Cezanne Jelly and Paper Kites

artwork: paul cezanne

Cezanne Jelly and Paper Kites

by Albert DeGenova

in our Cezanne season when reason was treason

blue was the color for days and nights

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

the then of amen again and again

undulating shadows red lava light

that Cezanne season when reason was treason

sunshine like thunder begun and undone

purple and yellow crepe paper kites

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

you were the one the one the one

to bless the black cat with child sight

a Cezanne season when reason was treason

I painted poems with naked pen

to remember black coffee mornings and nights

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

and now our cold toes touch almost like then

when we danced in crackling firelight

that was our season when reason was treason

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

~ previously published in The Blueing Hours

   (Virtual Artists Collective)

To Jimmy Santiago Baca . . .

To Jimmy Santiago Baca, In The House Tonight

by Albert De Genova

The open-mic graffiti poets posture

for the Buddha, master in the audience.

He listens, applauds, drinks

bourbon.

But tonight

words swirl around the writer’s head

like ice cubes in his glass, like

updrafts of circling snow outside.

He asks me to play,

play my saxophone

a song for his brother

the brother who died

just winter days ago.

"Play a song for me, play

a song for my brother

who was murdered.

Play a song because

there are things in a life

that you can’t get over.

My mother was murdered

my father was murdered

and now

my brother --

there are things in a life

that you cannot get over."

He closes his eyes to say this,

he kisses his hands held as in prayer.

"Faith in the Virgin of Guadeloupe,

better than the trigger I pulled

the cold blood I shed

angry lives ago."

My fingers find the keys, stumble

into Amazing Grace

and spiral into a freefall of blue notes

that is a dead brother.

There are things in a life

you cannot get over,

things

that make

this poet’s poems.

No burning need

for an open microphone

or polite applause

only the request

for a song

this January night--

there are things in a life

you cannot get over.

~ first published in Back Beat (Cross+Roads Press)

Fulcrum

from film: Two for the Seesaw

Fulcrum

by Albert DeGenova

The clock above the kitchen sink

ticks the distance between us –

motionless black coffee

reflects nothing

the table is too wide

to reach the sugar

myself, it is

disappointment

the black hour, the negative

end of

balanced, this dark weight

is too heavy, pass

the sugar over the fulcrum

of this moment, a hand

on a knee, lean in

and out, we are

the up and down

the tick the tock

and all the hours in between.

~ previously published in The Blueing Hours

   (Virtual Artists Collective)

Do you know what it means . . .

artwork: ralph murre

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

by Albert DeGenova

Downstairs my son plays boogie woogie

Professor Longhair Dr. John

New Orleans-style stride piano.

It is Mardi Gras week.

He’s practicing for those

Fat Tuesday parties.

His foot stomps on the floor,

vibrates through the walls and up

to my desk. My head sways in time

to the rhythmic pulsing of his left hand

the dizzying parade of his right

sends serious thought into a funky pirouette

puts a smile on my face a reminder

of that old bouncing gait, of Bloody Marys

and Hurricanes mixed with rum and trumpets

and street dancers with bottle-cap taps on their shoes

a reminder of what this kind of blues can do

to a Dad who knows his son knows nothing

of Lenten sadness, only the joy of dancing,

a Dad who knows his own success

through the songs his son chooses to play –

Big Chief, Stagger Lee, Tippy Tina,

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

~ first published in The Blueing Hours (Virtual Artists Collective)

Backdoor Postcard

artwork: ralph murre

Backdoor Postcard

by Albert DeGenova

I read you Jack, Loud but not so clear anymore – you put the American landscape into words, made it your own.  But what did you leave for me in this new century?  On your quest for “it” – no mind – transcendence – leaving the post-bomb generation madness behind – as Charlie Parker would close his eyes and blow himself into the shelter of his crazy alto saxophone – Jazz man! you blew yourself into the pages of your notebooks and became the asphalt of sad Rt. 66, the gravel voice of all-night diners, the breath of the hungry wind that blows from San Francisco to New York to Tangiers.  You blew your words and brains out with a bottle of cheap wine – where is “it” at now, Old Angel Midnight?

I’m drowning in this new century, Jack – electricity and plastic and Wi-Fi nights of virtual conversation – programmed thinking, programmed wars, programmed music, programmed religion.  I’m thirsty for a glass of Grandpa’s dago red – Miles is in the sky – my bed was so cold this morning, the thermostat lost its memory – cell phone rings and no one is there, I’m out of signal bars.  Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, we’re all gonna fuckin’ explode!

cold rain, sleepless –

beard grows

whisker by whisker

~ first published in Postcards to Jack (Naked Mannekin Press)

Lost Blessings

photoart: ralph murre

Lost Blessings                                                    

by Albert DeGenova

At the bottom of a hotel pool

someone’s scapular is flailing.

I dive in, retrieve the brown string choker

stand on the pool ladder

hand held high, holding it for all to see –

a man runs up to me

grabs the icon from my hand

kisses it, sighs, says gracias.

How did I remember that word “scapular”

I’d recognized it, the thing, immediately

sacred reminder of something

something significant

a gift from my priest

given with my First Holy Communion —

I lost mine, don’t think it lasted through second grade

even though we were never to take it off, ever.

It was a blessing,

I think, that gracias.

I try to remember

the pang, the missed breath

effect of kissing a crucifix –

as the friar in gray tunic does

saying his rosary

fingering brown wooden beads

sitting, eyes closed, across from me

at the flight gate

our plane delayed by rain

and thunder.

~ previously published in A Slender Thread (Little Eagle Press)

When asked

artwork: ralph murre

When asked

 by Albert De Genova

Tell us something about your saxophone…

Well, it’s been with me a long long time–

It is the back beat in my bones

swaggering through nights of smoke and moan

a brassy whore of musk and wine.

I’ll tell you somethin’ ‘bout my saxophone.

A voodoo spell of chants and stones,

it’s filled with grindin’-n-blues-in’ and rhyme.

And more,        it knows the crying in my bones

knows the unanswered echo of a telephone

has traveled the roads of lies and crimes.

Let me tell you ‘bout my saxophone.

Sometimes it has a mind of its own

its reedy voice don’t sound like mine,

yet it’s always ringing through my bones.

In my hands it feels like home

a curious marriage of wind and time.

I’ll tell you ‘bout my saxophone

it is the singing in my bones.

~ previously published in Back Beat, second edition (Fractal Edge Press)

LONESOME TRAVELER

photo: ralph murre

Lonesome Traveler
by Albert DeGenova

Kerouac, you have a way with “sad” –
sad cracked hands of all-night diners,
sad gravel under shapeless shoes,
sad waning moon of November roads.

Sentimental sadness, familiar
sadness, old friend
sad Jack, tell me if
sad tastes like black dust to you
if it smells like burning leaves,
tell me it is more than easy metaphor
‘cuz I can taste it on my breakfast toast.

Such a small word for a poet
so much smaller than love
the distillate of love –
grand love that inspires
yet lives and dies
in three breaths –
sad is old as coal
and deep in veins
reaching to our core, old friend,
the sad eternal core.

Drink that last shot down, buddy,
it’s a long cold walk to the diner.

~ previously published in Postcards to Jack (Naked Mannekin)

AFTER READING NERUDA . . .

cover photo: herb nolan

After Reading Neruda’s Twenty Love Songs That Are Fewer Than Our Years Together
by Albert DeGenova

Tonight I write the saddest lines
in the small of your back where
it is wet from my tongue
my finger shaping letters
against the nap of your
soft down that resists the words
we have loved and not loved
we have joined and released
fire feeding earth, air
breathing water, we
are a thunderstorm of
flesh against flesh, tongue
to tongue to rain to
ice to lightning ignited
and smiles exploded
teeth heavy as sleet
shaping words that are not
love not love are love

tonight I write the saddest lines
that mark the hours
of sleepless darkness staring
you cannot read the silly
silhouettes of vowels traced along your spine
the long weary line of
sometimes you love me
with venom, sometimes
laughing, sometimes dancing
over broken stones, sometimes
begging for the light
to be shut off, sometimes
you love me with sleep

tonight I write in the small
of your back, tracing your hip
with exclamations and questions
and sad ellipses and lonely
empty spaces between
I and love and you
so many words
when all you ask is quiet

~ previously published in The Blueing Hours (Virtual Artists Collective)