Symptoms of love
by mike marcellino
Symptoms of love
You remember ..Robin..,
your first girl
Tomboy.
Eating hot peppers
on a dare
from three cute
....California.... girls
giving kisses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You remember rolling in sand
dunes
with an Armenian girl
you called ..Margaret..
saying goodbye
in a ....New York City....
hotel room,
a picture of a four poster bed.
It it still possible?
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You think there may not be an end. Like the Blue Hole in western Ohio.
You rediscover discover,
happy. again,
over little things. nothing
special.
You feel, slowly.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You clean out the ice box.
Find ....Carolina.... ham
dated your son’s birthday.
How long does it this last, you wonder?
You want to call ....California.....
Have the ....Ohio.... apple left. Miss her.
Your appetite’s back. It left.
You remember roller coasters.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Love songs on every station.
Eat like a bird.
Upside down. Spin.
Catch constellations.
Drink Costa Rican,
Shiner bock
across ....Texas.... again.
You think, “It’s possible.”
Head for cover,
bleached out
Transatlantic.
Sheets of clouds,
blue, white
pink sun glasses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You bought a back dress. Put it
carefully on a hanger.
Think about phone sex.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.You keep losing things.The things you haven't lost, you can't find.You watch a light
searching night clouds.
Symptoms of love copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Notebook Writer: poetry, music, photography and writing of Mike Marcellino
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
His invention, a short story
His invention
by Mike Marcellino
Another chapter, Life stories series
Many days had come and gone in the writer’s life. Today, he sat down by the river to write, not sure what it would be about but had some ideas.
Sound.
He had thought about writing about sound, or soundless to be exact. Life without sound. What that would be about. Frightening, at first thought. Fortunately the writer had an answer to that dilemma – invent it. Invent sound, like the light bulb or electricity, like Edison or Franklin.
After all, it was, or is his birthday. “You’re forty-four,” said Harry already working on his first bike, wearing a Mexican bandana, but the bike shop owner was Jewish, at least he used to be with some Jewish cult, but I always forget the name. “I was Acidic,” he announces every few days. I thought, “Whatever that means.”
“Mathematics, music and the brain. What a threesome,” the writer thought.
He’d invent sound in his mind.
Things are better this morning on the Cuyahoga. Just one plastic bottle floated by. “Find the owner,” he ordered. The OD bridge is open to bikes, but not cars. “How perfect.” he said to himself.
He listened to the clanging bell. A boat, maybe. Yes, a boat. A loud whistle followed but nothing ever came round the bend. Slowly the draw bridge rose. Workmen were fixing it.
In his mind, he missed the boat, a thing he feared, missing jump off time. That’s a mission of no return.
But, the writer remembered – he had not missed a thing. It’s his birthday. He invented sound on his birthday.
He watched a train on a distant hillside, glad he wasn’t on it. He watched a little basketball float by.
“You may be asked for security information,” the recorded cell phone company voice stated as the writer waited for a human being.
“Shit,” he thought, “what does that mean?” Well, they couldn’t read his mind, could they?
At that instant he was disconnected.
“This call may be monitored or recorded,” the recorded person said. “How reassuring,” the writer thought.
With that he rode as fast as he could to the War Memorial, on Mall B, two blocks from the lake. In books they call it War Memorial Fountain Plaza, but the writer had never heard anyone call it that. He called it the Veterans Memorial.
But he decided to stop across the plaza to the statue of Lincoln beside the board of education.
“Lincoln” she said in a sweet Texas accent, Carolyn told about her song, “Captain, My Captain,” at Town Hall in New York City. The writer wasn’t at the concert but he still has the album and listens to it.
Lincoln walked forth, toward the War Memorial. His expression uncertain, a declaration in his left hand, his right palm opens for deliverance.
No speeches, not a sound. Lincoln walks forth to war over the rights of man, people to be correct. Now presidents, soldiers made of stone, metal, granite, weathered, discolored, and covered with the soot of man.
Lincoln looked straight at the tall statue, a hundred feet or more, high, of the naked warier reaching for eternal peace.
The writer never remembers the verse from Palms, exactly. It’s about seeing the light, something like that. The monument made of nickels, Jefferson, from kids in Cleveland, spearheaded by press, shaped by Marshal Frederick, surrounded by a bronze plated wall – named of the dead, World War II and Korea. Vietnam left on the Internet, wishing the fountain of eternal life would burst, rise again, and touch the sky.
The writer grew tried. His mind drifted, remembering early morning of his birthday. He turned the switch on his hand tuned radio. In an instant, he got a clear, strong signal – the Raccoon Festival and Allison standing there in the mid day heat, champion of the fiddle at 16, and the cutest, nicest girl he’d met. He forgot his marriage, wanted nothing but bluegrass, wondering if she’s 18. He settled for classical Canada CBC. The old signal evaporated the way it came.
It was music to his hears, but nothing like the sound he created in his mind. That’s still his invention.
His invention copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
by Mike Marcellino
Another chapter, Life stories series
Many days had come and gone in the writer’s life. Today, he sat down by the river to write, not sure what it would be about but had some ideas.
Sound.
He had thought about writing about sound, or soundless to be exact. Life without sound. What that would be about. Frightening, at first thought. Fortunately the writer had an answer to that dilemma – invent it. Invent sound, like the light bulb or electricity, like Edison or Franklin.
After all, it was, or is his birthday. “You’re forty-four,” said Harry already working on his first bike, wearing a Mexican bandana, but the bike shop owner was Jewish, at least he used to be with some Jewish cult, but I always forget the name. “I was Acidic,” he announces every few days. I thought, “Whatever that means.”
“Mathematics, music and the brain. What a threesome,” the writer thought.
He’d invent sound in his mind.
Things are better this morning on the Cuyahoga. Just one plastic bottle floated by. “Find the owner,” he ordered. The OD bridge is open to bikes, but not cars. “How perfect.” he said to himself.
He listened to the clanging bell. A boat, maybe. Yes, a boat. A loud whistle followed but nothing ever came round the bend. Slowly the draw bridge rose. Workmen were fixing it.
In his mind, he missed the boat, a thing he feared, missing jump off time. That’s a mission of no return.
But, the writer remembered – he had not missed a thing. It’s his birthday. He invented sound on his birthday.
He watched a train on a distant hillside, glad he wasn’t on it. He watched a little basketball float by.
“You may be asked for security information,” the recorded cell phone company voice stated as the writer waited for a human being.
“Shit,” he thought, “what does that mean?” Well, they couldn’t read his mind, could they?
At that instant he was disconnected.
“This call may be monitored or recorded,” the recorded person said. “How reassuring,” the writer thought.
With that he rode as fast as he could to the War Memorial, on Mall B, two blocks from the lake. In books they call it War Memorial Fountain Plaza, but the writer had never heard anyone call it that. He called it the Veterans Memorial.
But he decided to stop across the plaza to the statue of Lincoln beside the board of education.
“Lincoln” she said in a sweet Texas accent, Carolyn told about her song, “Captain, My Captain,” at Town Hall in New York City. The writer wasn’t at the concert but he still has the album and listens to it.
Lincoln walked forth, toward the War Memorial. His expression uncertain, a declaration in his left hand, his right palm opens for deliverance.
No speeches, not a sound. Lincoln walks forth to war over the rights of man, people to be correct. Now presidents, soldiers made of stone, metal, granite, weathered, discolored, and covered with the soot of man.
Lincoln looked straight at the tall statue, a hundred feet or more, high, of the naked warier reaching for eternal peace.
The writer never remembers the verse from Palms, exactly. It’s about seeing the light, something like that. The monument made of nickels, Jefferson, from kids in Cleveland, spearheaded by press, shaped by Marshal Frederick, surrounded by a bronze plated wall – named of the dead, World War II and Korea. Vietnam left on the Internet, wishing the fountain of eternal life would burst, rise again, and touch the sky.
The writer grew tried. His mind drifted, remembering early morning of his birthday. He turned the switch on his hand tuned radio. In an instant, he got a clear, strong signal – the Raccoon Festival and Allison standing there in the mid day heat, champion of the fiddle at 16, and the cutest, nicest girl he’d met. He forgot his marriage, wanted nothing but bluegrass, wondering if she’s 18. He settled for classical Canada CBC. The old signal evaporated the way it came.
It was music to his hears, but nothing like the sound he created in his mind. That’s still his invention.
His invention copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Life stories series: Saratoga r&r
Saratoga r&r
by Mike Marcellino
Day No. 7 of a series, ‘Life stories’
He loved the smell of the track, his first whiff as he neared on his bike. The writer’s first thought was uncle Buddy, lying there dead in the Jamaica cemetery, blocks away from the track where he rode winners without a whip. Now Lavelle 'Buddy' Ensor lives in a touch screen video inside the National Horse Racing Hall of Fame, a kind a new red brick building, across from Saratoga, one of the oldest and pretties tracks in America. Buddy rode thoroughbreds like Exterminator. He won millions of dollars in the years before and during the Great Depression. He died without a penny, but he threw great parties after a big stake's win and invited all of Baltimore.
Inside the gate he swung his bike over to the rusting silver chain link fence that kept him off the dirt. The track, fittingly across the street from a barren shopping mall dotted with higher weeds, had seen it’s better days but jockeys still put on their silks and roses walked along alone tied up to a training wheel. He would have taken that lone mare for a ride if he thought he could get away from it.
He could have been a jockey, still could if he could sweat and starve his way to lose 10 pounds to get down to 114, the top weight. One of the jockeys at the cheap Ohio track, 10 miles southeast of Lake Erie in a town called Northfield, namesake of the deserted mall, told the writer there’s no age limit.
He daydreamed, made up headlines in the Times -
Michael Ensor navigates Crapshootin $5000 Charles Town claimer win
Buddy’s great grand guides Easy Does It's maiden special weight romp by six
“What If?" "Great name for a horse." he figured.
Strange things happened, especially lately.
He knew he could do it, with practice. He felt like a bird when he lifted himself off the seat of his bike, and guided, glided easily. Feet on the peddles, it could be a dawn morning work.
Next month, the writer would find out if he is his father’s son and his great uncles nephew or not. An ex-paratrooper, Gary, picked out a horse for him to ride at his Texas ranch next month.
His daydreams reminded him of the night before, or the night before that, when white birds called to him, raced across the night sky, crossing just under a near full moon that looked like the sun. The next day he swore those birds had turned brown, but not black.
“I was born at the race track,” the writer leaned down and told the girl jockey in her silks and cap, waiting for her next mount.
“Well, at least I must’ve been conceived at the track.’ he clarified. She was the prettiest jockey he’d ever seen, always wearing baby blue and white.
The dirt of the track gave him chills. The infield gave him peace.
He was at home at race tracks - Santa Anita, Gulfstream, Saratoga, Pimlico, Sunland, outside El Paso, it didn’t matter where.
Saratoga R & R, copyright by Mike Marcellino, Life stories, seven in a series 2009
by Mike Marcellino
Day No. 7 of a series, ‘Life stories’
He loved the smell of the track, his first whiff as he neared on his bike. The writer’s first thought was uncle Buddy, lying there dead in the Jamaica cemetery, blocks away from the track where he rode winners without a whip. Now Lavelle 'Buddy' Ensor lives in a touch screen video inside the National Horse Racing Hall of Fame, a kind a new red brick building, across from Saratoga, one of the oldest and pretties tracks in America. Buddy rode thoroughbreds like Exterminator. He won millions of dollars in the years before and during the Great Depression. He died without a penny, but he threw great parties after a big stake's win and invited all of Baltimore.
Inside the gate he swung his bike over to the rusting silver chain link fence that kept him off the dirt. The track, fittingly across the street from a barren shopping mall dotted with higher weeds, had seen it’s better days but jockeys still put on their silks and roses walked along alone tied up to a training wheel. He would have taken that lone mare for a ride if he thought he could get away from it.
He could have been a jockey, still could if he could sweat and starve his way to lose 10 pounds to get down to 114, the top weight. One of the jockeys at the cheap Ohio track, 10 miles southeast of Lake Erie in a town called Northfield, namesake of the deserted mall, told the writer there’s no age limit.
He daydreamed, made up headlines in the Times -
Michael Ensor navigates Crapshootin $5000 Charles Town claimer win
Buddy’s great grand guides Easy Does It's maiden special weight romp by six
“What If?" "Great name for a horse." he figured.
Strange things happened, especially lately.
He knew he could do it, with practice. He felt like a bird when he lifted himself off the seat of his bike, and guided, glided easily. Feet on the peddles, it could be a dawn morning work.
Next month, the writer would find out if he is his father’s son and his great uncles nephew or not. An ex-paratrooper, Gary, picked out a horse for him to ride at his Texas ranch next month.
His daydreams reminded him of the night before, or the night before that, when white birds called to him, raced across the night sky, crossing just under a near full moon that looked like the sun. The next day he swore those birds had turned brown, but not black.
“I was born at the race track,” the writer leaned down and told the girl jockey in her silks and cap, waiting for her next mount.
“Well, at least I must’ve been conceived at the track.’ he clarified. She was the prettiest jockey he’d ever seen, always wearing baby blue and white.
The dirt of the track gave him chills. The infield gave him peace.
He was at home at race tracks - Santa Anita, Gulfstream, Saratoga, Pimlico, Sunland, outside El Paso, it didn’t matter where.
Saratoga R & R, copyright by Mike Marcellino, Life stories, seven in a series 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Once and for all, a soldier's song
'My girls' photo by Mike Marcellino, South Vietnam, 1967-68
'Search and destroy' photo by Mike Marcellino, 1967-68
We should ask ourselves -
'Why do we not bring an end to all this unnecessary slaughter and suffering in America and our world?'
Once and for all
a soldier's song
by mike marcellino
No more ‘thank you’s,
No more memorial days,
No more salutes,
No more parades,
No more, if you please,
Unless and until,
America gets it right,
soldiers' rights.
Our nation’s third century
of GIs fighting, dying,
sticking their necks out for us,
our way of life,
taking a hit, covering lethal charges,
save a brother’s life.
Too many body bag houses,
soldiers' homes for that the ones never coming back.
Too many wounds, terrible prices.
Too many in prison, and somehow locked up.
Too many in body, not spirit. Once 'n for all, get it right.
Stop starting wars for no reason,
by bad intent or the gravest mistake.
Man, like don't tell us to ‘take the hill’ when its suicide, same bloody ground we took the other day.
Starters, deciders, you go fight.
Never again, send soldiers into battle, to fight,
lie wounded, coming home in disbelief, with wounds no eye can see.
Why mister presidents, congresspeople did you authorize benefits, a GI Bill, to 9 million Vietnam veterans with an expiration date?
Once 'n for all,
America, do your duty.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 2009, Once and for all, a soldier's song. Mike served in the United States Army as a combat correspondent and photojournalist in the Vietnam War.
If you would like to listen to his recorded songs go to Split Pea/ce, www.myspace.com/splitpeace. More of his writing can be found on his Blog, Notebookwriter on Myspace as well as his Networked Blog, www.notebookwriter.blotspot.com
Mike served as a combat correspondent and photojournalist in the United States Army with II Field Force in the Vietnam War.
Memorial Days are rememered each day in the lives of those who lost loved ones, as well as for those whose loved ones were maimed or wounded, physically, emotionally or mentally, in that terrible war, both Americans, Vietnamese and people from other nations.
The Vietnam War remains the nation's longest, from 1963 to 1973, though it goes beyond that. It appears that the various wars in the Middle East, somewhat different, but all related, have already broken that record.
The Vietnam War left in its wake, more than 58,000 American troops dead, hundreds of thousands wounded, hundreds of thousands imprisioned, hundreds of thousands still homelesss. Countless millions of people were killed and wounded in the Vietnam War, thousands left missing, not counting the killing fields of Cambodia and the undeclared war in Laos.
We should ask ourselves -
'When will we bring an end to all this unnecessary slaughter and suffering in America and our world?'
Writings and photos copyright by mke marcellino 2009
To listen to mike's lyrical Americana pop poetry song recordings -
www.myspace.com/splitpeace
Question for mike try mike marcellino on Facebook
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
dylan and baez poems
i think that was dylan
by Mike Marcellino
i think that was dylan
i think that was dylan,
walkin down 42nd street
girl in his arm
right in the middle of the slushy road,
right pretty too,
comin right at me,
so i ducked
down into the
alley
found sally
and wrote this piece
"i didn't see you there,"
- went something like that
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street
trouble was the cold,
blinded me,
so i parked my car,
a cutlass i believe,
recklessly
at the first illegal spot i could find
went up to the bar
"Irish whiskey,"
i said that,
it must ta been in '65
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street,
go ask Sally.
i think that was dylan copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
i knew Joan Baez
i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,
no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007
i think that was dylan & i knew joan baez copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007, 2008 & 2009
by Mike Marcellino
i think that was dylan
i think that was dylan,
walkin down 42nd street
girl in his arm
right in the middle of the slushy road,
right pretty too,
comin right at me,
so i ducked
down into the
alley
found sally
and wrote this piece
"i didn't see you there,"
- went something like that
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street
trouble was the cold,
blinded me,
so i parked my car,
a cutlass i believe,
recklessly
at the first illegal spot i could find
went up to the bar
"Irish whiskey,"
i said that,
it must ta been in '65
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street,
go ask Sally.
i think that was dylan copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
i knew Joan Baez
i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,
no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007
i think that was dylan & i knew joan baez copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007, 2008 & 2009
Life stories series: A scotter named lucky
A scooter named lucky
By Mike Marcellino
The prose daily volume 1
Life stories Days 3, 4 and 5 June 2009
The writer had lost track of the days. He just knew he had passed through days 3, 4 and 5.
He had a record.
Monday night he took off on his classic Japanese model to the drug store. Well, they really aren’t drug stores anymore. No new one he’d ever seen had a soda fountain.
He went to the drug store for Snickers, his favorite candy bar. Hoped they were on sale. The drug store was only a short distance, but he still had to ask for directions. His post traumatic delayed directional disorder was worse at night.
The Snickers bar was 89 cents. Out the door, he unlocked his classic Japanese model built like a tank. As he waited for the light to change, a fire truck came screaming by, red and white neon bubble flashing. The hook and ladder pulled into the other new drug store across the street.
“A drug store on every corner, a chicken in every pot,” he thought. “Why is that?”
He swung his leg over the cross bar, peddled slowly across the intersection. He had a green light. On his back he carried an Indian army surplus pack and in his left hand held a plastic thrift store bag containing a new pair of kaki shorts he got for six bucks and an army green shirt, Indian too, less than two bucks from the thrift store, a non-profit the black woman clerk said was owned by Jews.
Almost midway inside the cross walk, a pickup truck whizzed by, a near miss. Then suddenly out of nowhere he heard the winding motor of a scooter looking him straight in the eyes.
Smack, he got hit head on, the writer, the classic Japanese, another white guy and scooter all went sprawling onto the pavement.
Cars sped by. As the writer got up, the scooter guy, shaken, asked, “Are you ok? Are you ok?”
Then a black guy driving by sticks his head out the window, “I’m gonna waste you.”
The writer wondered, “Which driver is he talking about?” He did have a green light. .
His left thumb tingled a bit, that was it.
The writer punched in the hack’s name and phone number and rode off.
His bike came through without a scratch, leaving its mark on the front fender of a coffee cream scooter named “Lucky.”
(To be continued.}
A scooter named lucky, Life stories, Days 3, 4 & 5, Copyright by Mike Marcellino & Mike Marcellino Communications, 2009
By Mike Marcellino
The prose daily volume 1
Life stories Days 3, 4 and 5 June 2009
The writer had lost track of the days. He just knew he had passed through days 3, 4 and 5.
He had a record.
Monday night he took off on his classic Japanese model to the drug store. Well, they really aren’t drug stores anymore. No new one he’d ever seen had a soda fountain.
He went to the drug store for Snickers, his favorite candy bar. Hoped they were on sale. The drug store was only a short distance, but he still had to ask for directions. His post traumatic delayed directional disorder was worse at night.
The Snickers bar was 89 cents. Out the door, he unlocked his classic Japanese model built like a tank. As he waited for the light to change, a fire truck came screaming by, red and white neon bubble flashing. The hook and ladder pulled into the other new drug store across the street.
“A drug store on every corner, a chicken in every pot,” he thought. “Why is that?”
He swung his leg over the cross bar, peddled slowly across the intersection. He had a green light. On his back he carried an Indian army surplus pack and in his left hand held a plastic thrift store bag containing a new pair of kaki shorts he got for six bucks and an army green shirt, Indian too, less than two bucks from the thrift store, a non-profit the black woman clerk said was owned by Jews.
Almost midway inside the cross walk, a pickup truck whizzed by, a near miss. Then suddenly out of nowhere he heard the winding motor of a scooter looking him straight in the eyes.
Smack, he got hit head on, the writer, the classic Japanese, another white guy and scooter all went sprawling onto the pavement.
Cars sped by. As the writer got up, the scooter guy, shaken, asked, “Are you ok? Are you ok?”
Then a black guy driving by sticks his head out the window, “I’m gonna waste you.”
The writer wondered, “Which driver is he talking about?” He did have a green light. .
His left thumb tingled a bit, that was it.
The writer punched in the hack’s name and phone number and rode off.
His bike came through without a scratch, leaving its mark on the front fender of a coffee cream scooter named “Lucky.”
(To be continued.}
A scooter named lucky, Life stories, Days 3, 4 & 5, Copyright by Mike Marcellino & Mike Marcellino Communications, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Life stories series: Chased clouds, empty sky
Chased clouds, empty sky
By Mike Marcellino
The Daily Prose, Volume 1, Issue 2, May 29, 2009
Two of a series
“Where to begin start? “he wondered.
“Start with radio, NPR,” as he had a portable, hand operated Shack radio. He began listening to public radio, riding his classic Japanese model bike to downtown Cleveland.
The writer was overwhelmed again. It was only the day after yesterday, the day before today. He forgot allergy pills, had stupidly got two plastic containers of conditioner at the dollar store, no shampoo. Yes, the conditioners were each a dollar.
His ability to scan labels - gone bad to worse, with or without glasses. No matter, 88 cent dime store specks, or the VA specials. He had some incurable eye condition he could have inherited from his real father, the assistant starter.
“The good news, the VA said, “double cornea transplants.”
A few years later, a really nice guy riding the Detroit bus asked the writer,” Are you on the transplant list?”
“That’s a really good question,” the writer thought to himself,”
“No. I’m not,” he answered.
“My first pair of VA glasses, gunmetal frames, high fashion,” he explained. “The top right rim split clean. “They must have been pretty thin,” he reasoned.
“Second pair, lightweights, rimless bottoms, fell apart right away, looked like silly putty,
Now that’s pretty funny if you need glasses just for show,” the writer said, wondering how he was going to write without eyesight.
“Blind people figured a way,” he knew that.
At the veterans’ medical center the writer handed the two broken glasses to the young man in the office. He asked him for a card but he didn’t have them. He said he was a “patient representative.” The writer, ex- orderly, in six months learned about health care. He was the only male on a surgical ward in Lakewood Hospital.
“These glasses are defective, contractors are ripping me and the VA off,” the writer said in consternation. “Investigate these glasses and get back to me, ok?” Without a word, he quietly put them away in a desk drawer.
Weeks later, the writer returned to the VA for another reason. He walked into the office of the patient representative and asked, “Did you look into my glasses?”
“No,” he responded, quietly and looking straight at me without another word, handed over two pair of broken glasses wrapped up in white paper and a red rubber band.
On the road, the writer rode toward the breaks in the puffy sky. He stopped on the near side bank of the river, at a drawbridge over the flats and tracks.
Junk floated on the Cuyahoga, dozens, on the layers of muck, discarded, mostly plastic bottles, all sizes, Styrofoam cups, faint, yellow striped off white rubber ball and a wooden desk drawer. Gradually, the mess on the water drifted, skating upstream.
“Fowl birds have more sense than to light on this water,” he thought. Then a goofy goose honked by.
The Cuyahoga, “crooked river,” as natives called it, was very celebrated. In the 1970s, the river’s ‘water’ caught fire. Another time, ex-mayor Ralph Perk’s set his hair on fire with a blowtorch. He aim narrowly missed the ceremonial steel ribbon. Both made world news.
The sun warmed the writer’s right shoulder. He felt it through an old green army shirt, probably Cuban. He’d done chores already – GI, no, err, rock star shower, brushed his teeth, tossed out pieces of his paper collection.
“Yikes,” he said to himself. “A call in public radio show about bikes – ageless, timeless commentators talking about ageless, timeless peddle power transportation. Right away he called the only station number on his cell phone. Turned out to be the wrong FM station but someone answered and he told him what he had to say about bikes anyway.
“We’re light years away from being ‘bike friendly,’” he told the guy at the WRONG station. “I know without doubt, this revelation won’t ever come to the earth’s most powerful nation. After all,” his thinking continued, “People in most of America’s towns, big and small, these days exist without a bus or train, intra or inner city and a third of our workers get to work carless.”
The writer remembered when he was in Saigon, it was 1968, a now and then Chinese sedan and a few motor scooters, were hopelessly outnumbered, surrounded by bikes and tricycles, aka rickshaws.
A commentator told about an LA doctor prescribing biking for a patient. “It must be a joke,” she chuckled nervously.
“Wait, don’t you know the cost of treating overweight Americans run in the trillions, and millions are dying needlessly.” he wanted to ask her.
“Where to begin,” he wondered again.
“Bikes as a means of transportation are ethic. It’s the economy stupid, if not for pleasure, adventure.
It’s a good thing for us and our planet,” he cried, into a northwest headwind.
“Is anybody listening? They still don’t get it. Isn’t that politically correct?”
“How much money does the government have for bicycles?” a caller asked.
“We have no specific sum,” a planner responded.
Then a downtown commuter called, asking about showers.
“You should live in Tulsa,” the writer could a told him.
Luckily, the writer was saved by the day. The sun chased the clouds, emptied the blue sky.
“Another day at the office,” the writer relented, landing safely again in Phoenix.
He took his usual break before starting work, reached for a wad of Gambler tobacco. A black and white portrait of a smoking cowboy stamped on the pouch, half his face in shadow, he noticed.
The writer thought, “In God we trust” for some reason.
Back in the executives’ wash room, he looked in the mirror. His hair was out of control, without shampoo for days. Reminded him of this couple he knew won a Toronto twist contest, last standing on the cream & black checkered dance floor.
“Call on John Travolta. File a class action,” he suggested.
Chased clouds, empty sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
The Daily Prose, Volume 1, Issue 2, May 29, 2009
Two of a series
“Where to begin start? “he wondered.
“Start with radio, NPR,” as he had a portable, hand operated Shack radio. He began listening to public radio, riding his classic Japanese model bike to downtown Cleveland.
The writer was overwhelmed again. It was only the day after yesterday, the day before today. He forgot allergy pills, had stupidly got two plastic containers of conditioner at the dollar store, no shampoo. Yes, the conditioners were each a dollar.
His ability to scan labels - gone bad to worse, with or without glasses. No matter, 88 cent dime store specks, or the VA specials. He had some incurable eye condition he could have inherited from his real father, the assistant starter.
“The good news, the VA said, “double cornea transplants.”
A few years later, a really nice guy riding the Detroit bus asked the writer,” Are you on the transplant list?”
“That’s a really good question,” the writer thought to himself,”
“No. I’m not,” he answered.
“My first pair of VA glasses, gunmetal frames, high fashion,” he explained. “The top right rim split clean. “They must have been pretty thin,” he reasoned.
“Second pair, lightweights, rimless bottoms, fell apart right away, looked like silly putty,
Now that’s pretty funny if you need glasses just for show,” the writer said, wondering how he was going to write without eyesight.
“Blind people figured a way,” he knew that.
At the veterans’ medical center the writer handed the two broken glasses to the young man in the office. He asked him for a card but he didn’t have them. He said he was a “patient representative.” The writer, ex- orderly, in six months learned about health care. He was the only male on a surgical ward in Lakewood Hospital.
“These glasses are defective, contractors are ripping me and the VA off,” the writer said in consternation. “Investigate these glasses and get back to me, ok?” Without a word, he quietly put them away in a desk drawer.
Weeks later, the writer returned to the VA for another reason. He walked into the office of the patient representative and asked, “Did you look into my glasses?”
“No,” he responded, quietly and looking straight at me without another word, handed over two pair of broken glasses wrapped up in white paper and a red rubber band.
On the road, the writer rode toward the breaks in the puffy sky. He stopped on the near side bank of the river, at a drawbridge over the flats and tracks.
Junk floated on the Cuyahoga, dozens, on the layers of muck, discarded, mostly plastic bottles, all sizes, Styrofoam cups, faint, yellow striped off white rubber ball and a wooden desk drawer. Gradually, the mess on the water drifted, skating upstream.
“Fowl birds have more sense than to light on this water,” he thought. Then a goofy goose honked by.
The Cuyahoga, “crooked river,” as natives called it, was very celebrated. In the 1970s, the river’s ‘water’ caught fire. Another time, ex-mayor Ralph Perk’s set his hair on fire with a blowtorch. He aim narrowly missed the ceremonial steel ribbon. Both made world news.
The sun warmed the writer’s right shoulder. He felt it through an old green army shirt, probably Cuban. He’d done chores already – GI, no, err, rock star shower, brushed his teeth, tossed out pieces of his paper collection.
“Yikes,” he said to himself. “A call in public radio show about bikes – ageless, timeless commentators talking about ageless, timeless peddle power transportation. Right away he called the only station number on his cell phone. Turned out to be the wrong FM station but someone answered and he told him what he had to say about bikes anyway.
“We’re light years away from being ‘bike friendly,’” he told the guy at the WRONG station. “I know without doubt, this revelation won’t ever come to the earth’s most powerful nation. After all,” his thinking continued, “People in most of America’s towns, big and small, these days exist without a bus or train, intra or inner city and a third of our workers get to work carless.”
The writer remembered when he was in Saigon, it was 1968, a now and then Chinese sedan and a few motor scooters, were hopelessly outnumbered, surrounded by bikes and tricycles, aka rickshaws.
A commentator told about an LA doctor prescribing biking for a patient. “It must be a joke,” she chuckled nervously.
“Wait, don’t you know the cost of treating overweight Americans run in the trillions, and millions are dying needlessly.” he wanted to ask her.
“Where to begin,” he wondered again.
“Bikes as a means of transportation are ethic. It’s the economy stupid, if not for pleasure, adventure.
It’s a good thing for us and our planet,” he cried, into a northwest headwind.
“Is anybody listening? They still don’t get it. Isn’t that politically correct?”
“How much money does the government have for bicycles?” a caller asked.
“We have no specific sum,” a planner responded.
Then a downtown commuter called, asking about showers.
“You should live in Tulsa,” the writer could a told him.
Luckily, the writer was saved by the day. The sun chased the clouds, emptied the blue sky.
“Another day at the office,” the writer relented, landing safely again in Phoenix.
He took his usual break before starting work, reached for a wad of Gambler tobacco. A black and white portrait of a smoking cowboy stamped on the pouch, half his face in shadow, he noticed.
The writer thought, “In God we trust” for some reason.
Back in the executives’ wash room, he looked in the mirror. His hair was out of control, without shampoo for days. Reminded him of this couple he knew won a Toronto twist contest, last standing on the cream & black checkered dance floor.
“Call on John Travolta. File a class action,” he suggested.
Chased clouds, empty sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Life stories series: No outside signal
Art work by Ashley Pastore, Copyright 2009No outside signal
Chapter 1
By Mike Marcellino
The Prose Daily Volume 1, Issue 1, First Edition, May 28, 2009
He woke up, not knowing how, or why, it happened. He lived with bikes in absolute mellow chaos; he was surrounded in an old dirty red brick building on West 3rd Street, just up the hill from the Flats. Made the French roast too strong, put in some 2 percent. Taking a shower should be pretty simple, but this day that is not the case. You see, the cold water has no knob, to turn it. Bike wizard, Harry, a short balding guy who says he’s Jewish, left a big wrench, that didn’t work for me the first time, letting out cold water; no matter, Cleveland water doesn’t read the bill anyway.
Today the writer used his now rusty small wrench without a problem. Out the door he goes, flying down the steep hill past the vacant run down café. Swear a cop parked his souped up Ford out front.
His first destination, carrying his unidentified army surplus pack, a laptop on his back, his hideaway of broken glass and old tires, nasty grass. He sat down on the edge of concrete, abutment to a bridge too far, a bridge to nowhere, but a clump of green hedged mixed with concrete across the chasm. The writer took a smoke, a mix of menthol Kite Turkish tobacco and what ever happened to be dropped in by a stranger.
Back on the road, he crossed the old, once mighty city’s industrial heart, The Flats. Peddling easily on his classic Japanese, he felt comfort in the passing trucks, 16 wheelers, and haulers in oil, asphalt and cement for starters. St. Mary’s the latter, Universal Oil the former.
Slipped quickly past the now quiet amphitheatre, where was it “Keith” Michaels, a once hot lead singer with Poison, turned cowboy complete with long gold hair and a matching straw hat? Got in Sunday for a dollar.
All roads lead to rock and roll in Cleveland, the edifice on the lake. But in Tower City, the old, once golden train station, the writer found solace – free rock and roll music piped in by Bose, what class, Forest City!
The Tower, the writer had once encountered years ago, on a strange day, probably running Veterans for Clinton from his hotel bedroom, fifty some yellow stickums, all with notations, the meet up and van caravan, linking up the Arkansas boys, Army, Marines and all, and some curbside revolt of Vietnam War combat veterans. Though he remembers well this spiritual occasion, suffice to say now, he called the place, “Crystal City,” after a place across the Potomac from DC.
The writer made it downtown, a bee line, pretend courier, carrying a top secret, highly classified message to Phoenix Coffee, the Cleveland + Plus version in the dim sun shadows below little, bland brick Key tower. Inside, outside no signal, he tapped at his laptop, “What to do next? I don’t have a clue, there are too many choices. But the once that suits him best is to run away.
Then he remembered, he forgot about the OD Bridge across the Cuyahoga to the East Side, raccoon suddenly shoot bike right into a city cave, he for fortune he entered into a dark or darker tunnel, the perfect flash back, waiting for the Americal and his next mission, still looking for an outside signal. Having nothing better to do, except hit the lake till his hat floats. Fuck, then he remembered, “Shit, there’s no surf in Cleveland, just tons of pollution.”
He got the key to the executive bathroom, a heavy ice cream scooper, walked though a maze of two glass doors, walls all the same fucking grey. He stopped in his tracks, a neon EXIT and that dreaded alarm warning. Open the door and all hell breaks lose, but he did it. The lock gave him trouble, on the men’s room door, adorn with a lifeless black suited symbol.
“It would help if I could see it,” he thought.
The writer was actually able to pass urine, aka, take a leak, no thanks to his prostate, bladder or kidneys.
“Free at last, free at last, thank God, free at last,” that pause in his life brought on his favorite quote.
“Ditto, Martin”
He could easily drift off into the Kennedy and King assassinations and the lack of real investigation.
“Better yet, ‘go find a guitar, play harmonica, live up to their labels.
Vincent isn't "Short" anymore, still a block south from Lake Erie, the closest to The Theatrial Grill's the Theatric Garage and a Holiday Inn Hotels and Express all weather sign's on the door of the old, historic National City Bank building.
It stopped raining. The daily commute underway in force.
"No outside signal," Chapter 1, The Daily Prose, Volume 1, Issue 1, First Edition, Copyright May 28, 2009 by Mike Marcellino, aka, Mike Marcellino, a sole proprietership in the state of Ohio, " Flash True Fiction" and "True Flash Fiction" and "True Fiction." all Copyright Mike Marcellino, aka Mike Marcellino Communications, May 28, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Once and for all
a soldier's song, unfinished
Story and photos by mike marcellino
No more ‘thank you’s,
No more memorial days,
No more salutes,
No more parades,
No more, if you please,
unless and until,
America gets it right,
soldiers' rights.
Our nation’s third century
Of GIs fighting, dying,
sticking their necks out for us,
Our way of life,
taking a hit, covering lethal charges,
save a brother’s life.
Too many body bag houses,
soldiers' homes for that the ones never coming back.
Too many wounds, terrible prices.
Too many in prison, and somehow locked up.
Too many in bodies, not spirits. Once 'n for all, get it right.
Stop starting wars for no reason,
by bad intent or the gravest mistake.
Man, like don't tell us to ‘take the hill’ when its suicide, same bloody ground we took the other day.
Starters, deciders, go fight.
Never again, send soldiers into battle, to fight,
lie wounded, coming home in disbelief, with wounds no eye can see.
Once 'n for all,
America, do your duty.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 2009, Once and for all, a soldier's song, unfinished. Mike served in the United States Army as a combat correspondent and photojournalist in the Vietnam War. If you would like to listen to his recorded songs go to Split Pea/ce, www.myspace.com/splitpeace. More of his writing can be found on his Blog, Notebookwriter on Myspace as well as his Networked Blog, www.notebookwriter.blotspot.com
Monday, May 18, 2009
Oklahoma spell, a poem
Oklahoma spell
By Mike Marcellino
With help,
And thanks to Duncan and Bubba
That spell fell on me
In Oklahoma
Tuesday.
Clouds filled with mist
Ran through
Tops of Tulsa towers
Only interrupted
By steady rains,
Trapped,
Lost and confused
In Oklahoma,
But twenty some miles
Away from the home
Of Woody the road man,
Touching souls
Caught in the Great Depression
Being replayed in the muck
of the Twenty First Century.
Outside gales of Okie, forty knots
Or more, landlocked,
Finally died down to a soft breeze
Short lived,
Hidden behind our minds,
fearing
fickle Sooner winds
assaulting north an east
Oklahoma
Sure to return
Cast away from the Gulf and Alberta.
Leaving the Okla homeless
Outta touch
Outta intelligence
Outta certain
Outta cell phone minutes,
in Indian Territory
carved outta
unwanted panhandle parts a Texas
Outta means
a communication.
Way past expiration,
minutes left in Oklahoma.
Copyright Mike Marcellino Spell Oklahoma 2009rain
By Mike Marcellino
With help,
And thanks to Duncan and Bubba
That spell fell on me
In Oklahoma
Tuesday.
Clouds filled with mist
Ran through
Tops of Tulsa towers
Only interrupted
By steady rains,
Trapped,
Lost and confused
In Oklahoma,
But twenty some miles
Away from the home
Of Woody the road man,
Touching souls
Caught in the Great Depression
Being replayed in the muck
of the Twenty First Century.
Outside gales of Okie, forty knots
Or more, landlocked,
Finally died down to a soft breeze
Short lived,
Hidden behind our minds,
fearing
fickle Sooner winds
assaulting north an east
Oklahoma
Sure to return
Cast away from the Gulf and Alberta.
Leaving the Okla homeless
Outta touch
Outta intelligence
Outta certain
Outta cell phone minutes,
in Indian Territory
carved outta
unwanted panhandle parts a Texas
Outta means
a communication.
Way past expiration,
minutes left in Oklahoma.
Copyright Mike Marcellino Spell Oklahoma 2009rain
Monday, May 4, 2009
Only broken text:a poem
Only broken text
Lost lake to shore transmissions.
by Mike Marcellino
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Lake waters lap
curl on rock shores -
text a la Erie.
Thoughts rush,
tangled,
only broken by
faint far away whistles,
trains, an other
muffled sounds, like
a motorboat skims, east
across the waters
of the lake called Erie
wet carpet of molten silver
tinted in placid black.
On the horizon
ozone circle,
light brown
crescent clouds,
copper-orange
with gold lace -
A single engine plane
sputters
east across the early morning blue sky,
instantly broken
by a dog's bark.
A single gull
floats
on silver blue waters,
the sight of flight
amazing,
flapping,
gliding
slowly across the waters
of the lake called Erie,
encircled,
ringed
covered
by an endless, murky
light brown clouds
hanging
on the horizon,
tinted
contamination orange.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Click
clack
click
text messages
words flashing
to California
from sunup
in northern Ohio.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
No signal
from the waters
of the lake called Erie.
Looking for signs,
signals,
cell systems,
piercing cries from the heavens.
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009 Only broken text: lost lake to shore transmissions.
Lost lake to shore transmissions.
by Mike Marcellino
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Lake waters lap
curl on rock shores -
text a la Erie.
Thoughts rush,
tangled,
only broken by
faint far away whistles,
trains, an other
muffled sounds, like
a motorboat skims, east
across the waters
of the lake called Erie
wet carpet of molten silver
tinted in placid black.
On the horizon
ozone circle,
light brown
crescent clouds,
copper-orange
with gold lace -
A single engine plane
sputters
east across the early morning blue sky,
instantly broken
by a dog's bark.
A single gull
floats
on silver blue waters,
the sight of flight
amazing,
flapping,
gliding
slowly across the waters
of the lake called Erie,
encircled,
ringed
covered
by an endless, murky
light brown clouds
hanging
on the horizon,
tinted
contamination orange.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Click
clack
click
text messages
words flashing
to California
from sunup
in northern Ohio.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
No signal
from the waters
of the lake called Erie.
Looking for signs,
signals,
cell systems,
piercing cries from the heavens.
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009 Only broken text: lost lake to shore transmissions.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Warmth of the sun, a poem
Warmth of the sun
by Mike Marcellino
When you're
on the ground
looking up
feel
the warmth of the sun
in a clear club sky.
Then,
a cloud appears
floating by
behind
man's monuments
reaching
from the ground
to beyond
the sky.
When you're
on the ground
looking up,
sit and wonder
why
life
is
like
the warmth of the sun
in a clear
blue sky
chirping birds
nearby
hardly visible
to the naked eye
until a single
one flies by.
And you're awakened
in a start
rumble
rumble
red brick
rumble
when you're on the ground
and you're
awakened
in a start
suddenly
again awakened
in a start
grey blue
fast moving clouds
come in
for moments
covering the sun,
blown blown
northwest
chill wind
chill wind
outa
a
clear
blue sky
covering
the warmth of the sun.
By Mike Marcellino, copyright 2009, Warmth of the sun
by Mike Marcellino
When you're
on the ground
looking up
feel
the warmth of the sun
in a clear club sky.
Then,
a cloud appears
floating by
behind
man's monuments
reaching
from the ground
to beyond
the sky.
When you're
on the ground
looking up,
sit and wonder
why
life
is
like
the warmth of the sun
in a clear
blue sky
chirping birds
nearby
hardly visible
to the naked eye
until a single
one flies by.
And you're awakened
in a start
rumble
rumble
red brick
rumble
when you're on the ground
and you're
awakened
in a start
suddenly
again awakened
in a start
grey blue
fast moving clouds
come in
for moments
covering the sun,
blown blown
northwest
chill wind
chill wind
outa
a
clear
blue sky
covering
the warmth of the sun.
By Mike Marcellino, copyright 2009, Warmth of the sun
Thursday, March 26, 2009
En haut d'Orleans
En haut d'Orléans
Par Mike Marcellino
En haut d'Orléans
Joan,
l'or en argent
fâchée
brille
de loin le chevalier.
Seulement 21.
Comment elle l'a fait ?
Seulement 21.
Les montagnes,
la droite
de Tuscaloosa
en avant
et derrière
un acier empile
un ouest
de Birmingham
de Gadsden,
les coupures,
de soleil d'Alabama
par,
essaie à ,
sur la hausse,
les montagnes qu'un
Alabama
allumant de la
violette
de lilas arbres
verts apercevant,
les lits
de vieux blé bandes
de terre rouillées cultivent.
En haut d'Orléans
conduisant
le nord par
le sud profond
mission de rocher noire.
La princesse
une
orange
de cuivre
d'Alabama
fait une croisière pur,
le marron égale
des cheveux,
directement
comme une dentelle.
La princesse un Alabama de l'espace !
Pendant que
la cerise
fleurit formé comme
un arbre
de Chrysanthème
circulaire
à l'envers,
les vaches se
reposant sur l'herbe,
2 chevaux broutant
Pâle & Roan.
La prise échappée à Brownsville
Stationner,
est dirigé vers
le Terrain De Boules,
la scène de Franklin.
A caché dans
la Caverne de Mammouth
des
Armées de la Reine.
A laissé accumuler
le long
de 31 d'ouest
rapidement
forces de piste de cavaliers
s'est dirigé vers le
croisement
de Rivière d'Ohio
Les forces de cavaliers
s'élevant
contre
les Armées
de la Reine.
En haut d'Orléans, déposer 2009 par Mike Marcellino
Par Mike Marcellino
En haut d'Orléans
Joan,
l'or en argent
fâchée
brille
de loin le chevalier.
Seulement 21.
Comment elle l'a fait ?
Seulement 21.
Les montagnes,
la droite
de Tuscaloosa
en avant
et derrière
un acier empile
un ouest
de Birmingham
de Gadsden,
les coupures,
de soleil d'Alabama
par,
essaie à ,
sur la hausse,
les montagnes qu'un
Alabama
allumant de la
violette
de lilas arbres
verts apercevant,
les lits
de vieux blé bandes
de terre rouillées cultivent.
En haut d'Orléans
conduisant
le nord par
le sud profond
mission de rocher noire.
La princesse
une
orange
de cuivre
d'Alabama
fait une croisière pur,
le marron égale
des cheveux,
directement
comme une dentelle.
La princesse un Alabama de l'espace !
Pendant que
la cerise
fleurit formé comme
un arbre
de Chrysanthème
circulaire
à l'envers,
les vaches se
reposant sur l'herbe,
2 chevaux broutant
Pâle & Roan.
La prise échappée à Brownsville
Stationner,
est dirigé vers
le Terrain De Boules,
la scène de Franklin.
A caché dans
la Caverne de Mammouth
des
Armées de la Reine.
A laissé accumuler
le long
de 31 d'ouest
rapidement
forces de piste de cavaliers
s'est dirigé vers le
croisement
de Rivière d'Ohio
Les forces de cavaliers
s'élevant
contre
les Armées
de la Reine.
En haut d'Orléans, déposer 2009 par Mike Marcellino
Up from Orleans, a poem
Up from Orleans
By Mike Marcellino
Up from Orleans
Joan
cross
silver
gold
from a
distance
shining knight
Only 21.
How did she do it?
Only 21.
Mountains,
right
of Tuscaloosa
ahead
and
behind
a
steel
stacks
a
Birmingham
west of
Gadsden,
Alabama.
Sun breaks
through,
tries
to,
on the
rise,
mountains
a
Alabama
lighting
lilacs
violet
spotting
evergreens,
beds of
old wheat
rusty
dirt
strips
farm
up from
Orleans
driving
north
through
deep
south
black rock mission.
Princess
of
Alabama
copper
orange
cruising,
pure,
brown
matching
hair,
straight
as a lace.
Princess
of
Alabama
out of
space!
While cherry
blossoms
shaped
like
a
round
Chrysanthemum
trees
upside
down,
cows
resting
on grass,
2 horses grazing
Pale
&
Roan.
Escaped
capture
at Brownsville Station,
headed
for Bowling
Green,
the Franklin
scene,
hid in
Mammouth
Cave
from
the Armies of the Queen.
Ran up
along
31 w
fast track.
Forces
of horsemen
headed
for the
Ohio
River
crossing.
Forces
of horsemen
rising
up
against
the Armies of the Queen.
Up from Orleans, copyright 2009 by Mike Marcellino
By Mike Marcellino
Up from Orleans
Joan
cross
silver
gold
from a
distance
shining knight
Only 21.
How did she do it?
Only 21.
Mountains,
right
of Tuscaloosa
ahead
and
behind
a
steel
stacks
a
Birmingham
west of
Gadsden,
Alabama.
Sun breaks
through,
tries
to,
on the
rise,
mountains
a
Alabama
lighting
lilacs
violet
spotting
evergreens,
beds of
old wheat
rusty
dirt
strips
farm
up from
Orleans
driving
north
through
deep
south
black rock mission.
Princess
of
Alabama
copper
orange
cruising,
pure,
brown
matching
hair,
straight
as a lace.
Princess
of
Alabama
out of
space!
While cherry
blossoms
shaped
like
a
round
Chrysanthemum
trees
upside
down,
cows
resting
on grass,
2 horses grazing
Pale
&
Roan.
Escaped
capture
at Brownsville Station,
headed
for Bowling
Green,
the Franklin
scene,
hid in
Mammouth
Cave
from
the Armies of the Queen.
Ran up
along
31 w
fast track.
Forces
of horsemen
headed
for the
Ohio
River
crossing.
Forces
of horsemen
rising
up
against
the Armies of the Queen.
Up from Orleans, copyright 2009 by Mike Marcellino
Friday, March 20, 2009
Tears again, a poem
Tears again
By Mike Marcellino
Tears again
makin up for lost time
you lose along the way
settle for
artificial ones.
Sometimes life
can be
paralyzing
like being
in or near
a crash,
unless
you’re landing
on the Hudson
off the Brooklyn coast.
We came
from nowhere
piloting a clipper ship
across
endless Alleghenys.
Are we there yet?
Yep.
Snow line lost
to late February rains,
unexpectedly
rollin down Interstate 80
bustin plenty
enroute to
Stacy
Rock
& Buckeroo
playin Texas
raw bar
lower east side,
cutest actors
seen
since Joni & Jim
in the backseat
of a Fairlane
Ford,
baby blue
white top.
Light weight,
skinny,
automatic thing
flattened out at 110.
Under 90
never caught,
no blind spot.
Artificial tears
never show.
Only the real ones grow.
Got hard scrambled
eggs an' pancakes,
biggest ones
ever seen.
Split the scene.
Across the eastern divide
Cleveland appeared -
the far horizon
in van’s mystic
sky.
Real tears,
Song of Banjo Riley
heading for the Gulf
of Mexico
from New York
City.
Song of Banjo Riley by Mike Marcellino Copyright 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Tears again
makin up for lost time
you lose along the way
settle for
artificial ones.
Sometimes life
can be
paralyzing
like being
in or near
a crash,
unless
you’re landing
on the Hudson
off the Brooklyn coast.
We came
from nowhere
piloting a clipper ship
across
endless Alleghenys.
Are we there yet?
Yep.
Snow line lost
to late February rains,
unexpectedly
rollin down Interstate 80
bustin plenty
enroute to
Stacy
Rock
& Buckeroo
playin Texas
raw bar
lower east side,
cutest actors
seen
since Joni & Jim
in the backseat
of a Fairlane
Ford,
baby blue
white top.
Light weight,
skinny,
automatic thing
flattened out at 110.
Under 90
never caught,
no blind spot.
Artificial tears
never show.
Only the real ones grow.
Got hard scrambled
eggs an' pancakes,
biggest ones
ever seen.
Split the scene.
Across the eastern divide
Cleveland appeared -
the far horizon
in van’s mystic
sky.
Real tears,
Song of Banjo Riley
heading for the Gulf
of Mexico
from New York
City.
Song of Banjo Riley by Mike Marcellino Copyright 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Hurricanes of humanity, a poem
 |
| Hurricane Katrina, NOAA Satellite image |
Hurricanes of humanity
By Mike Marcellino
Hurricanes of humanity -
Weathermen called the wind
Katrina,
her blow overwheling
waves
covered New Orleans,
leaving in her wake
a city never the same.
She left them cajuns
reeling,
mumbling 'bout
their old homes
dying for MEMA
cottages
out of reach
south of highway 90
sold ‘em
to contractors
building
casinos for the poor
working
families without homes.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Brass
of Army sergeants
homeless in uniform
swept from the streets,
no need for assessment.
Giv’em an offer they can’t afford -
habitat for five hundred dollars
a month
plus flood insurance
Churches turned some gold to straw,
Parish people say,
wonderin ‘bout their government
before, during an after
nation’s greatest disaster,
when a category 5
hit the Gulf Coast
on that August day.
2005.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Homes not jails
food not bombs
500 city kitchens
cross country and
twenty two to thirty two
percent of our kids -
going to school,
homeless
Arizona to Detroit
Hurricanes of humanity -
subjects of FEMA
from New Orleans
to Brooklyn,
armies on the street
to college.
What went wrong?
they ask.
Not the people?
they say.
Must of been the leaders,
some say.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Bayou grits,
southern accents
let’s see
before, during and after
Katrina.
Try disability,
Hope a leg’s missing,
never mind.
Speakers
in the woods,
tents of seven hundred,
survivers
of the bitter winter
2009.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Like Dorothy
upside down.
Hope for a soft landing,
bed of change,
deportees
from a 20 megaton daydream,
two gallons left
lost out by fifty fifty -
miles
dollars
away
from New Orleans
and Black Bay.
Copyright Hurricanes of humanity by Mike Marcellino 2009.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Dreamed this, a poem
Dreamed this
By Mike Marcellino
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to read it,
add,
subtract
multipy,
only could remember
how to
divide.
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to paint
play
sing
compose
it.
But when i woke
the economist
up
to a certain page,
i thought this
wrote this
Dreamed this.
Dreamed this copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to read it,
add,
subtract
multipy,
only could remember
how to
divide.
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to paint
play
sing
compose
it.
But when i woke
the economist
up
to a certain page,
i thought this
wrote this
Dreamed this.
Dreamed this copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Listen to the radio, a poem
Listen to the radio
By Mike Marcellino
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Sing all together now
her majesty’s request
whirling vinyl
tracks from Singapore
on the magical mystery tour.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Captured in Cambodia,
blown away in the DMZ
going back to Iraq,
Afghanistan,
electric concertina silhouette memories.
Uniforms at a five in the morning wake up call
Denver’s airport high
above the Land of the Free -
Home of bridges falling down.
Home of the brave,
taking shelter
in ravines,
railroad boxcars,
in gas station latrines.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Remember
songs of the day -
Check some boxes,
pop some pills,
get patched up,
go on your way,
live to fight another day.”
Listen to the radio,copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Sing all together now
her majesty’s request
whirling vinyl
tracks from Singapore
on the magical mystery tour.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Captured in Cambodia,
blown away in the DMZ
going back to Iraq,
Afghanistan,
electric concertina silhouette memories.
Uniforms at a five in the morning wake up call
Denver’s airport high
above the Land of the Free -
Home of bridges falling down.
Home of the brave,
taking shelter
in ravines,
railroad boxcars,
in gas station latrines.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Remember
songs of the day -
Check some boxes,
pop some pills,
get patched up,
go on your way,
live to fight another day.”
Listen to the radio,copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Lookouts in the sky, a poem
Lookouts in the sky
By Mike Marcellino
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus
slicing up
from Mississippi,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather
painting
a partly sunny Sunday
party on the beach
of Erie in Ohio,
home of American natives
at a meet up,
lookouts of pau waus.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of cirros joins the treck
across
eastern skies,
making the sun
blink
on the heels of blizzards,
turned into dying snowflakes
after their fall
to an unearthly planet
day by day,
endless transformers
bleeding into slushy, muddy
melting piles,
curbside
pool craters.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus,
whipping up from
seas far south,
painting
a party sunny Sunday
on the beach
of West Palm,
home of spinner sharks
at a meet up
feeding frenzy
outside
three-foot blue curls,
ridden by surfers close by,
lookouts in the sky,
gifts of Zeus,
the Greek,
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky,
sudden clouds of puffy nimbus
pockets of rain, maybe snow
ridges in the sky
shut down
the sun’s furnace,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus
slicing up
from Mississippi,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather
painting
a partly sunny Sunday
party on the beach
of Erie in Ohio,
home of American natives
at a meet up,
lookouts of pau waus.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of cirros joins the treck
across
eastern skies,
making the sun
blink
on the heels of blizzards,
turned into dying snowflakes
after their fall
to an unearthly planet
day by day,
endless transformers
bleeding into slushy, muddy
melting piles,
curbside
pool craters.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus,
whipping up from
seas far south,
painting
a party sunny Sunday
on the beach
of West Palm,
home of spinner sharks
at a meet up
feeding frenzy
outside
three-foot blue curls,
ridden by surfers close by,
lookouts in the sky,
gifts of Zeus,
the Greek,
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky,
sudden clouds of puffy nimbus
pockets of rain, maybe snow
ridges in the sky
shut down
the sun’s furnace,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Walls of Fire, a poem
The Walls of Fire
By Mike Marcellino
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching -
rock cliffs and open fields,
Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh,
Devil’s Den, Gettysburg.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage,
bodies of brothers
touching -
sea to shining sea
lost in the Argonne forest
face down on beaches at Normandy,
frozen by the waters
of Chosin Reservoir.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage,
bodies of brothers
touching -
paddies, highlands
Nui Ba Dinh, the Black Virgin Mountain
Ashau Valley,
along the perimeter of Khe Sanh.
The walls of fire
grow higher,
higher
pools of blood,
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching -
empty deserts
filled with giant rising suns,
Fallujah rooftops,
unknown streets of Sidr City
barren mountains,
caves of Tora Bora.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher
pools of blood,
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching.
The walls of fire copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching -
rock cliffs and open fields,
Hornet’s Nest at Shiloh,
Devil’s Den, Gettysburg.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage,
bodies of brothers
touching -
sea to shining sea
lost in the Argonne forest
face down on beaches at Normandy,
frozen by the waters
of Chosin Reservoir.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher,
pools of blood
carnage,
bodies of brothers
touching -
paddies, highlands
Nui Ba Dinh, the Black Virgin Mountain
Ashau Valley,
along the perimeter of Khe Sanh.
The walls of fire
grow higher,
higher
pools of blood,
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching -
empty deserts
filled with giant rising suns,
Fallujah rooftops,
unknown streets of Sidr City
barren mountains,
caves of Tora Bora.
The walls of fire
grow higher
higher
pools of blood,
carnage
bodies of brothers
touching.
The walls of fire copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
What if, a poem
What if
by Mike Marcellino
What if
we carried plowshares,
not swords.
What if
we did good
without conditions,
expectations.
What if
we didn’t hate
didn’t participate,
traded love
for fear.
What if
we had
no excuses,
rationale
for carrying
rifles,
instead of hammers.
What if
Gandhi
Martin
Mohamed
Jesus
and Buddha
were here.
Would we
pass by.
What if
we all
had post
traumatic
stress
disorder
and
listened
to the CBC.
What if we
put our lives
on the line
for peace
before it
becomes
a war cliché.
What if
we all got
Purple Hearts.
Would we
award them to our children?
What if copyright Mike Marcellino 2009
by Mike Marcellino
What if
we carried plowshares,
not swords.
What if
we did good
without conditions,
expectations.
What if
we didn’t hate
didn’t participate,
traded love
for fear.
What if
we had
no excuses,
rationale
for carrying
rifles,
instead of hammers.
What if
Gandhi
Martin
Mohamed
Jesus
and Buddha
were here.
Would we
pass by.
What if
we all
had post
traumatic
stress
disorder
and
listened
to the CBC.
What if we
put our lives
on the line
for peace
before it
becomes
a war cliché.
What if
we all got
Purple Hearts.
Would we
award them to our children?
What if copyright Mike Marcellino 2009
Monday, December 29, 2008
Waiting down from Galilee, a poem
Waiting down from Galilee
by Mike Marcellino
What are we waiting for
sings a young Nashville girl
in a ballad for MTV.
Waiting down from Galilee.
What are we waiting for
asks an old man
piloting a ferry boat
to the South China Sea.
Waiting down from Galilee.
What are we waiting for
peace
to work
raise a family
faithfully.
Waiting down from Galilee.
What are we waiting for
divine intervention
in Tennessee
Vietnam
Gaza
Tel Aviv.
Waiting down from Galilee.
Waiting down from Galilee copyright Mike Marcellino 2008
After the fall, a poem
After the fall
By Mike Marcellino
In a time of universal deceit –
telling the truth is a revolutionary act. - George Orwell
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
A knight cold
In amour,
Drinking
Irish whiskey
Riding
After a girl of Twenty
Who goes her way
In a vegan powered bus from Omaha to Austin.
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
Anarchists hidden
In castles of fog,
on grey naked fields,
Midi-Pyrénées
Of the Counts of Toulouse
After the Fall.
Copyright 2008 by Mike Marcellino
By Mike Marcellino
In a time of universal deceit –
telling the truth is a revolutionary act. - George Orwell
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
A knight cold
In amour,
Drinking
Irish whiskey
Riding
After a girl of Twenty
Who goes her way
In a vegan powered bus from Omaha to Austin.
Stolen quotes,
Stolen hours.
Together,
Day and night
Frozen by time
After the Fall.
Anarchists hidden
In castles of fog,
on grey naked fields,
Midi-Pyrénées
Of the Counts of Toulouse
After the Fall.
Copyright 2008 by Mike Marcellino
Ok you, a poem with photographs
Ok you
by Mike Marcellino
I
Yesterday helpless moments nearly cracked me up
at XA TAM THO HIEP.
In chipped black letters
said the hamlet’s sign over the gate.
The day
left footprints on my brain;
Wrapped up in Vietnamese children and guns.
The children lit my eyes.
The guns bored my ears
ringing.
Stepped into the sluggish heat
back ‘n’ forth
war to a naked child.
by Mike Marcellino
I
Yesterday helpless moments nearly cracked me up
at XA TAM THO HIEP.
In chipped black letters
said the hamlet’s sign over the gate.
The day
left footprints on my brain;
Wrapped up in Vietnamese children and guns.
The children lit my eyes.
The guns bored my ears
ringing.
Stepped into the sluggish heat
back ‘n’ forth
war to a naked child.
Had a little friend
I’ll never see again;
Looked down
at his fraying, worn-soft hat;
Looked up
at the string of unfaded new ones
in the hamlet’s many-goods store.
II
Sampans,
thatched-roof huts,
in all shades of brown ‘n
n’skins
n’ stagnant watering mud holes.
This river-fed village
ever so struck
my shinny-metal,
clean-sheet mind
from first darkness to last,
each move clung
still clinging;
A red sun painted on the river’s ripples
showing the way to the day
laid open
by always hot tomorrow bringer.
Dykes of preoccupation broke down
in XA TAM THO HEIP,
making a slushy body
and an open mind.
III
I was cornered in a schoolroom
barren of learning
and window-paneless
with wooden stuff and rubble
filled with tens upon tens
of dark and dirty-skilled hungry hands
that took me to the brink of helplessness.
Their voices in tune
with outstretching hands
crying in monotone
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you,”
to me.
Over ‘n over
hands upon hands
hungry
for balloons.
Both gestures and sounds
of children
only broken
by cannons’
rocking blasts
bringing tiny index fingers
up to plug small ears.
I reached to the ceiling
and they clung and clutched
and followed
for a green balloon.
Tiny kids
crushed and swallowed.
I fought to keep sight of two hanging tears;
N’ once n’ a while
a snot-nosed baby
in his mother’s arms
came by.
Not a time of charm.
Your worth of colored balloons?
Hard to blow up ones,
that redden your face.
My appeals –
enough for everyone
I open only give one
at a time.
“Is red in
or out?”
By blood
given or sold?”
Some stuffed their match-book size pockets,
others cried.
“Was it a thing?
child-like
funny,
happening?”
I would not let go
the balloons to chaos,
nor,
let myself madden.
Me –
a stranger,
a non-speaker
among enlightening faces.
“One
two,
three,”
said me
to plop one balloon
in a hand
for clutching;
“Two bags of balloons
almost ugly
the giving,”
thinks balloon-less, self-relieved me.
IV
Men heaped soap to them,
like slop to pigs,
to scrambling
tatterly-clad kids.
I threw no balloons.
“What? non-speakers
throw things
at people
even,
hungry people.”
Though, “none were sick,”
said Doctor Soap.
V
A three-ringed circus
at XA TAM THO HIEP –
two big guns
and a give-away fun
in the riverside hamlet
off the beaten path
off the waterway
from Saigon to the South China Sea.
Two rings blasted jagged metal
from howitzers
and the men
and the guns
sank into the swampy earth;
Kids dragged
wooden shell boxes
and cardboard casings away.
Men and guns
too muddled;
Men huddled
with children echoing English –
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you;”
And the rings gave way
to the rising tide.
Two boys
racing
through mucky water
to bobbing
sea ration cans;
And the rectangular, blue-gray boats
pulled out
with me sleeping.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 1968, 1989, 2007, 2008
I’ll never see again;
Looked down
at his fraying, worn-soft hat;
Looked up
at the string of unfaded new ones
in the hamlet’s many-goods store.
II
Sampans,
thatched-roof huts,
in all shades of brown ‘n
n’skins
n’ stagnant watering mud holes.
This river-fed village
ever so struck
my shinny-metal,
clean-sheet mind
from first darkness to last,
each move clung
still clinging;
A red sun painted on the river’s ripples
showing the way to the day
laid open
by always hot tomorrow bringer.
Dykes of preoccupation broke down
in XA TAM THO HEIP,
making a slushy body
and an open mind.
III
I was cornered in a schoolroom
barren of learning
and window-paneless
with wooden stuff and rubble
filled with tens upon tens
of dark and dirty-skilled hungry hands
that took me to the brink of helplessness.
Their voices in tune
with outstretching hands
crying in monotone
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you,”
to me.
Over ‘n over
hands upon hands
hungry
for balloons.
Both gestures and sounds
of children
only broken
by cannons’
rocking blasts
bringing tiny index fingers
up to plug small ears.
I reached to the ceiling
and they clung and clutched
and followed
for a green balloon.
Tiny kids
crushed and swallowed.
I fought to keep sight of two hanging tears;
N’ once n’ a while
a snot-nosed baby
in his mother’s arms
came by.
Not a time of charm.
Your worth of colored balloons?
Hard to blow up ones,
that redden your face.
My appeals –
enough for everyone
I open only give one
at a time.
“Is red in
or out?”
By blood
given or sold?”
Some stuffed their match-book size pockets,
others cried.
“Was it a thing?
child-like
funny,
happening?”
I would not let go
the balloons to chaos,
nor,
let myself madden.
Me –
a stranger,
a non-speaker
among enlightening faces.
“One
two,
three,”
said me
to plop one balloon
in a hand
for clutching;
“Two bags of balloons
almost ugly
the giving,”
thinks balloon-less, self-relieved me.
IV
Men heaped soap to them,
like slop to pigs,
to scrambling
tatterly-clad kids.
I threw no balloons.
“What? non-speakers
throw things
at people
even,
hungry people.”
Though, “none were sick,”
said Doctor Soap.
V
A three-ringed circus
at XA TAM THO HIEP –
two big guns
and a give-away fun
in the riverside hamlet
off the beaten path
off the waterway
from Saigon to the South China Sea.
Two rings blasted jagged metal
from howitzers
and the men
and the guns
sank into the swampy earth;
Kids dragged
wooden shell boxes
and cardboard casings away.
Men and guns
too muddled;
Men huddled
with children echoing English –
“Ok you,
Ok you,
Ok you;”
And the rings gave way
to the rising tide.
Two boys
racing
through mucky water
to bobbing
sea ration cans;
And the rectangular, blue-gray boats
pulled out
with me sleeping.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 1968, 1989, 2007, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Music Street, a poem
Music Street
By Mike Marcellino
I know a street called Music Street
wish you could come along.
Music Street sings to me
it could do the same for you.
Driving along it’s quiet too
but you have to walk to hear your song
on Music Street.
There’s a picture in my mind
two little girls kneeling
beside a tombstone in a cemetery
alongside the road.
Grain fields dance on Music Street
In tune with the flickering sun.
Come along with me down Music Street,
when your mind is getting tired,
for the song I hear is one of
just peace and fun.
Music Street, copyright by Mike Marcellino, 1974, 2008
By Mike Marcellino
I know a street called Music Street
wish you could come along.
Music Street sings to me
it could do the same for you.
Driving along it’s quiet too
but you have to walk to hear your song
on Music Street.
There’s a picture in my mind
two little girls kneeling
beside a tombstone in a cemetery
alongside the road.
Grain fields dance on Music Street
In tune with the flickering sun.
Come along with me down Music Street,
when your mind is getting tired,
for the song I hear is one of
just peace and fun.
Music Street, copyright by Mike Marcellino, 1974, 2008
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