|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
My daddy said,
"Hard work has its rewards."
I assumed the wages would
at least tread water,
what with prices rising to a flood.
I always did play my part
the way it was
script-written.
There's a piled-high stack of bills
sitting here to prove it.
The banks won't let me
lay those puppies off,
and I'm too-small potatoes
to get tossed in
the too-big-to-fail bucket.
Someone's to blame,
that's for damn sure,
but with so many likely suspects
I wish I'd been paying
closer attention. |
|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
Let's offer up our prayers to a finicky Father
who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking
away senility on that rickety chair
with a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets.
Who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking?
Our Father, keeping his heart warm against the gusts.
With a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets
perfectly square (but too small to share with others),
our Father's keeping his heart warm. Against the gusts
and idling time, again he stays busy carving figures
perfectly square but too small to share. With others,
these tokens will help the faithful remain fertile
and idling. Time again, he keeps busy carving figures
on the edges of a pesky map. Mad for expansion,
these tokens will help the faithful. "Remain fertile!"
Father cautions, as he watches a big screen TV.
On the edges of a pesky map mad for expansion,
many errant souls who wander are unable to hear
Father's cautions. As he watches a big screen TV,
the devil's slipping him a low-ball offer to buy
many errant souls. Who wander are unable to hear
news heaven's economy is still struggling, and
the devil's slipping him. A low-ball offer to buy,
our aging Father mulls over hot oatmeal and tea. |
|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
|
The many faces here
collected
no remuneration.
Dreadful people played
with swollen fingers,
weak after
suddenly being elbowed.
Only two or three seemed
angry and, alternately
thumping and thumping again,
set off to discover
secret notes laughed out
from behind the piano.
Note: This poem is an erasure taken from the text "Pointed Roofs" by Dorothy Miller Richardson. |
|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
More wiry weeds than hair, they grow
coarse black and at a heightened clip
from ear-top follicles suddenly fertile
after decades of smooth-flesh dormancy.
Add to that a stubborn snout intent
on lengthening and willful fingers bent
on becoming gnarled claws. The horror
signs indicate a slo-mo transition
from man to wolf, but don't let that put
you off your supper. We're all made to fall
apart. Creep on over. I'll take a little
nibble, and we'll howl at forever's moon
together. |
|
|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
First a disclaimer:
My god is not
necessarily
yours, but she is
undeniably
hungry for a comfort-food
snack of peanut butter
and Fluff brand
whipped marshmallow spread.
(Yeah, I know,
nasty stuff, yet
every god has her quirks)
She's actually
more demiurge,
needy and enduring
a dangerously dull day
ideating at the office
that gets worse when
she opens the gripe-box
to unfold a complaint
pasted in ransom-note letters:
"Too stingy with praise.
Resent the ego stroking
going one way."
"Can't stroke what you ain't got,"
she cracks, tipping back
a cold glass of froth-topped milk.
The bubbling laughter
seizes her
mid-swallow, and
caught up by
a soul-clearing cough,
stars spray out speckling
black tile in a no-longer dark
part of the universe
we call home. |
|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
Chi sono io?
My i strayed from its o
(divorziato)
decades before the sperm and egg had wed,
hatching me to a self-soaking
tub where the immigrant
pigments of Ermano e Rosa
were twice removed.
Quando dormo
gli antenati stanno sempre
sussurando indicazioni
Rosa e Ermano each descend
(spaesato)
on separate planks plunked down to greasy
rock by proverbial boats.
When they do, Emma Lazarus doesn't
warn them the Lady's "give me"
comes with a take.
Provo a sentire
le due parole dolci
ma non posso
Ermano e Rosa each find
(inamorato)
American spouses, have American kids
who sprout to twist a native tongue
till an ill-fit, its tang is
left in must and un-dusted
just for periodic trips back.
Ripeto, Chi sono io?
E nel questo sogno
i voci mi dicono di nuovo...
Let's skip the unplugged generation's gap
(collegato)
to where my i reacquaints with its o,
but their made-up past makes
a tenuous tether, so together
Rosa e Ermano drift on
|
|
Written by Francis Scudellari
|
|
The leader detects
a foot,
the effects of succeeding
behind him—
his error.
One after another
repeat precisely the
units of
attacking evolutions.
There is rigid adherence
achieved; the last
round dash.
A scream ... men
follow faithfully
and meet
nothing with a
homogeneity
which undermines
the moral material
of lines
in formation.
Simple reflection
will reveal
the observer
specially
rendered
as machine,
beneath the same
panorama.
He must touch
to be positive and
judge.
Note: This poem is an erasure taken from the text "Aeroplanes and Dirigibles of War" by Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot. |
|
