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Angela Consolo Mankiewicz, US
 

 

 

 

Free Verse

 

De-Cap

 

"blacklisted screenwriter Robert Lees, 91, found murdered
and decapitated in his home Sunday morning, June 20, 2004".

 

A pool, seeming Olympic sized,
roped off into lanes as in Olympic trials

The competitors today, are white,
American, young of course, male

Tomorrow there may be others, yellowish,
Eurasian, young of course, maybe female

But this is today and I lay on the slab
by the pool, naked from the waist down looking

At their lovely and anxious faces, breathing
lovely, anxious breaths; one curly blond

Head looks up at me to explain: we compete
to be best at saving lives otherwise doomed

Do you understand? he asks. I say nothing.
He smiles an earnest smile and says: should we

Do well at life-saving, we may be chosen
to vie for clean decapitation, clean enough

That severed heads leave no dangling detritus,
clean enough to present to Herod, before Salome

Can desecrate them - if not, we must turn them
over to be tagged, set on those shelves with all

The others, a disgrace neither we nor our families
are likely to survive. Do you understand?

 

Note: this was/is an attempt to expiate the horror of a friend's end and perhaps the even more horrific image of his lovely, 85 year old, longtime girlfriend having discovered the blanket-covered body, calling 911, and following instructions to "see if he's still breathing" to find the headless corpse of her beloved that Sunday afternoon.

 

 

A Putting Aside

 

A sadness,
already weary
after an anger,
revivable, but
not, it appears,
worth the effort

"Remember the good times
and have a drink on me"

Bon Voyage from ICU

from a long-lived friend

20 years in the making

very different from you

but fitting, nonetheless.
acknowledging our half

dozen years of funny times,
crying times, there-for-you times

    times   so many   times   a litany of   times   too
    fast too much "girlfriend" too soon   way   too needy


Of course, it couldn't last


Who could survive re-
creation in someone
else's image

someone unknown
at the time
to be alien


all out-of-this-
world's intentions
notwithstanding

 

 

Temporary Poem 2 - Begun October 18, 2001: Rants

 

It's not a game anymore
    I'm not bored anymore

*****

What a spectacular way to blast
demons out of one's brain: mother's
wrongs, fathers' neglects, sibling's
stupidity, child's ingratitude...

What more could you ask for? Here
are our own, fat, commercial planes
re-formatted into missiles to bomb
our own, fat capitol buildings
more
capitol than the Capitol


Yes, Yes, Of Course we will not forget
Plane 3
a chunk of the Pentagon gone,
Plane 4
the White House (if, indeed,
aimed at) missed; and the Chief staining
his shorts on Air Force 1 heading for SAC ....

Yes, Yes, Of Course .... But it's New York
we mean when we say: it will never be the same

everyone's saying that, the same thing, over
and over, like the televised images over and over:
plane 1: BAM-CRAsh-fIREbALL
plane 2:
BAM-CRAsh-firebALL over and over, the same
thing over and over
the same,
never the same, always
the same.

Like when you had the heart attack; like
when "breast cancer" was said, outloud

*****

We are become united, stricken nuts by our own
media's incessant re-plays of one American jetliner
followed by another American jetliner, cruising
through the top floors of American commerce,

top floors that once toppled the glory
of the Empire State Building, the real
"tallest building in NYC",
now loathe to retake the title.

 

 

...Temporary Poem 2 - Continued April 20, 2008: More Rants

 

Sunlight and moonlight don't agree with you,
you who sneered at your fellows buying flags
to flap from their cars and FDNY t-shirts
to send their kids to school in; you
who aren't afraid of comforts and planned
pleasures, who can hang your head at vigils
with the best of them, your fellows; then piss
at your god from a pissed-off throat: gotcha
again
the bastardjust like the marke
with the best of them - gotcha right in the ass.

Is it a game again?
    Am I bored again?

*****

Think back to that day
when we, not present at the conflagration,
not blind from smoke or crazy from sirens
and screams, heard the news; think back
to the silence in our towns and cities;
only tvs and radios reporting the only story

no blaring rap, no thumping rock, no copters,
seems not even birds or barking dogs, no horns,
no road rage; only smiles and remembered civilities
for those same "fellow" Americans.

A tear for the good old days.

Before the heart attack, before "breast cancer"
was said outloud.

When it was a game. When I was bored.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read Additional Poems by Angela Consolo Mankiewicz

 

Angela Consolo Mankiewicz, US: Free Verse from Chapbook, As If: Who Am I To Cry, "Smiles Of a Summer Night", As If

 

 

 

 

 

 

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