Four Poems by Carmine Giordano

In the old forties horror film
Maria Ouspenskaya
plays Maleva
the gypsy practitioner
who tries to tame the Wolfman
who is really Lawrence Talbot
who is cursed to become animal
whenever the moon fills up
when he would rather
eat a baloney sandwich
drink an ice cold glass of beer
love a lady walk a dog -
scratch his balls like any other man
but unfortunately he can't -
so fastened to his genome is he
in the silver light of evening
so riveted to his mitochondria
and chloroplasts
so huge his lust for flesh
his fangs draw blood
when lips move in to kiss
his nails dig holes
in tender hands that touch,
and nobody
but his gypsy psychoanalyst,
fully feels his pain,
but even she in early days
was prone to mentalize
his luna fuzz away
and pin his fate
to latent mother rage
but cut that analytic hour short
when whiskers started pronging
from his cheeks,
so at movie's end,
see the light grow dim
from Maleva's parting caravan
and hairy Larry Talbot
left baying at the moon.

Who can explain
why the mind
goes cross the border
why the dew claw sprouts
and the walk
becomes the run
why the raised man drops
to quadruped at times
to yield all his sense to savor--
for those enchanted evenings
the wise give you reasons--
and the fools give theirs.

*                  *                 *

At this point
who needs anymore stuff.
We’ve had our days already
to pick and choose.
Full closets, packed drawers,
covered walls, pockets
jammed with coins.
Dust and fool’s gold.
Time to get rid of them all.
Only the spirit under the skin
all that can’t be kept -
worth keeping.

*                  *                 *


How One Should Dress for a Poem

These lines should (must!) be
places for the genuine what shows
of the body under the silk shirt
the soft dugs the stretch lines
over the ribs the crow’s feet
the bald spot scalping the head
the fungus toe on the right foot
the mole under the chin
the claim of time on the animal kind
what you have learned in its
long procession that has lopped
and tumbled you like the hurricane tree
humbled you uncountable among stars
vanished you among the sea grains
your voice nevertheless daring
to tell its story on the clock
as though it were a tale to pay attention to
as though it were somehow worthy of notice
like a smirk of grey hair grinning on a dark head

*                  *                 *