Take A Listen To “Clowns”

Fire has no reason, it’s a morning loop

like a fine old hand held

needed touch, gently holding

a butterfly stitch

can’t help to be rich

space removed, a window cellar, broken room

a remnants and regrets

cherished

the brown bottle, tipped over, tears staining

cloth belts, a rolling vein, tobacco smelling shirts

held together

by my grandmother’s

butterfly stitch

her loving touch

custom made rain coats, spring dresses

hand made by worn factory hands

made in an hour

any color

just for the afternoon

she sewed, my sister & I watched, the needle crawling

a fast silver fish

boxed and preserved, those patterns

laid over by plastic, like a couch

rolled and tied, our sleeping body bags

meant to be saved for a rainy day

my grandfather drinking from his grandfather cup

over spilled coffee grains, scattered like ball-bearings

we eyed our glass marbles

as the game began

Boston Red Sox vs. N.Y. Yankees

that old T.V. furniture piece covered

with dollies, Lorna Doones, and pouched tobacco

our grandfather ate powdered scones

still telling horny polish jokes

taking after his father, the Italian stallion

tending to their Sicilian home

open bags of Cheetos, three girls ate

orange fingers

overtime sudden death forfeit

cigarette still lit, an arm chair ashtray

new white Cadillac in the driveway

consciously, picked up fork

the road, remarks behind, ended

in that dark garage

shaking, messing around, shaking

foraging boxes, bags of Hershey kisses and old canvasses

pulling our hair, remaking a face

hearing our grandmother singing

wooden old dart board delivers

across the blue sky-top of the page

a straight line to Christmas, a blue crayon pathway

a broken red glass ball to be hung

a kept fake tree

en-caused, Jasper Johns-poster flag

all American

remembered again and again

hung on the wall, memories, played over

a plastic bow and arrow

aimed for that single red dot

like Christ, over doorways

catholic American dream

my grandmother sat, holding her cross

with my hand, explaining god, to her best

patting her arm hair down

when her goose bumps raised

asking if we wanted another

cook-kee

telling me about periods on Sundays

crosses everywhere

doorways

they were revolutionary’s

in every way, us

Polish-Italian-Chickasaw-Swedish-Blackfoot

mix-down

my mother sewed herself a P.H.D.

my father, an atheist doctor

humanist, writer of plays and pain

my uncle, the gourmet cook, London Aids

my aunt, cookie maker, heads the mental illness foundation

my cousin’s, two writers, a painter, a pianist, a sculptor

my sister the socialist social worker

hand me downs

all of us volunteers of my grandmother’s butterfly stitch

a morning loop, needing touch, gently held pens

all of us write something down

our memories can’t help

but to be rich

Take A Listen To “Butterfly Stitch”