This book is available in print from OddBrain Press
Taken Aback In Passing
Poetry By Albert de Lorenzo
SmashWords Edition One
Published by OddBrain Press on SmashWords
OddBrain Press
PO Box 2045
Leicester, NC 28748
Copyright © 2004 by Albert de Lorenzo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles
and reviews.
Taken Aback In Passing
Poetry by Albert de Lorenzo
ISBN 978-0-9762258-0-5
Dedicated to
Sharon Anne McCollum
Contents
Dead Pigs
Livorno
My Home is No Longer There
Sense of Wonder
Child God
Orphans
Old Jimbo
Can I Come Over
It Was So Cute
Grandfather’s Gift
Dallas Christmas
The Hole
Blue Yoyo
Valley Boy
The Landlady
China Buffet
Stalactite Girl
Lost Friendship
Dead Beat-en Dad
The Wee Hours
Santa Barbara
The Blue House
Myriah
Thousand Palms
Then
Peppermint Schnapps
Puppy Love
Full of Life
Gravity Well
My Stepfather
A Nice Man
Grandfather’s Poem
My Wife Likes It
First Snow
Simple Pleasure
The Millionth Monkey
Nine Lives
Birthday, Deathday
No Blindfold Please
Death Dawns on Me
Hell No
Ignorance Lost
Happy New Year 2102
Time Travelers
Madonna
Gently He Snores
I
The Shallows
Blue Moon
Trial-and-Error War
Holy War
The Smiles of War
Reminders
Mirror Image
Poetry Sweatshop
Stupid Stuff
Spurious Concoction
I’m Not a Real Poet, But I Play One on TV
The Pink Lady
Like a Hushed Breath
Howls of Rage
Yearning Eternity
Wednesday Morning
Serial Morning
On a Winding Back Road
Mischievous Poems
Cat’s Milk
Face Off
Dead Pigs
In my memory
they all wear lederhosen,
Tyrolean hats,
big handlebar mustaches.
A gruff lot,
my grandfather one of them,
killing pigs that day
or were they already dead?
I remember being coaxed,
edged on by the lot of them,
it feels really weird
this memory.
There is the pig,
someone lifts its tail,
there, in there,
stick your finger in there.
As my finger slides into
the dead pig’s asshole,
shit oozes out
all over my hand.
I can still hear
their laughter
echoing, echoing
forty-five years later.
Livorno
There was an empty apartment,
used in the evenings
by the men in the building
where they would meet after dinner.
Smoke filled and crowded,
loud with laughter,
full of boastful stories
and naughty jokes.
Musicians playing
accordions, violins, mandolins,
while a great circle of men danced,
fueled by large quantities of wine.
Others sitting quiet, peaceful
amidst the turmoil,
hunched over game boards,
contemplating their next move.
Occasionally the door opens a crack
to allow in more food or wine,
old women in black dresses glimpsed
before the door closes again.
Sometimes a lucky little boy is allowed in
to dance and sing to good natured banter
until the wee hours take their toll
and he is carried back home.
My Home is No Longer There
Crammed against the deck rail by a frenzied throng,
the ship steam screaming its goodbye.
giant loading cranes like sentinels along the shore,
a multi-language babble surrounds me.
Only hand waves of goodbye get through,
a wordless message understood by all, then silence
as the coasts of France and Africa retreat into our past,
the future beckoning through the Straits of Gibraltar.
The great Atlantic is a most ungracious hostess,
with a violent non-stop motion, still sickening.
On the eighth day time begins to move again.
A whispered current sweeps the crush of humanity.
Leaping throat to throat, collecting accents,
“New York, New York.”
Serenaded by the mournful song of foghorns
multitudes of foreign eyes burn away the thick fog.
With ice-cold shivers playing accompaniment
the ghost of the Statue of Liberty floats by.
The promise of America seems far removed
from this strange place.
I turn,
try to see
across the vast ocean.
My home is no longer there.
Sense of Wonder
Times Square, what an interesting place
the Square of 1956.
Bumper-to-bumper cars, huge cars,
people, cookie cutter stamped, yet all different.
Restless, electric, bumper-to-bumper people,
men in suits, women in dresses, heels,
lights outnumbering the stars,
bright as the sun, like a giant room.
In the distance, towering over everyone
I see him, sixteen feet tall,
steadily stepping over people’s heads,
coming towards me.
I stand rooted to the spot.
Above me, he taps his top hat, points his cane,
monocle shining bright as a spotlight,
steps over my head and strides on.
Mr. Peanut blends into the distance,
his coat tails flapping above the crowd.
To have such creatures living in it
America must be a magical place.
Child God
He is a cruel unjust God,
tearing them limb from limb
without the slightest thought,
killing them by the thousands.
Pitting them against each other
in vicious fights to the death.
Murdering entire communities
for the sheer pleasure of it.
Adult or child makes no difference.
All are fair game to this monster.
Some he crushes to death,
others writhe in the agony of fire.
Fortunately he soon loses interest,
moving on to other pursuits,
leaving the insects of the world
to live their lives in peace.
Orphans
Wives of Christ
all wearing His ring,
taking care of us,
yet we never see Him.
The closest we come
is when the Bishop arrives,
lets us kiss his ring.
No nail holes in this hand.
Strange half-breed.
Son of human and God
with thousands of wives
and no children.
The good Sisters
are Mothers to us all,
but where are you
Father?
Old Jimbo
I swing my arm in a circle
over and over again,
then with a sickening feeling
the chicken body flies high.
Thudding to the dusty earth,
blood pooling muddy,
flies at the ready,
I don’t like it!
Old Jimbo walks over,
picks the chicken up,
good job boy he says
good job.
Can I Come Over
The front door closes behind Mom,
I am out of bed like a rifle shot,
peeking through the blinds,
watching her get on the bus.
Fixing a bowl of cereal,
lots and lots and lots
of sugar, with a little milk
to watch cartoons by,
when the phone rings.
Can I come over you say,
sure I reply
thinking it is someone else.
Imagine my surprise
when I find you, Dad,
at the door
instead of who I expected.
It wasn’t till forty years later
that I learned what you did that day.
You just had to cut all her dresses
with your knife, you just had to.
You Bastard!
It Was So Cute
I found it crawling by the pond.
It wasn’t much bigger
than an earthworm.
I carried it to the house,
turning my hand all the way,
it curled around my fingers.
I was so excited,
I could hardly wait
to show Julian.
He came through the screen door,
told me to put it on the floor,
and stomped it.
Copperhead he said.
Grandfather’s Gift
I was such a goofy kid,
all elbows and knobby knees,
all gangly looking,
buck teeth, crew cut, big ears.
Hitchhiking in early 60’s Mississippi
I was left at a crossroad
with moss covered trees
marching off into the dusk.
I remember the taillights receding,
dust tails glowing red like a nebula,
brain red-shifting into the back seat
seeing for the last time, my Tyrolean hat.
Dallas Christmas
Walgreens is closed, so no coffee.
There is no one in Stone Place Mall,
all the streets are empty,
not even cops to be seen.
A bone-chilling wind is wailing,
slip-streaming through man-made canyons.
My face is stinging from its caress,
feet and hands are getting numb.
With watering eyes I see the parking structure,
all four levels empty of cars,
ice coating its ramps and decks.
There is a bathroom on the third landing.
My lungs protest the freezing air,
nose starting to run and ice.
I climb the stairs slowly,
fearing all the way a locked door.
Oh thank you Jesus, its open.
Inside a stall with a toilet,
hanging above, a small heater
its heat just enough.
I sit and prop my feet against the stall door,
soon falling into a fitful sleep,
dreaming of food
and Jesus in the manger.
The Hole
A prison cell,
five foot wide,
nine foot long,
eight foot high.
Sheet metal bunk
with drilled holes,
no mattress, no pillow,
no blanket, no clothes.
A toilet-sink combo,
all the water you can drink,
but no lights
except under the door.
Past the sliding-bar door
a solid door with closed slot,
Screws look in three times a day,
bring a square of cornbread.
Cornbread and water,
and every third day
a spoon of beans for lunch.
I eat them one by one.
In between meals
I walk naked
towards
my future.
Seven steps
and turn around.
Seven steps
and turn around
Seven steps
and turn around.
Seven steps
and turn around.
Seven steps.
Blue Yoyo
The Hollywood Theatre
just off of Hollywood and Highland,
across from the Wax Museum,
all different now I suppose.
But then,
bumper to bumper traffic
from La Brea to Vine
in both directions.
There I stood
working the theatre.
Wearing a black velvet tux,
yellow dress shirt, black fringed ruffles.
All six foot seven of me,
hair down to my waist,
sunglasses on
at eight o’clock at night.