Incompletist It's all a bit sketchy don't you know what with the RMS and all. Formal education and I didn't work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar and particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi - conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude. (Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes. After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air. I rushed outside after a constricted couple of minutes to tell you something but you were gone. I was consistently lacking in effort and all done and said pretty consistent in afraid. I do at times wish that I had more of more than all this less though but the wish won't make it so At a certain point, I guess, we got uncomfortable around each other. I'm glad, though, that I said what I said before you went. I will add now that I am sorry I made you nervous. As I think back right at the now of this now I was at a loss then and still am so I'll leave it at that. it can sometimes does I am looking out the window with my classical on as I ponder the rigmaroles of existence discussing such with the most fascinating person I know. Every time I feel I've made a valid point or observation during my ongoing convo I like to whip off my glasses to add further emphasis while highlighting a point that's been made salient and to add further punctuating resonance landing on a note redolent of conversational flair. For example as I gaze out I reflect to myself on the virtues of eschewing the virtual for the sake and embracement of tactility and doing the sharp clean whip on eschew. When I revelate that the only thing remaining is to become a saint there is a slow whipping on become. Like that. Happenstance can work well and good sometimes. Oh sweet exquisiteness, as I lovingly prepare an afternoon aperitif and just now at the ready of the first gentle sip (lord how I love my ceremonies!) the radio crows out "heroes" - Ah yes, aglow and a flow, I duly proceed to an illuminated bask. The heart of the matter resides in the entire lonesomeness of the venture, and so dream, a much needed break from the prosaic, makes fantasy a much vaunted ally. So it goes, the garden of eden and myself with menagerie of profound friendships and equipped with a fleet of canines are baying in unison at the rising moon each eve over the waters. I think of a bovine at dusk by the side of a country road, looming and ruminating. Life can be so wonderful! And indeed the cat never ceases to contribute the phenomenal and to provide blessed insight into all things seriously absurd, a well rounded tutorial in surrealist burlesque, It welcomes and relieves one from the strangulating confinements of love and isolation, providing a delightfully futile longing for unencumbered innocence and a bit of air. So it goes, the gallivanting ambition is to string two good days in a row together. But for now, synchronicity dovetails to a tee and a thickening of well and good in the here/now of slow nothing. Read Read Trees (solidity presenting) Fluttering leaves The light kissed plants merry with the wind free and clean The rain stream glimmering to a speckled burst of sun Gentle easy rolling chuckle of The sighing creek Uncluttered sea green Ah read the ripple (and if you hanker success that day, smell the dirt) Read The people prevarications (attendant chicanery) digitally respirating goofed on technology / hope's dilution on endless extension Read The blank vista Cloud proclamations and Twilights gold riddled clarification That shall permit languishing Books and songs have been my Life's blood But then it is just schmo/mooks mouthing off Read The perfect view point To watch the world go Tits up Soak up your/ time / space / Up to This eventual farewell / for now / Read Newsie He would come to the door ever so slow Deep into dotage and well past prime time I waited amid discomforts shade Eager to collect and be on... I liked the design of my route All customers were conveniently located next to each except for one lone house down the street a ways which was a drag on Sunday morning because that was the day I had to stuff all the papers and stack them in a grocery cart instead of the rest of the week's thin editions which were easily fitted into my portable sack and slung over my shoulder for an easy afternoon delivery stroll around the block (Saturday mornings I trucked out my bike and then I would treat myself to breakfast)- Sweet Bitch Memory /man oh man... the frowzy chippy who blurted on about the doings and going ons of the scotland yard (what she meant specifically I could never ascertain) the one who insisted I give change to the tune of a dime on her 90 cent weekly tab (my young self indignant at this outlandish chintz) I henceforth always made an elaborate spectacle of fishing and searching all about myself for her "dime" whenever I collected from her (but always coughing it up eventually - I was a good kid) - it was the year 1977 (we were there) I had heard thru the neighborhood vine about her demise and went up to the white house to collect He trudged to the door and we made our transaction both of us looking down until the close of business then He said to me looking up "my wife died" and I responded "I know" He slowly lowers his head backing away just as slowly shutting the door I do my own slow lower into the realization (vague) that happens (if you're lucky?) that a goodly bit of life consists of pain and fear -- so much goddam sadness ... I stood a moment - left and was glad to go on and get away Lo here in the current deep up to the neck of the boo radley years paid up in full my bridge burner dues losing bits piecemeal / it's not so vague I have often sensed the imperative of getting away ... kinda sorta before the reality boom lowers - There/then and now I didn't make it Another Day in Armageddon The potential is there (here) To be Infected by all of it But Hey! I'm not sick (the world is) Yes it's so (torture and hell resides on two legs) Realization dawns full on and tardy Cutting clarity sharp Works torpor and necessities grind slapped still (its bigger'n money!) Mine is to Maintain I never could drive proper due to an excess in shy Beyond me (way over) it is the modernage train passing Goodbye and likewise riddance Right! Seize the day (your sick after all) Books can matter deep Computers stunt likewise Good luck dink My own I will relish The ring of brass repose The opportunity (Grand) To call in sick to life as you've prescribed it Your relish of standing in line Uniforms conforming I would prefer not to don the mask (while we're at it why'd you gobble up all the cans of tuna?) Ashes of surrender You is yours mine's mine Fiduciary sanctuary Good luck in prison The hard work of hope reaps dirt well you know (why don't you care?) everyone trying to inhale and exhale and I can't help rubbing my eyes they hurt when I look at you (But It's tuneful when the brook babbles) and so Maintain This lofty status and this gift of repose Splendiferous indifference the exhilaration of chopping air Beautiful futility (Grand) A permanent Hiatus Saturday’s Child Given the modern malaise’s dictum that to exist is to be stuffed stuff it is reasonable to desire retreats’ entreaties Aside from the more obvious artificial means there can be perhaps a more elevated or at least organic avenue to meander down . I’m hungry. Thus I crack open some pages.. oh hell. It’s been said that he wasn't steeped in culture and yet his stuff is upper case all the way, encoded in delicate mists of shroud. This technical mumbo minutiae numbo stagnates - give me the meat that fills. I gasp along hoping against hope for a gut issuance. Oh my babies cmon, crap the pome that needs the exorcise and that resonates the empty room... Forget it. Ah well, ‘The Joker’ comes on the airwaves and sometimes classic rock steps up. Cat splayed royally recumbent in the corner always giving out sound concision melodiously relates that effort is a drain/drag but shoot some days I’m a gamer so I per sue: Fuck it fuck life fuck death fuck school fuck parents fuck families fuck friends and enemies fuck jobs (god knows) and fuck god (the people’s not the mystery - Ahh the catholic ingrained - I hope god’s gotta sense of humor) but Hey! Fuck hope! Fuck art fuck professional expertise (self-evident in this presentation) fuck fuck but not nature and not animals hey ya gotta have sentiment no? Fuck expectations fuck demands fuck pressures life goes on death goes on longer Right fucker? Fuck Stuffs got us by the stuff and all this speed has left life in the lurch taking it (any of it) serious is seriously discouraged Pardon my distraction My immersion in desolation Tit-fer-Tat - happiness for holiness At the current there is not much else known Diligence comes due The strive to surrender A Good Clean Break realities routine's are a stone crusher all of it the jobs the relationships the striving the failing the achievements (I'm guessing) and more begets more all the do's of you hafeta do you can get tired beyond exhaustion tired of your self your thoughts (if you are inclined to that sort of thing) and relief is much needed some quiet a long walk to the middle of nowhere some surcease the compassion of a dog's eyes It’s the best he was pouring at the happening and usually there is a fair amount of disdain for the enthusiasts who like to sidle up to sample the snacks, libations and what have you goodies. he was a wisp of fair blond - a hippy kid. he asked me if I would like him to crack my can of brew I told him that this was not necessary I looked at some stuff and listened to some other stuff trying to maintain a bit of elbow room while the crowds swirled and yammered biding some time before refill and then I went back for another and he cracked this one for me and said "cheers" I drank it down and went for a walk down the street I did not want to appear to be too gluttonous so I gave it some minutes when I resurfaced in the crowded room and foraged thru the groups back to my man he smiled and said "I grabbed this one at the bottom so that its chilled and now it needs to be shotgunned". I laughed and retorted with double thumbs up Impressed that this cat accurately assessed my quench and provided a responsive and congenial atmosphere in one that can be rather unpleasant and clannish my man had it and I salute him for it the damn hippy dippy had it kindness
Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC. Has had stuff published at The Free Poet, Mojave Heart Review, Jalmurra, The Scarlet Leaf, Poems for All, Free Lit Magazine, Backchannels, Loud Coffee Press and Mason Street Journal.
Thank you Fictional Cafe! Mr. Pennacchini has a singular and sui generis voice that needs to be heard. Very exciting and inspiring…I look forward to more.
Thanks for reading, Jean! We really enjoyed Tom’ poetry and hope to see more here at the Café.