

Don Amore uncrossed his legs to
Spring up with confidence,
Since a party not at table present
Bought out his loyalty hence.

“I propose we should focus
On building strong our friends,
Since we rely on their support
To realize our ends.
Like Don Lussuria, I love the woman,
But I only love just one,
And I tell you that her guidance
Is the very best, bar none.
I nominate Signora Ossessione,
Who operates beyond our group,
To lead us in her narrow focus
And energize our troupe.
We have need of one stronger than any of us
Since we tend to get lost in our fear,
Which directs us with pointless arguments
And renders our purpose less clear.”

The Dons were terribly outraged,
Expecting better from Amore;
Asking them to sell themselves
Was not their right of way.

It was especially disappointing
Since he’d always been their prime –
But even the best among us
Grow ever worn with time.

In the silence of despondence,
A fed-up voice rang through:
Don Passione had something to say,
Though most wished it were not true:

“Okay, fellas, here’s the deal. I know I’m the youngest one here. I know no one here trusts what I say all that much, or at least takes it seriously, but I’ve just gotta shoot it straight to you. I care so much about this family, and, unlike the rest of my brothers, I don’t have the patience for all this flowery language and sympathetic crap. My place here is built on answering a question: what the Hell are we doing here? Seriously, what the fuck? And why? We sit around at this table, talking about who the next boss is going to be all night, and none of us ever decide who it’s going to be because we honestly don’t know what we want in our new boss. And we never will know, because the whole family can’t get its shit together as one. We’re scattered, in motive and mind, with different objectives that change the face of the family when we act out on our own. I agree with Don Amore, but he’s wrong about the solution. We move ourselves – no one else. I just want to do something, you know? Not pussyfoot around, talking about everything, but doing nothing. If we could put our heads together, move towards a united goal, maybe the mafia wouldn’t be a word that people scoffed at whenever they heard it. Maybe this little family of ours could actually do something, instead of just lounging about, pretending like spin-the-bottle to see who we can get to kiss our asses is the most important item of business. Let’s get our shit together, yeah? Before we fade away like the dusk, only ever existing within this pitiful club.”

The Dons were swept up with fervor
To do more than just talk –
But in order to act, plans must be set;
During this stage they balk.

Absorbed in their deciding
They forget Don Passione;
Arguments and philosophizing
Keep them static every day.

Past the morning, past the night –
Trapped in “Il Cuore Nero,”
Fathers never choose what will lead them to do,
But pump blood down endless spirals.

---

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In the beginning was the Word

And next year’s words that await another voice

And you may think

Good strong words that mean something

How complete is the delusion

TURN ON THE LIGHT.

That beauty is goodness;

The words sufficed

When you’re not looking

This will kill that

The book will kill the building

That’s what careless

Words do:

Sneak up.

Words without thoughts

Never to Heaven go

And write “Screw you;”

The utter and heartbreaking

LANGUAGE.

Not stupidity of words

In accordance with the truth of things

Which human power cannot remove:

In the beginning was the Word.

---

---

Adolf Hitler was a character.

I mean, I didn’t know him
But I read his book –
That book called “Mein Kampf.”
That book called “My Struggle.”
That book that was mein own kampf to stay awake through –
But, still, I read it.

I know full well: Adolf Hitler was a bastard.
I don’t know how much of his writing was true.
Still – although he was a bastard,
Although he was delusional –
I stand by what I say:
Adolf Hitler was a character.

A character like any other conqueror
One to learn from mistakes and victories
That, perhaps, lends comprehension
When delusion goes too far
And from whence it blooms.
And yet-

And yet, I almost didn’t check out this book
After the Jewish girl at the register
Sported a sour sort-of sneer –
“What kind of person reads this thing?”

But still I took the book.

I sympathize with her heritage –
Horrible as the experiences of her ancestors –
I sympathize, yet empathize not with her
Whose empathy would destroy interaction;
She who would have me ignore what has happened as something to be forgotten
Or avoided from unconnected outrage.

I do not know her, and will not pretend I ever could,
Since desiring to learn our history
Is unappealing to her feelings,
Which secretly tickles mine
When all I sought was cerebral pursuit
And did not expect a joke
From researching so somber a subject.

But whose fault is that?

---

---

I was playing on the playground
As kids so often do.
We were acting “Grown-Ups;”
I was the guy from the news.
I straightened out my papers
And flashed a smile so swell,
Proclaiming calmly to the camera:
“Earth is goin’ to Hell.”

“Whaddya mean?” inquired Sucy,
“How is that even possible?
Earth and Hell are different places –
Are you some kind of fool?
Sure, that global warming crisis
Makes our climate hot as hell –
But what sort of sign is that if
The adults are still too lost to tell?”

Lionel scoffed, “I do not think
You’ve understood his gist.
He’s just repeating what news anchors say
When referring to terrorists.
Religion corrupts the human mind,
As the smartest scientists say.
Come on, wouldn’t life be more peaceful
If it was pointless anyway?”

“I don’t believe you, silly head!”
Cried frail, sweet May MacKay.
“For then all murderers and rapists
Would be considered A-Okay.
If life is just as meaningless
As hopeless haters would have us believe,
Why do our thoughts of suicide
Incite such harsh reprieve?”

“Blame the Republicans and their tax code!”
Accused the wildly woke Bill Carter.
“Their regressive restrictions
Make American happiness harder!”
“The Democrats are one to talk,”
Sneered George Lincoln sardonically.
“Abortion, Socialism, faulty healthcare
Insult all our liberties.”

My playground friends disputed
Until an all-out war was raised;
Fists were flying, women crying,
While I watched on, unfazed.
Our teacher clasped me on the shoulder,
“Young man, no need to fret.
Our darling Earth may be going to Hell,
But you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

---

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Scritch scritch.

It’s under my skin. It’s under my – scritch scritch scratch – Gah! Skin! I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why it does, but what it does it does under my skin. Then my skin gets to itching ‘til I scratch the scritching. Hey, but then it starts bitching all over again! You laugh at my problem, but that’s not the problem. The real problem is not my skin nor the scritch, no – scratch – the problem resides in my hands and their itch. Their itch to scratch! Not a knuckle is scritched – you’ll find no scratch across my wrist – it’s the itch within themselves that gives my eye this twitch! Their very desire to scratch is the itch I must match – scratch scratch scratch. But they don’t give me a chance, leave me out of their dance – they itch to scratch without my consent, then go and give me odd scrapings and a blistering rash. They reach where they shouldn’t, they latch when I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t tell you if that’s good or that’s bad.
It goes on and on – scritchy scritch scratch – until I am absolutely sure: hands are just hands. They shouldn’t itch on their own! This scratching’s all mine or I’ve nothing to own. So, good or bad, who’s to say? But they’re wrong over right by every mark on my face.

So, in a last ditch to ditch my hands’ itch, I lopped them both clean right off at the wrist. Tied a blade to my head, gave a guillotine-butt, then Voila! their itch and mine, no longer conjoined. A simple solution…and such fast relief! There they flop ‘cross the floor, overcome with desire. I wish them safest travels for another Itched to hire. As for me, I’m now free to scratch itches that are mine. Indeed, I have been freed! To – scratchity – scritch –

Ah.

SCRATCHITY – SCRATCH

AHYAHYAH!

Damn it! – SCRATCH – Where have my hands gone? – SCRITCH – Get on back here, now, tout suite! These stumpy, weak massages cannot do the trick!

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i spied a Tranny
stumbling down the street
with too-tall high-heels
strapped to his feet
their clacking like a trigger cocking
to shoot down hope from my heart with haste
since this Tranny’s futile feminine beauty
reminds me how natural females process prowess into waste

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Out on the trustworthy Pegasus
Sat myself with a rod in a chair
As I silently surveyed the Pacific
And ruffled the brine in my hair.

My line was avoided all morning
And a nibble was naught all the noon
So I wait with the greatest of patience
‘Pon my very first glimpse of the moon.

I think of fish lurking below me
And sumptuous dishes prepared
Once I gut and skin and debone them,
Their bountiful fruits gushing bare.

Like Halibut steaks
Scorpionfish cakes
And Sea Bream sashimi en masse
Add Snapper flambéd
And Sole freshly flayed
Or Barracuda pickled with Wrasse
Perhaps Moray Eel fried
And Yellowtail hide
Will bring spice to the rawest of Grouper
Blackened Swordfish
Or a Salmon roe dish
Flying Fish would be super-duper!

The night was beginning to fall
As I cast my line one final time
When it was yanked with a fearsome pull
And my whole boat turned on a dime.

I cranked in as hard as I could
With the line as taut as cold steel
When a shining fish flew through the air
And broke free the spool of my reel.

A Mackerel Shark stared blankly at me
And my heart sank to the bottomless blue
For you can’t eat them in California
So I tossed my hard work over in lieu.

My frustration knows not high walls
With this stolen catch of the day,
For asses have the weakest of hearts
And drown everymen with their bray.

---

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squirrelly-squirrelly
SQUIRRELLY-SQUIRREL!
Look as rodents go a-rocketeering
Up and down that scrawny boy
bushy tails twitching tails
antennae tails – a regular nut-dar
searching for scrumptious signals
chitter-chitter-chittertitter
cute little mouse with its featherduster tail
sweeping it soft to tickle his nose
in adorable…Wait.

That’s bloody disgusting.

To have a nasty rodent
Scamper on your chest
ruffle up your hair
with paws that played
in its own shit
prob’ly carrying rabies
or some disease –
Going ‘cross that boy’s face
Afore he bounds off to pound some girl squirrel –

Let’s be serious:
Something’s squirrelly screwed with anyone who squirrels with squirrels.

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