The Dreaming Mailman

Been Mailman for 44 years
I've got less than one to go before I retire
So I thought I would share for all of your
Ears
(One ear at a time
Only the truth is worth a dime)
And I apologize if you can feel that I'm
Beginning to perspire.

Many say to be a mailman is kinda hypnotic
My wife says I'm neurotic but
Let me explain:

On the job we gotta concentrate
And pretend we got blinders on like a horse
So to ignore the barking dog, the latest viruses
Always paying attention to the cracks in the sidewalk
To deliver what the folk want: their mail.

In June 1976, six months after I took the job,
I was suffering from recurrent dreams of
Not delivering the mail or
Delivering it to the wrong address
Always the same wrong address:
2767  Court street, Brooklyn NY 11231

It was the address of a store my Mom used to take me to
Where you could buy Ladybugs and Preying Mantises
Insects that would take care of your garden problems
And we would always be going back there because
The Lady bugs were out of stock

My shrink told me to project myself before
The start of the day
To project and think how I successfully would deliver
All those envelopes
To the address holders who
Waiting to rip 'em open -often without a proper envelope opener
With the smooth edges of a butter knife-
Would barely notice my blue uniform with black shiny shoes.

Therefore, after six months I found a spot
400 yards from the main distribution center where
I could lay
Rain or shine, snow or sleet
In my favorite mailbox and dream.

                                                                                                 Photo by Melissa Zexter

I dreamt.
I dreamt of delivering each and every letter
I dreamt of hearing the soles of my shoes creak as I approached
The last steps leading to the doormat
I dreamt of dogs who would sit regal and observe my passing and
Viruses that would hide under the mat as I arrived
And real stamps that would stick to the lick of saliva
I dreamt.

I knew that I dreamt of my friends that I had lost touch with
Friends who were not always still pacing this earth
And I also dreamt of people who had their hearts warmed by
Reading a few scribbly lines
An emotion
Captured like in the spider's web of love.

Yet some of my dreams were laced in evil
People waiting for a letter in hope to
Conspire
And plot an illusion
and plot confusion
That would spread well beyond 11231.

Yesterday, my last dream
-Dreams because they were multiple-
Went like such:

A man, ready to spill his soul at
A computer guised as a confessional
The camera was hidden in the cross and
The voice required the man to wear a bag
On his head and it said:
"Why did you make bats smarter than preying mantises?"
In vain the bagged man tried to press "alt + delete"

Then there was a loving couple looking over towards the Twin Towers from Staten Island
They too had bags on their heads
The skylight was fading yet
They could not sense it
Only the crackling of the paper
Made their love alive

The last dream was in a loop
I was in a Woolworth's eating a
99 cent Chili
Wearing a checkered paper bag I
Could not see the display of
Hypnotically spinning cakes
Overloaded with sugars and fats

I was in this Woolworth everyday and
For some reason they would not change the menu
It was always the Chili for 99 cents

Perhaps I wanted to reach for a cake that
I could certainly smell through my checkered bag
I could reach and touch the locked display
The plastic keeping those magnificent cakes intact

The Chili smearing over the edges of my plate
I knew
I knew I would have to write about it
Before the rain would fall and
Get the envelopes wet.

Domination is for you and me

I want my Baby Born to Dominate its Space

Dominate streets

Ogling the cops on the beat

Dominate his Mama

And never retreat


I want my Baby to be the Supreme Force

To ignore those who wish to endorse

And drive hard on the golf course


I want my baby to show Command and Control

To burn a big hole with coal

To wipe out the souls for those who

Think life is a stroll


I need my Baby to overpower the Old

And be uncontrolled

Unleashing power that shall make the

Aged cower and show them who lives in

The Tower of Power


My fearless Baby will subdue CEOs and CFOs

It will tear the hair out of a foe in the snow

And rip the hearts out of

Women in throngs


Baby will scoff at animals in need of nourishment

And  scoff at forest fires and firenados

And firefighters in need of chastisement


My sweet, perfect Baby will dictate and gratify

its supreme Id

It will spit at impotence

and clobber those chained

Smothering all those who refuse to be restrained.

The country is in a crouch

(Title taken from an article by Maureen Dowd.)

                                                                                      Illustration by William Blake

The country is in a crouch

It could be that I'm slouching on my couch

Masking and unmasking myself

Inflating and deflating my

Inner tube because

Under confinement  and

Drowning with love for my brothers and sisters

My tubeless bicycle needs to stay safe.


Still, the country is in a crouch

It could be we shall spring out of our pouch

My tigger-striped cat will take a broker's leap

Up the tree and

Stock options will flutter despite

Covid's glee.


I think of bubbles when

I am in a crouch

From Alka Seltzer to Champagne

All is good for the ouch

I had a dream of being tested

100 million times

And each test requested

To guess how depressed  my tongue could chime!


Today, I gawked at a Sheriff who

Fired his pistol at the opening of a restaurant

And I gawked at my hairdresser who

Was drinking liquid crystal at a clip

So I turned on the tube to listen to Dr. Fauci

Offering words of immunization

As he tried not to be grouchy.

Log Cabin Fever

Here in Alaska, 7 years after Corona hit in 2020, I decided almost to never leave this log cabin I bought after selling my apartment in Atlanta. True, they say the virus left a long time ago, but when I open my window and listen to the birds it gives me courage to write, so I thought I'd share a few lines.

My feet

Soaked in black ink

Trace the living room floor's perimeter. 

3000 steps each day

Of the week I don a different color ink

Indeed my floor resembles Rorchach splats

That inhabit my inhibited state

Often daydreaming of Pompei, Boticelli and

N-95 masks

I remember the day the virus attacked my wifi transponder 

It was a study Netgear R7000

My grandfather had compared it to his sturdy Dodge slant 6

The five bars dropped to 3, then to two

Animals were acting strangely

Cows raced around SUVs and

Dogs started howling and Cats became despondent. 

People were racing for Repeaters and chasing down Troubleshooting

Manuels but the infected machines wouldn't even reboot 

And Amazon was down for good.

My Alaska cabin is haunted but I don't dare leave

I have a repeating dream of worms sticking their heads out

Of the soil and singing "Tutti Frutti"

If I step on one of them they will explode, I will explode

And my apple pie will burn in the oven.

My cabin ghost keeps me company and at bay

From wild animals and cavalier bears 

He looks like a Jack London and when I see him

I feel the cabin listing like it was a ship.

I took have grown my mustache long and I dream one day

Of getting my wi-fi back

If only to take another selfie of myself and

Get some likes

Any likes

Just a like.

Mi trash is your trash (1988-2020)

Like a listless marathoner too bored to do it again
The yellow New York trash laden Mobro22 barge drifted
After being refused, like it's predecessors,  by Southern Dump States
It too became a drifting stenchy Dutchman at sea
With the media at its heels

What to do with all this unregulated waste whilst
New York Dumps are filled to the brim and
Scrambling
As the egg yolks seep into the ocean

What to do when
the ocean turns smirchy brown as
Inexhumable
Particles untraceable filmy fragments
Razed unrecognizable polymers
That can't even stand for a comedy show
Multiply and prosper

Protoplasms descend the waters coating
Barnacles, seacows, sulfur worms, tires and Etruscan vases

"Le villain ordure est dégagé"
"Darf nicht traurig sein, es ist zu spät"
Sang a turquoise green mermaid

When the beach is marred with flotsam
And a running chicken has a dry cough
From rising methane
We shall click on an empathetic heart on twitter
Rip off the plastic from an organic food delivery and
Try to flush it down the toilet.



 

Mickey the Feuermeister

His name was Mickey the Feuermester

He was in charge of firing all the kilns

And he relished the gas firing when

He would get so close to the burners that

He'd almost torch his red 

English, tycoon, handlebar mustache.

Mickey was no-nonsense but

He had one favorite hobby

And that was to to to Natasha's

A unisex coiffeuse who

Knew how to do him just right.

Even during hot summer days

Mickey would take his time

Under the hairdryer he felt at peace

As if the machine could cool his hot temper

After all Natasha had pushed her warm body

Suited in a white smock with boots that laced to her knees

Against Micky and

Clipped and clipped and clipped

Snipping what evil spirits dangled from his head.

Tantisaluti and Corona or An Italian Corona Tale

They called him Tantisaluti or “Tantisa” because he used to wave to the customers with one hand while spinning the pizza dough with the other. Tantisaluti ran one of the best pizza joints in Empoli, a small town near Florence.
And then Covid19 arrived. Tantisa saw maybe 200 people a day. His restaurant was bustling, the brick pizza oven, the hot spot, was a squeeze to get by. There was human contact, sweaty contact, everyday. Some clients warned Tantisa about the virus, but he said, “as long as I keep spinning my pizzas, Corona will stay away”. And so he kept spinning his dough, even making pizza that he had delivered to the hospital staff for free.
Just last week Tantisa came down with a sore throat. The virus hit him hard and in one day he couldn’t move from his bed. Doctors were nowhere to be found in Italy and all the paracetamol in the pharmacies were gone. Matteo, a long time friend, said he had to do something. Tantisa’s nonna Kirstena, said she knew of a cure for the virus: she had heard that there was a homeless man, in Empoli, who had survived Covid19. If Matteo could find and him and get him to spit 3 times in a cup and bring it to her, it could save her grandson.
“Go find Jamesola, that’s what they call him” she said in her frail voice, giving him a silver cup from her childhood. “And get him to spit deep spit!”
But where to find him? Matteo ran around town in his red cap, high and low, but there was no sign of Jamesola.
He called the nonna: “Kirstena, I can’t find him, don’t you have a clue about this homeless misericordia?”
“He’s a desperate man. Use your head and think.” and at that she hung up the phone.
Desperate, desperate, Matteo walked around and around thinking, looking especially in places where the homeless lived.
No one had heard of a Jamesola, maybe he had another name, and with each step Matteo was getting more desperate. Suddenly, out of a dark alley, a regal character walked out wearing a 16th century sky blue outfit, with a tall blue hat that featured a golden plume from most likely a very rare bird.
He? She? Sang in a soft voice:
“ Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
You been out ridin' fences for so long now Oh, you're a hard one
But I know that you got your reasons These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow
Don't you draw the Queen of Lions, boy
She'll beat you if she's able
You know the Queen of Hearts is always your best bet”
Matteo was shocked and puzzled. He had never seen such a resplendent character in his life and at the same time, this song he loved from the Eagles, went “Queen of Diamonds” not “Lions”! Before the 16th century person got to say another word, Matteo jumped on his pony and raced to the

Fountain of Lions, where he saw a haggard man in a brown plaid hoodie and striped shorts crouched on the edge of the fountain. Except for a large swan flying by, it was stangely quiet.
Matteo jumped off his pony and shook the man by his head. “Jamesola! It’s you! I need you to spit 3 times into this cup!”
Jamesola didn’t move.
“Come on, now!!” insisted Matteo, his face getting as red as his cap.
“Che, che, che, wha, wha, what do ya want” replied Jamesola in a sleepy voice. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and the sky was clear except for a few white clouds.
“What the fuck are you after?” said a big, booming voice that made both Jamesola and Matteo jump. It was the voice of the Lion, who was looking down at them with very intent eyes.
“Signore Leone” said Matteo, “I need this man to spit..” and he went on to explain the story to the Lion and tried to finish it by saying that he would like the pizzas that Tantisaluti makes.
“I don’t like jokes about viruses” the lion said. And at that he roared a roar so loud that all the buildings around the piazza shook. And when he stopped, he roared again and then a 3rd time. Matteo was holding his ears and thinking he was in a Japanese Godzilla movie, what he didn’t notice is that with each roar, Jamesola spat into a cup, a convulsive spit that came from the bottom of his lungs.
The lion went back to its stone state and Matteo, seeing the cup almost full, grabbed it, not even thanking Jamesola and raced on his pony to see the nonna who taking the spit of 3 different bats, mixed it all together and instructed Matteo to have Tantisa drink it down in one gulp.
Although it was said that Tantisaluti recovered from the terrible Covid19, the truth will never be known for two reasons: the anonymous writer, he or she, got into a car accident that broke his or her hand so he or she couldn’t write anymore and original manuscript was also damaged because Matteo spilled Jamesola’s spit over the last paragraph rendering it illegible.