Maybe I’ve been running numbers—juggling money in my head—for too many years. Maybe I’ve lost touch with my poetic voices, whatever that means. I mean, I’m still writing, sure. I pace around my apartment, scribbling into several different notebooks. I research and debate on social media, I keep things clean while the partner is at work: dishes, laundry, grocery shopping. I make dinner every night.  “So, you’re a house husband.” my friend Mike summarized, walking from his kitchen. He handed me a beer, plopped back on his sofa, and smiled. “The gritty poetry of homemaking.” Mike sipped his beer, nodded his head, and coughed. “I like it.” On the days I’m not writing, I go to Mike’s apartment. He’s an old friend from high school—known him for years—and he’s been a particularly good friend lately: loaning me money, feeding me when there were no groceries, listening to my insane ranting about the state of the country, the economy, the species, the world. Mike knows nothing about politics or poetry. He’s been teaching me how to watch football—a way for me to unwind and relax. “Take a break from saving the world and watch a game,” Mike said, on the day my football adventure started. It was a few weeks back. I stopped by with $60 he’d loaned me to cover my electric bill, and he gently badgered me into staying. “You look like hell, man!” he said. “Take a break from saving the world, and watch a game with us.” He had company, but I don’t remember which teams were playing. My head was spinning. “Come on man,” Mike handed me a beer, “the game just started…take a seat.” I honestly wanted to cry, but thought better of it. Thanks, Mike.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hxTwwhdMFw

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—feel your mind squeeze
the throat—choke—a beaten

down car—a side road—open
window retreat—the wind through

the trees—natural static
—hissing beneath the traffic’s

harsh slapping
doppler vibrations—

past the corporate glass
dildos raping the sky—inch by

infected inch—all for the profits—
internal combustion— and a wheeze of

noise pollution—turn them off—all
our various engines—on the count

of a decade—and maybe
we’ll hear the breeze again—

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:: memoirs in fragments ::
By Charles Bivona

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She didn’t know I was sobbing. My hands were shaking: anxiety. I misspelled every other word. She said she didn’t mind. She reads my writing. We’ve been chatting on and off for months. I’ve never seen her face. I only know her avi. That’s Twitter speak. An avi is the little picture that represents you in the stream. Stream: that’s more Twitter speak. They say I’m a Twitter star—whatever that means. My friend, the female avi, just popped up in my gmail chat—“I am so proud of you,” she wrote, but I didn’t know why. So, I asked her. She spoke in riddles—energy and divine spirit and true to soul. I told her my father beat the God out of me—childhood. She said, “that’s fine.” She loves me just the way I am—the scared little boy who became a poet. “Because Charlie,” she wrote, I assumed emphatically, “that’s what you are!”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=sC35bcJk7Vk

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memoirs in fragments
by Charles Bivona

[It's my Leaves of Grass]

» Start Here «

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