5 Poems by
Ron Androla
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getting a sense of what we really want
driving east, that's all we want
to do with a full tank of gas in the jeep;
buck thirty-nine a gallon on sunday.
we wonder how much twenty gallons
of 87 octane costs in other countries
cliffed against planet earth's waters
or deeply inward land-locked within
trecherous mountains. i want route 5
but it takes us a long time to figure
when or how to go north from pine avenue
me outloud saying why the fuck are we on
pine avenue? anyways, heading south on pine
avenue we eventually find route 5
& it's october with leaves of trees just
coloring/dying, & there are holy majestic
clouds, monstrous, textured, we wonder if
full of anthrax? anyways, we're driving
right next to the open, wave-cresting lake,
with these gray & blue & white mountains of
clouds above everything, low, & i drive slow.
meek sunday afternoon traffic,
we see a few people outside of their little
waterfront cottages, we peek
down on their lives with envy.
we find ourselves on gay road.
gay road. but at the end,
a turn from route 5, of gay road,
is this small old stone home, unoccupied.
upstairs windows busted out.
doors boarded. unkempt. i stop
the jeep. we dream there.
right at a cliff above lake erie,
covered in trees & bushes.
a place to watch infinity.
the building might be
breaking off the cliff.
old, old stone.
wild sky & choppy great lake water.
cries of
gulls.
imagine
the dead of winter there.
amen
say amen.
nobody knows the meaning of that
word & that's why you're saying it
aloud, deliberate, right now.
amen.
doesn't even
echo. the head of god
is the back of his/her head.
he/she
doesn't turn
around. eyes
fix
upon
loud sound.
boys
explode
on the spot -- land-mine cities
in gyms of transitory
testosterone where walls
spark tits tight-nipple'd
& i want you
sucking
me as i die.
my cum is
like a hunk of
clam. slime
of sea
scallop...
in jamestown new york
takes 3 hours to get there
driving a bumpy jeep up into the hills
around lake chautauqua, getting lost,
laughing at strange roadside signs.
a goddamn dog just sprawls on the road
& our journey is an inconvenience,
such a slow dog eventually moves so
we can go. back-roads & highways
not on a map. last labor day weekend
we ventured to the city
enjoying ourselves tremendously
this year we do the same.
8th floor top-floor holiday inn giant window
looks south. we get plenty of beer.
after night sweeps down an incredible
array of fireworks
blasts from a black mountaintop
& the fireworks last a long,
long time. meanwhile the full moon
is swinging across from the left.
meanwhile we're sitting nude & drunk
watching streaming colors of fire
spider & flower in black
sky, 8th floor, holiday inn,
jamestown
new
york.
what can the poets do
walt whitman is very, very dead. poe
is a tv show. sure, bukowski is a mainstream
college-kid drinker & kerouac is movies.
nobody cares about the work of john
berryman. once we are evaporated
from the surface of dewy earth, poems
by michael mcneilley will disappear
from the minds of many to
none. there isn't optimism
life will
ever be
better
than what
we, the last generation
of free amerikans, experience.
every poet realizes
silence is
the poem.
let me tell you about islam
when sitto, my syrian grandmother,
died, my uncle al had an islamic
sort of funeral for her, arabic music
played from a cassette by the casket.
an islamic priest read from the koran,
& a young guy translated:
basically i remember
the polarities,
norths & souths of existence;
gibran was quoted.
sitto was pure love.
absolutely & unequivocally.
i touch her dead stone hand.
her eyelids are maybe stitched shut.
love pours electrically from my fingers
but it is all goodbye.
forever goodbye.
jamilia abdoe, her photograph
hangs in our
erie pennsylvania
livingroom, & she is smiling
with a pill-box
hat & thin
mesh veil. she
is
the first
amerikan.
jiddo, my grandfather,
has
emphysema, hacks
& tastes decades of
hashish & strong, thick
coffee. his last koran
is in my dresser.
brittle paper.
he died in 1953.
i yelp
into the world
a year later.
half
italian, half
syrian. amerikan poet.
christ.
i sing to myself
christ they're goin' to crucify me
the lennon song
over & over
daily.
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