DECADENCE

The decay consumes me,

the constant erosion of the solid,

all shape in slow flux.

Wind whips, rain batters, air dissolves,

light fractures as much as it illuminates.

Everything from the screech of brakes

to the sidewalk underfoot

is in the corrupting pay of time.

I sit alone in a quiet room

yet still my molecules bombard each other,

a billion rounds in my head,

even my toes, a war zone.

And day, that great over-achiever.

can’t resist the overwhelming night.

I’m a day myself.

The sun within me is counting down the hours.

Everything is unrelenting,

is designed to be what it isn’t now.

Get over it. somebody says.

Or spend more time with the eternal.

Like the sea for instance –

those waves constantly remaking shore,

rubbing rocks the wrong way,

spitting out carcasses.

Or the stars –

wonderful glowing hearth-fires

but no wood-pile in reserve.

Everything is matter – that’s the issue here.

It cannot be created or destroyed.

But despaired of –

now that’s another story.

Undertow

Though there was the ritual, I remained

a stranger to the formalities of church.

Long Island was Catholic back then, before

the heavy-accented, gold-cross-wearing

Pentecostals traded holy water

for the laying on of hands. The ritual:

wake, groom, dress, Corn Flakes, get ready for church.

There, the ritual was to stay awake.

My father promised I could make my own

decision about attending at thirteen.

I did. I left the church. But he left first.

There is no secret to it: the son does

what the father does until he doesn’t.

Our world was an idyllic place then. We were

insulated from most global news, and by

global, I mean New Jersey and beyond.

We were truly part of the middle class

and just a short drive from the most beautiful

beaches in the world. Fake ID actually

worked, and if you were lucky enough to date

an older girl, no one cared about the law.

Perhaps “churchlessness” is not a word yet,

but to Long Island Catholics, it was heaven.

Now, I am older and everything has changed.

I bought a nicer home than my father could,

and I have surpassed him in education

and income, even after adjusting for

inflation, yet I am lower middle class

because the middle class no longer exists.

The world is also more dangerous, or, perhaps,

I have that perception because of the news

cycle that is unceasing. Regardless,

I take my children to a non-Catholic,

non-Pentecostal church and they thrive.

Still, I cannot ignore the fact that but for

my father not being Muslim, I am not

Muslim and my children are not Muslim.

We are not Jews because he was not a Jew.

I take my children to the hospital

because he took me to the hospital.

Then, I was fifteen passing for eighteen;

today, my seventeen year old could not pass

for twenty-one. And I thank God that we

do not live near a beach because I cannot

bear the thought of my children being pulled

away from me, the two separated

with me having to make the choice to save one.

#

Violence

The mouth of the harmless newborn is violent
with hunger.

There is no greater colliding force than when
truth confronts a lie.

Hermeneutical errors start a long war while a
surprise attack, unintentionally, shortens a war.

The anodyne water that comprises most of our
bodies and our earth, that alleviates thirst, cools

or warms us, helps the flowers to face the sun,
flushes away our waste, ends droughts, and

makes children celebrate knows no violent equal,

the lack of it as threatening as the tsunami.

A boxer who refuses to fight in an unwarranted
war proves to be a man of peace.

#

Yours

The whistle I’d always slept through
nudged me, and I knew that on this
day, only one after I’d quit school,
I would be crowned a man by your
brothers, another virginity mislaid.
I would stick close to your side and
pretend to be the obedient son. We
would share a vow reserved for a
husband and wife, a becoming of
one. Your lungs were now mine.
You said I could never quit and set
a date for me to leave home so that
I would stay at you hip, you who
just yesterday let me quit school.
Even in the mine, I am yours.

Michael Marrotti’s book review of Dr. Randall K. Rogers’s latest chapbook.

https://excavatingtheunderground.wordpress.com/2017/07/17/book-review-cambodia-poems-2009-2012-by-randall-k-rogers/

NO HESITATION

Man, all those times,
all those anxious
 and nervous hours
we’d wait  for you to
come home:
wondering how drunk
and fucked up you’d
be, what kind of mood
you were going to be
with, a playful and
humorous tone or a
vile and vicious , cruel
and scary asshole,
and that’s why the
first chance I had of
knocking you to the
floor, I took without
hesitation or regret.

Suzie Q

Honey eyed bikini leather girl

The flashing pussy of revolution

she wore French open toed stilettos in the shower

and every Thursday baked artisanal cookies for the

homeless.

Boomshakalaka ! Boom! Boom!

Her hips swayed left to right

and when the rain bounced off the cleft of her butt

the whole world stood up or at least the front row

of working stiffs in the subway car.

She narrowed her eyes and left her giggle on

a passing billboard .

Crossing her long bronzed legs she

winked at a sober suited lawyer

Noisy brash voice hard Republican eyes

he leered as if she were a piece of prime

real estate ready to be bought flipped and sold over.

Arrogant puffy cheeked  man bragging about his

holiday home in The Hamptons

and the price of grass fed beef

so idyllic.

The hairs in his nose salted grey

jangling his hot rod keys he wanted

everyone to know he was a SOMEBODY.

All Suzie could see was a piggy pig pig in

dirty pants and penny tan loafers.

She yawned smudging her mascara

He stepped closer

so close she could smell

his crooked middle class waxed anus

when he whispered:

‘Aren’t you a naughty girrrrrrrrrrl?’

‘You sound like flaccid Mike.’ He moved back .Red faced contempt .

‘And you’re a bitch.’

‘Le chien femme ? Really ! That’s all you got ?’

Through gnashing teeth

‘You winked at me.’

‘So what ? Now you own me ?’

‘I thought we had a …’

‘A what ? A moment in the sweaty armpit of a subway commute ?

Foaming with anger spittle frosting  his moustached mouth.

‘Easy bitch.’

She blew him a faux air born kiss

and sidled up to a blonde sharp cheeked athletic  hot rod .

As she ran her fingers playfully on his star lit  face

Teasing looks and  cell  numbers were exchanged.

At the next stop she got off

and so did ‘Flaccid Mike.’

Stalking her with murderous eyes

Suzie , sweet slut succumbing to the red lipped mouth of midnight

primed and ready for action.

Clip clop .  Clip clop. Heel screech-

the flies in the wall listening to every beat .

As she climbed the  grubby piss stained  stairs

teetering giddily  on the soles of her feet

‘Flaccid Mike,’ crept slowly behind her

Silent Sith .

Brooklyn dust on the sidewalk  glinting  pink  with

saliva

beads -colonising every

exit and every turn

Chugging smog made  emaciated  throats burn .

He grabbed her neck -peach blossom soft

and squeezed until her lungs became thickened

with his bloody deed.

Pinned down- butterfly breaths

fluttering on broken bone Suzie Q

drifting drifting  .

She was so proud of her window box flowers

and  her raisin cookies  for the homeless.

Dumb, Poor and Benign

When it comes

to my writing

I’m not expecting

comprehension

Nor am I expecting

you to make a

credit card payment

when publishers

avoid my poetry

like it’s infected

with hepatitis

After all it is

an acquired taste

capable of

upsetting your

sensitive stomach

It’s oftentimes

offensive like

purposely not

flushing the toilet

If you’re seeking

something that’ll

warm your

sentimental heart

don’t waste your time

this right here is like

unprovoked anal sex

you’ll be limping away

a victim of penetration

I’m not holding

back any punches

I’m at war with all

things categorized

as benign

I’m that

marginalized

asshole who

has the balls

to say what

other cowards

refuse to

acknowledge

I’m that genius

with a general

education diploma

who had an

epiphany

while his

significant other

was shoplifting

lube at Rite Aid

The truth

when lubricated

is a comfortable

approach for

passionate poetry

that was written

in vain

© Michael Marrotti

Coors in a Can

He would slice Velveeta cheese

real thick.

He would slice an onion

even thicker.

Putting them together,

taking a bite

the moisture of the onion

sent flavor into the air.

A few moments of chewing

everything mixed

was washed down

with a can of Coors beer.

Coors in a can

was his monster

and his monitor.

A road trip or a drive

was not twenty miles away,

it was a three

or four-beer drive.

These were his treats.

His vice,

was the Winston cigarette

that always dangled

from his mouth.

With a black felt Stetson

cowboy hat,

Tony Lama boots

and in the summer,

Bermuda shorts.

He was one of the grandest men

I have ever known.

Things changed

when he started pissing himself.

He could not control

what the disease,

that was attacking him from inside,

was doing.

He sliced some Velveeta cheese

real thick.

He sliced an onion

even thicker.

Putting them together,

taking a bite,

the moisture of the onion

sent flavor into the air.

A few moments of chewing

then washed down

with Coors in a can.

He took his hat off

and for the first time

laid it down

brim first.

He struck a wooden match

and put it to the end of the Winston

dangling from his mouth

and filled his lungs with smoke.

One last drink

that emptied

the Coors in a can.

Then did something

he never thought possible.

He placed the muzzle

of his Colt revolver

deep into his mouth.

I’m Missing

I’m missing

the bump-start breakfast of

think sliced bacon,

caffeine,

nicotine

and Jack Daniels in my coffee,

hot and without cream.

I’m missing

the long wide-open days of

cross tops,

windowpane,

cheep grass,

even cheaper beer

and the road trips isolated from all that is.

I’m missing

the carefree evenings

that turned into dawn,

tequila shots,

loud music that made you dance,

the party girls that lived to live,

and the ones that had misplaced

the word known as “No.”

I’m missing

the understanding

that it has came to this,

stiffness and pain when I stand up,

a constant buzzing in my ears,

weight that seems to be here to stay,

and hair that won’t.

Rice and fruit in the mornings,

salads at night

and cheap wine from a black box,

because it’s just easier.

I’m missing

the mishaps and adventures rousing

the reason why I write

this constant stream of thoughts

that tumble from my existence,

the ones that are ruled by none,

while wondering if someday

Perhaps you’ll miss them too.