Swimming in Happenstance

I read instruction manuals in my spare time
and have on occasion qualified for the express line.
There's a lot to be said
as was the case with our Coppertoned ancestors
who if truth be told
(and why shouldn't it?)
were lured into blind alleys
more often than not.
It's more important in my opinion
in the long run at least
to swim in happenstance.

Swimmer  by Tom Corrado

The Last of the Blinking Red Lights

There's an obliqueness to the world today.
The Times reported on someone being jettisoned.
This seems to be happening more and more.

Silent Snow

When the checkout line at Hannaford
bottlenecked this morning
I knew it was now or never.
I drove away into a maelstrom of snowflakes
whose fragmented narratives
were quite interesting and informative.
Again, it's the little things.

Bereft

Even the freight train remains apprehensive
as it rumbles across the sleeping landscape
where a traveler rests with a book
in the crook of her arm.
Look at the way the shadows fall
on the nape of her neck.
Isn't it enough to awaken you
to the beauty of the hand?
the succulence of a still life?
jolting you into kindness
with the insistence of a phantom limb?
Forget about rummaging through the sale bin
for a cloak to hide your disfigurement.
You should have thought of that sooner.

Girl with Black Hair  by Egon Schiele

With Raindrops Pelting the Pane

The color of disappointment fades
as ticket holders dunk for apples.
A visiting professor begins a lecture on eczema
his bald pink head barely visible above the lighted lectern.
A block or two away, we come upon several
in-kind acrobats tumbling about aimlessly
each with his or her own sad tale to tell.
Fortunately, we are not without pen or paper
though later the Monopoly Club
will find our scribbles indecipherable.
The elderly would have had an easier time.
Kids tuck themselves in.
Raindrops pelt the pane.
We go out on a limb
with marmalade canisters strapped to our calves
and no one to turn to -
a safe harbor bobbing just beyond the breakers.

Family of Acrobats  by Pablo Picasso

Limits

We skipped the required chapters
jumping instead to pages at random
taking turns reading
until the last light left.
We’d always let the machine take the call
penciling in details
penknives close at hand.
At other times - slow times -
we’d squint to see if a smidgen
of indifference had fallen
from the tall pines
which seemed to be everywhere.
As expected the questions
at the end were difficult
the silence seeing into the distance
and beyond, leaving little, other
than doubts of reds, greens, blues.

Exorcism of the Last Painting I Ever Made  by Tracey Emin

Gray Areas

It's the gray areas that bother us most
hounding us with their neither-nor

their seeming disinterest
sneering at us over pale, cold shoulders

thumbing their noses at us
as they stroll with their umbrellas

to the corner candy store
to fill their pockets with jaw-breakers;

tugging at our bedsheets at three AM
sending us to the kitchen

for the last piece of apple pie
already eaten by the cat

leaving us standing at the sink
scrubbing our hands with disinfectant

asking ourselves, how can this be happening?;
returning again and again to entice us

with their posturing
their empty seductions

eluding us as we
in stubborn desperation

dust off the bicycle that's been sitting
in the garage since the yearbook

to pedal feverishly through empty streets
beyond the city limits

and into the painted flatlands
as if there were a chance.

Hard Sell

A Philip Marlowe lookalike
watches from a cloud of smoke
in the corner of the room.

He reminds you of her.

Your memory fills with the names
of your other classmates from second grade

some of whom - including a few boys -
auditioned for the part of the Wicked Witch
and went through several rehearsals
before dropping out of sight.

Back then schools were seldom let out early.

Lunchboxes held out for more.

You try to recall your last conversation
but fail.

It was a hard sell from the get go.
This you remember.

Meanwhile
outside
schoolbuses clog the main arteries
choked with snow.

Fugue in D Minor

Angled from behind his left forefinger
the title of his book piqued her interest

as they rode the elevator to the tenth floor.
And so their arm-in-arm-

can't-get-enough-of-you-inseparability  began.
One year later almost to the day

he would emerge from a voting booth abuzz,
get into his late model subcompact and drive

until he had crossed the straight party line.
She would take to her flower bed

the following day, trowel in hand, cell phone in crook,
and detail his latest fugue for her sister,

the librarian from a distant college town
who from the outset had misgivings about

that buttondown guy with the rather dull ties
whom she had dubbed Elevator Man.

The Trees Sound Like Whales

A wind chime sings the garden scene
from Madame Butterfly.

Two dogs lope across a dewy backyard
beneath a tiger cat in a maple.

A tan teen, shirtless,
mows the next door neighbor's lawn.

A mother and daughter load suitcases
into a battered Volvo.

Foundry Art

The disjointed tirades of foundry workers
awestruck by the roadbed's broad shoulders
could be heard a season away.
Locomotives were saddened.
Most of the foundry workers here
are getting nowhere fast
their pride ransacked in broad brush strokes
their enthusiasm drained by discarded sandwich boards
lamenting the end of the tunaboat.
Some have gone through the railroad crossing
and come out on the other side
sputtering on and on about it
to passersby stopped dead in their tracks.
A few have hit the streets during routine station stops
to replenish empty ice coolers
posturing for a day in the sand.
Others have returned listless with outrageous claims
known to overwhelm insomniacs at two AM.
Far too many have taken the true vanishing point.
The latest retiree did
and couldn't wait to have at the gifts
before planning another trip to the shore
where folding chairs await lost pilots
tingling with the possibility
of latching onto a tremendous fish.

The Final Matinee

He reminds me of that choreographer - the one with the name like an artichoke. Years later a bushel of Post-its was found floating in the runoff. He had supposedly written them to a well-known patron of the arts. Someone even hired a college dropout to enter his jottings into a database hoping to discover a thread. Those things never seem to pan out. Like that fledgling paperworker with the color-coordinated gray matter. When the doorbell rang, he conjured a discounted scheme catching the solicitor off-guard. It was as hilarious as soap. They had to squeegee the pavilion for most of the month after a few of them visited the historic site on their lunch hour scattering crumpled-up brown paper bags. Fortunately the ground crew had been trained in skewering. The Instant Doppler technology incidentally didn't help one iota, but the ponchos, as colorful as cartoon characters, took up the slack. With so much going for them, it was a shock to hear that they walked off  leaving onlookers aghast. Matinees I suppose are as good a getaway as it gets. Next time I'll try to plan ahead a little better. If I had my druthers, I'd move the berm. Then we'd have an unobstructed view of the fisheries which only last year were saved from encroachment. Something to be said for those tele-marketers who insist on calling around dinnertime disrupting the passing of mustard and all that.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

In the Thick of It

A package arrives
with a translator
who removes his shoes
before getting behind
the wheel. Edging
out into traffic,
we are almost clipped
by a patrimony suit,
blank pages filling
the early morning air.

Ez's Grrrl

Olga Rudge
couldn't budge
eating fudge
by the Pound

For the Price of a Song

It would have been interesting to parlay the returns
but that was not in the cards, which had inadvertently

been turned over in haste to the authorities.
Could we have done something to prevent this?

To better demonstrate our commitment?
I don't think so.

The gas station attendant though vigilant did not see
the big rig slipping into the empty bay.

But why not? Was it simply a question of size
or were the facts twisted beyond recognition?

I guess we'll never know.
The price of produce would have risen anyway

in conjunction with the tide
while efforts to curtail the unionization of stamp collectors

would again have gone unnoticed. Think of the injustice
spawned by the snap of a finger, the curl of a lip,

to say nothing of the energy expended
on what later turned out to be a whimsical theme.

Flight Patterns

A feature film on turn-of-the-century condiments snaps
to attention. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Of course, on-site training could address
just that sort of thing as well as a medley of uncharted hits
turntabled against one another by ruthless record producers
greedy for obstinate layovers.
A standby passenger rings in with an answer
for the prevailing winds.
Too late, though. The ferry has already left the building.
Schoolchildren mill around, trying to glimpse
this week's superhero carefully arranging himself (herself?)
with awe-inspiring pulchritude.
The frequent flyers return, and begin circling
above the town meeting, hoping for their fifteen minutes.
We feel contemptuous, but there is nothing in the rule book
to dissuade us from picking up the candy wrappers
strewn unceremoniously on the flats
surrounding Kill Devil Hill, 100 years ago to the day.

Dropping a Hint

I begin whistling a tune out-of-tune.
My iPad spins out of control.
The name Hippolyte is stuck in traffic.

A docudrama appears on cable.
It has all the answers.
The costumes grab viewers.

There is enough to go around
but a few mistakes insist on more
and need to be read the riot act.

Even the incidentals prove incendiary:
frequent flyers fall victim
to road rage more frequently than control groups.

A fact checker is dispatched
on a Radio Flyer.
Suddenly, my grandfather taps on the window

a Philip Morris hanging from his lip.
He scribbles something
onto a greasy spoon's paper napkin.

A chess match at an adjacent table
catches my eye
and takes away my breath.

A stalemate hovers.
A butterfly man begins
dismembering a white picket fence.

He is obviously troubled.
I can see it in his wings.
The authorities arrive lickety-split.

A hand-held camera cuts
to a toddler's gappy smile then zooms in
before dissolving into the void.

Adventures in Modern Music

Fingering an ostinato on an ocarina
makes me want to tango at a dissonant tempo.

Who says improvisation has to be mundane?
The chords change or they don't.

In either case, you're stretching out
sampling incessantly

remixing the drone
practicing the minors

with any tool at hand.
Forget the harmonics

of a harmonium
the fun is in the playing.

It's best to score microtonality
one twelfth-note at a time

and at a reasonable pitch.
Besides, you'll want to be on her side

when seasonal rhythms return
stuffing the airwaves with Muzak.

The Dragon Keeper

He takes the ticket and gently lifts
my three-year-old into the seat
fastens her seat belt
then moves on to the next giggly kid.
Sliding the lever forward
he jolts the articulated reptile
into green and yellow ovals
of shrieks and waves.
His boom box
chained to the controls
lays out Country
above the cacophony of the midway.

Dislocation

A herd of zebras with stars
instead of stripes
skims the Serengeti
and pulls up to my door
in a mushroom of dust.
I am helped into a litter box
and taken to a turreted tent
where my papers
are processed
while a richdoctor
readies a camera obscura
to image the point of impact.
The pain intensifies
as his nubile assistants
push me through the looking-glass
before seeking
the sanctuary of lead.
I grow weak.
A vein is opened -
fool's gold, no doubt.
Fluids are introduced.
I enter an opium den.
Strangers with clay pipes
loll about, some asleep.
I speak to them
in tongues.
They ignore me.
The haze bewilders
and befriends me.
Suddenly, two icons appear
in laboratory coats
and protective glasses.
I click on them
with my mouse.
One steadies me.
The other studies me,
then relocates
my dangling appendage,
straightening it
and stretching it
all the way to the Bronx.
I laugh as my fingers
do the walking
through Fordham.
The Jesuits genuflect,
mistaking the Mercurochrome
for stigmata.
I decide not to correct them -
they're always right, anyway.
I begin to ponder aromatherapy
as a midlife career change
minutes before
the star-struck zebras
return to take me
Hi Ho Silver Away!

The Dense Machinery of Equations

Awestruck by the dense machinery of equations,
we leave the Museum of Unnatural History
with its mating dance of syllogism and algorithm
to browse pale streets
rub shoulder pads with the hoi polloi
queue taxis
deconstruct billboards.
Automatons scurry about unfazed.
Traffic lights blink.
Service agreements are extended.
Thick red curls download.
We are the stars of our own minor dramas.

Nano  by Tom Corrado

The Costume Party at the Pleasure House

A blue jester cartwheels through the silken labyrinth.
A bespectacled young man ogles the otherworldly pudenda.
A magician in tattered tails puffs on the pipes
of seventeenth-century fusiliers
brandishing silver-plated goblets filled with crimson.
Goats and other bleaters from minor kingdoms
push chesspieces across the floor with their chinhairs.
The nubility mingle with the invited.
A clock strikes without warning. It is a night to be rued.
Outside, willows bend charismatically.

Backwoods

I've forgotten the specifics of the acquisition
and have tried to forget the players
from so long ago
but they return
more often than I like
sometimes on cold, wet afternoons like this
lifting their heads, staring back at me
through the patterns of snow on the glass.
The patterns along which I'm now paddling a canoe.
Trying to escape this wet afternoon.
Trying to edit them out of the script.
Perhaps there'll be a fork in the river.
Like the one in the movie last night on cable
that carried Billy Bob Thornton into a hollow
filled with fried catfish
and junked cars
and Harry Dean Stanton on guitar
backing Lisa Blount in a white cotton dress
whose hollers
continue to echo.

The Awakening

A snow plow's muted scrape
draws me out
of the dark warmth
and into the icicled world
taking me back
fifty years
to a sepia'd backyard
where a blacksmith -
my grandfather -
has piled snow into an Everest
in anticipation
of my return
from the classroom
where my antics
were overseen
by a young woman in full habit
whose occasional errant strands
of thick red hair
filled my awakening dreams.

Bus Stop Merlin

frayed tails stuffed
with cans and bags
a bouquet
of paper
abracadabra

I read the news today oh boy!

The faint glow from the night light
with the silence fast falling is soothing.
It’s probably a good time
to take advantage of the moment.
Here we are
waiting for the test results
without backup tapes
or scripts
buying mouthwash
like it’s going out of style
standing in the express line
clutching our 10 items.
I really wanted more, you know.

Oh what a dream I had!

I played an elf
in a play
in first grade.
I had two lines
but I can remember
only one
though I remember
my mother
rehearsing both lines
with me.
She bought fabric
and sewed the costume
which was green
and shiny;
the toes of the elf slippers
were stuffed with cotton
to give them that elf look.

Matinee

I stood on the sidewalk in overshoes with intricate clasps
and marveled at the huge orange road graders
marshaled into service during that winter of nincompoops.
Gunsmoke filled the air - an opening scene
replayed again and again
by tens of thousands of Fanner 50s -
as he launched into yet another mealtime crusade
threatening to bring down the house.
The shoot-‘em-up was sandwiched between
Felix the Cat and the Tons of Fun.
My grandmother had given me the money
from a glass jar on the dresser in her bedroom.
I dumped it onto the ice and counted out the coins
down to the last Lincoln penny
as he watched from behind his unfiltered Philip Morris.

The Ton of Fun

Deep Discounts

I’m a bit confused by all the attention
they’ve been getting lately.
Don’t they know there are boxes for that?
They must be aware of the repercussions
bouncing around the breezeway
at all hours. And what’s with the word salad?
That director is wishy-washy.
I’ll bet he’s rewriting it as a ruse!
Let’s deep-six our plans while there’s still sunlight
and sign up for the packaged tour.
Who knows? It could turn out
to be the Everest of our trip -
a trip that wouldn’t have come off
may I remind you
had you not cut out the coupons
with painstaking precision.

From the Window

Kaleidoscopic assemblages gather
where during summer's dog days
farmers' markets stood.
I move stick figures with a magnetized wand
and manage to while away several hours.

Strunk and White

The elements of style continue to elude me
but it's no big deal.
There are other options
(or so I've convinced myself).
Chinese menus for instance
offer two columns
which mimic, in some ways,
heck, in most ways,
your typical American split-level.