I am going to try to compose and post one poem a month, and, publish a poetry book next August. Perhaps with illustrations.
JP
Smoking Cigarettes With Raphael
by
John Presco
Raphael and I
smoking cigarettes
together in the dinette
This couquette
who spoke perfect French
had two wondrous dimples
above her derriere
The sign of Libra
the balancing of Love
promises
in days to come
when we were young
sprinkling cinnamon
on the popped toast
eating all the butter.
Sprinkle Sprinkle
Little Star
I couldn’t wait
till Christine came home
from school
I in need of some company
painting all mourning long
as a failure
at seventeen
Large canvases
wiped out
on the fumes
coming in the back door
just to say hello
I lied
Yes I noticed
the dimples at the corner
of your smile
and the twinkle
in your smoke-filled
eye
“Another cigarette
Mademoiselle?”
School girls
So innocent
I so jaded
from reading art books
in my high-school
drop-out world
that they promised me
would be a living hell
without them
my schoolmates
in the cafeteria line.
Not for me
the Good Grade
grab bag
of Total lies
What truths
do you own now
Mr. Wise Guy?
“Pas me
the pack of Marlboroughs!”
Mr. Fougette was a French chef
from a line of them
Christine discribed
the seven course meal
while I was hungry
Raphael testified
we Prescos
had no food.
most of the time
Just cinnamon toast
in the alclove
talking art
waiting for the toaster
to do its thing
Pass the butter
merci
Playing scrabble
with the sisterhood
by Rosemary’s
Reseda pool
Everyone of them
is gone
I left alone
to search for words
Christine on the cusp
of being famous
wearing a funny hat
Pass the tile box
please
Rosemary
have you marked
the X, Q,
and Z?
Cheating at Scrabble
Cheating at Art
I used to pen poems
to my finished work
I declining the guitar lessons
Bryan offered me
telling him I am creating spaces
with no expectations
no comericalisation
allowing un-known notes
to find each other
Scrape Scrape Scrape
the sound of cinnamon toast
and grumbling stomachs
as Raphael and I
looked so cool
smoking cigarettes
in our after-school
Bohemian Hot Spot.
All winter long
we passed the butter
and the time
Mark did not join us
that is a un-artistic lie
I was tempted by
this French maiden
to take her out back
to the little shack I made
the bed I raised
on stolen palletes.
I was her foreign ideal
I owned a European look
If I had seen Raphael
in the nude
we would have had children
and more smoking of ciggerettes
in the afterglow.
Much more after-glow
because
She had the most
perfect derirre
waiting for me
in our Little Bohemia
carved out of
that giant city
“Plus de toasts cinnomen?”
“Merci!”
