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Other notable works by Bob Marcacci.
Maurice Oliver –
How I Tore My Jacket
My jacket wasn’t always torn:
at one time it was as elegant as a grand bathroom
where the glare of white towels hurts your eyes. It
was as avant-garde as a jazz trio playing Monk.
When I put it on it was like putting on a lightning
storm displayed across a vast desert with nothing
to obstruct the view. It’s worth was equal to winning
the national lottery and having a banana republic
thrown in for good measure. It looked so hot it
bubbled like porridge. Plus, it would always lead me
to the most exciting flavors of ice cream. It even had
a way of rustling when I walked. But I had to go and
experiment with more fashionable clothes. I’d wear
it to paint the house in and insist it accompany me
when I put coal ashes in the trash. I suppose the last
straw was when I wore it to a common burger bar.
That’s when it tore itself on a cheap coat rack then
omitted a low hum of the long dead. Now all that’s
left is my muse which knows not how to pray through
a frenzy of Velcro.
Calculating The Jabs Of Life
Here are a few benchmarks to use when calculating the jabs of life:
-Try to avoid buying a gun digitally programed to self-aim.
-Never expect a flesh-tone band-aid to live-up to its promise.
-Offer her your seat only if you think she prefers to squat.
-Insist on having more than ice cubes to fight fire.
-Stand at least 100 yards away from where the self-righteous spit.
-Never expect disco music in a Chinese restaurant.
-Remember that a locomotive can be difficult to send via mail.
-Keep in mind that wild bears like to eat more than just honey.
-Forget about trying to go to sleep to see if you snore.
Or Long Nights In The Nursery
Yes, my Blackberry was there.
So were the fresh hare tracks in overnight snow. Two burly trolls
battled each other in a head-lock as a tavern glittered on the greasy
quay. There were productive talks concerning nuclear disarmament
and highlights from the Academy Awards after being cleared of any
charges of genocide. Al Sharpton found out he and Strom Thurmond
had once lived through the identical jet blue nightmare concealed in
a fine old French derailleur. A convenience store was conveniently
robbed several times or a whole week’s worth of face lifts were stuffed
into a short person’s shoes. The strange red rush said it had deliberate
intentions of resembling bird flu and urban blight admitted to writing all
over the subway walls. And while all this was happening I spent quality
time in the nursery, indulging in pistachio cakes and pointy minarets,
while waiting for the right radio-jingle to come along. But when it did, I
was already fast asleep.
Then, The Extended Version Of “Spin Doctor”
In this scenario I call her a wearable fur coat.
She calls me Frenchie then blows me out like birthday candles.
There’s a chase scene with cowboys in cars who drive through
an orchid that’s paved right-up to the frozen lake. A handful of
expressions like “gloriously eccentric and wonderfully intelligent”
play blackjack in the backseat.
My bedpost is notched six times even though none of the cows can
count. Could you think of milking time as a cloud or a off-ramp?
There are of course songs of love and loss but the world of football
insist on detours. Then one night at the trough we both notice no trees,
no fire hydrants, no dog poop, no streetlamps. The roads no longer
run to the sea but the sea runs to them. Fact is, we are forced to add
our own makeshift stars to an otherwise ominously blackened sky.
Reconstructing The Kick-Off Protest
As a result of breaking-up with me you’ve missed seeing the sea on horse-
back. You never got the chance to witness the poetic honor in my muse
or the chicken-flavored malt that sticks to the scullery in my partial plate.
Perhaps you understand by now that my only weapon is one strum of a
peaceful lyre and that my heel spurs never meant to jingle such a careless
tune. Unscathed by love myself, I write this banquet using a feast of scrap
metal. Please hear my Boston terrier whimpering and once again become
my tanning salon. Banana fritters. Bowls of micro-wave popcorn at midnight.
Nothing can take the place of your hang-nails. Not even the fog of war left
behind by Woodbines or all the free cigarettes handed out at the subway’s
entrance. All I’m asking is that you let me bump and crackle your coal fire
then send out my mayday distress signal reassured that a rescue team is
on the way. Do try to remember that I’m the same guy who said gunpowder
makes me sneeze and that seven is my lucky number. Keep in mind that the
meaning of my story still waits to be unwrapped and I can normally sleep
at the drop of a hat without the need of fancy prologues.
After almost a decade of working as a freelance photographer in Europe, Maurice Oliver returned to America in 1990. Then, in 1995, he made a life-long dream reality by traveling around the world for eight months. But instead of taking pictures, he recorded the experience in a journal which eventually became poems. And so began his desire to be a poet. His poetry has appeared in numerous national and international publications and literary websites including Potomac Journal, Pebble Lake Review, Taj Mahal Review (India), Dandelion Magazine (Canada), Stride Magazine (UK), and online at thievesjargon.com, interpoetry.com (UK), kritya.com (India), and blueprintreview.de (Germany). His third chapbook, “But Mostly, Simple Precautions”, was published by LilyLit Press in Nov. 2006. He is the proud editor of a new e-zine called Concelebratory Shoehorn Review. He lives in Portland, Oregon, where he dreams of icebergs while working as a private tutor.
Bob Marcacci –
sacred hand w/ our tree;
spring / our earth / mother / this season
beneath us: so felt
worms in this velvet dark
where we handhold we were
a seed of this
(first appeared in Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry)
too small an opening
small prey of the wide-eyed moon
earth moves my tired
in inexhausted description
in language that blips with suspirations
in language that fails to smooth
loved by her
(first appeared in Alice Blue)
For the Funeral at Three
Gloria runs through a green field
collecting white lilacs, and baby¹s breath
springs up where her bare feet touch.
The dancing horses dream.
Collecting white lilacs and baby¹s breath
for the funeral at three,
the dancing horses dream
they can make the sun come.
For the funeral at three,
the prancing horses prepare.
They will be there for everything
led on in blue through birds.
The prancing horses prepare
to sing wild songs for Gloria.
Led in blue through birds,
her mother runs with the singing horses.
The dancing horses dream,
collecting white lilacs and baby¹s breath.
(first appeared in Fireweed)
In the throes and fog of reoccurring blog,
accept the slow return to yourself. Visit
your openly lonely and somewhat plain face
to the world in cyberspace. Your mother
never dreamed you could be so cold,
lashing yourself to a desk each night
churning words in a tireless glaze. Night
marks a charge in the current, the blog
is your living fear of wandering in the cold
circuits of sentiment. And now, your visit
to the pornography and click-sure mother
of surfers and pop-up para-whilers. Face
the next day with a sore neck. Look at your face
in the mirror. You worked and spent the night
looking at sexy cartoons and hyperlinks, mother
country of perverted insomniacs and sleepless blog
blatherers. How many webpages did you visit
as the fog was settling on your mind in the cold
morning? Scuffle to the kitchen and pour a cold
cup of coffee. Where are you? Turn and face
the refrigerator¹s rattle. What do you have to visit
as the hours stretch and you wonder if this night
will be different. Will you make another blog
entry or write a letter to your old mother,
shuffling in slippers, in her kitchen? Your mother,
who thinks of you in these hours when it¹s cold
and the weather is changing. Write your blog
and pretend your mother can see your face
while you type another story into the night.
Is there anything left for you to visit
now that you¹ve finished plucking keys? Visit
an e-zine, download something, steal the mother
code of a junior high school SNERT. This night
is for adventure in your swivel-chair. The cold
mouse beckons your itchy trigger-click, face
a page not found. Where is your blog?
Is it really the night? You were going to visit
your friend¹s blog and you forgot your mother.
Is it really this cold? Is it really your face?
(first appeared in Shampoo)
Bob Marcacci is a California Vacavillain presently living and writing in Putignano, Italy. Recent work has appeared in Dead Drunk Dublin, Mad Hatters’ Review, Minimalist Concrete Poetry, Otoliths and zafusy among others. Host of i-outlaw at i-outlaw.