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Control

was my problem
- lack of it
and need for it -
according to my Pop
psychologist who paid the bills
with child-like scribblings on checks from crazies
worse than ME
but submissive enough
to believe her daily diatribes.

"So, you think you're cured?"

"No, but I believe you're insane."

The White Jacketed One,
glasses steamed-up with rage,
pounded my chest
before punching me
in the crotch. After my ass-kicking
she waved, "Goodbye,"
through the tiny door window.

I would have given her my best
one-finger salute
but with my arms tied
criss-crossed in front of me
all I could do
was stick out my tongue
and drool...

- Joseph D. DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum12.17.11)

editor's note: Lost yours, restrained by theirs? Be Houdini! And, wipe your chin. - mh

Walls

she climbs
skips on
jumps down
runs back
to start the adventure all over again.

On the day they laid to rest
my mother
along side my Papa
she hop scotched
on nameplates of service men, women
whose best dances of life
reverberated on battlefields
from the Civil to the Middle Eastern.

The three year old never noticed
the dates of birth, departure
but enjoyed the words, the community
who paid tribute on 11-11-11
to her Nana
her playpal
who surely gazed upon her
from a distance
and remembered
what it was like
to run on the grass, pick flowers for the fun of it
and return to the loving arms
of her parents...

- Joseph D. DiLella

(added 12.17.11)

The Man With the Jack-in-the-Box Bag

slid it over the table top, greasy trail and all,
to the edge, next to my over-sized envelop
with his boss' name on it. He reached - I covered the manilla 8x10
before saying, "It's all here? Exactly
what I asked for?"
Cowboy hat tipped down, the words,
"Aren't they always? Don't you ever trust me?"
This time, the drop off location was more lively
than usual amidst the biker gang
bangers throwing packets,
open HOT secret sauce hand grenades
at the fry cooks beyond the counter.
Applause from the patrons
jeered the especially bad tasting Tacos.
"But this is the last one, amiga - no more left
in the desert or the safe," he added before slipping his hand
to my inner thigh, rubbing me down as if we were on a date
at a drive in. Learned in the YWCA Defense Class, I bent his index
finger backwards
until he cried, "Uncle!" and I slipped my package
across the chipped table surface
into his lap.
"Never call me again, Bitch, or I'll set the Doberman's after you,"
he muttered, rubbing his middle digit
before using it on me
as he stumbled out of the joint.
Turned away, staring out the picture window
towards the parking lot where my old man told stories
of the road as if he were Kerouac himself,
I uncrumpled the easy-to-carry paper carry all
scooped the gel from the unmarked jar
that radiated like the Sun on a 100 degree day
in the Barrio, rubbed it across my sunburned face,
and closed my eyes...

- Joseph DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 10.14.11)

editor's note: Much ado about sun block. There must be an easier way for a girl to protect herself. - mh

Dignity

is what he's all about.

Struttin' his stuff,
twirlin' his gentleman's cane
tippin' his top hat
to all the neighbors, seniors
and children jumping rope in the blazin' heat.

Doesn't matter to him
- they'd roast his nuts
honey-glazed, dry-roasted
but he'd still rescue
cats in
overgrown trees
dogs in
burning buildings.

Hell, they'd even name
a snack
after our hero
worshiped by movie goers everywhere
in his honor.

Yet, on one dusky evening,
a new crew invaded the hood,
eyed the one of distinction
knocked off his lid with a baseball bat
kicked his walking stick to the curb
and slapped his eye-piece to the sewer grid.

Before their belly laughs died
the over-sized, crazy eight shaped victim
jumped in the air, kicked two gang bangers
in the throat, before landing on another's feet
crushing toes, breaking ankles.

Limping back to the expensive ride,
the leader pulled out a .32 snub-nose,
shooting the bulbous one in the ribs,
propelling him to the stoop.

Draggin' his right leg, the leader of the pack
clicked the gun. "Adios, freak!"
but fell to the steps with a groin kick
Jackie Chan would be proud of.

Top hat, monocle, and black stick retrieved,
the urban myth walked towards the sunset
before saying, "You don't mess around
with Mr. Peanut, Slim."

- Joseph DiLella

(added 10.14.11)

Hard Times

has so many meanings
transfixed on difficulties, times of
economies in dumpsters,
ex-CEO's dumpster diving
finding remnants, crumbs of existence
once given to them on silver, platinum
card, platters filled with heads
of enemies vanquished.

For the working class,
heartache spreads to field workers
picking, squatting, bending over
taking it in
the behind
from bosses Cool Hand Luke
would smile that charming grin
before fleeing to parts unknown
only to return to entertain his mates
with grandiose stories,
eggs, dozens and dozens of eggs,
before taking his final reward
right between the eyes.

If Gabriel ever asks me
to play my trumpet
I'll tell him I don't blow it
anymore for I blew it
on Earth when
I left her in an alley
behind the all night cafe
in a nice, tidy lettuce box
filled with cooling green leafs,
hot sun rising across the valley.

On my deathbed, as I float away,
my heart will be with her
- if she lives
in a simple adobe,
fancy mansion tall,
or workin’ through the hard times
on the streets, short skirts, knee highs
in fear of abandonment
from lovers,
haters
and God.

- Joseph D. DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 08.20.11)

There's More to Wet

than your tears
show me.

Reservoirs filled to capacity,
levees breaking
no one can control.
Nature overpowers
human emotions
but both find harbor
safe
as thunderstorms throttle shorelines
powerboats, gondolas pulled to safety
on village streets in sea
towns where life depends on
trade of crabs, lobsters and abalone.

Tilt your glass to mine
savor the red
leave the hurt for another night
press your upper to my lower
lip, drink the drops
from my eyes
as we say goodbye.

- Joseph D. DiLella

(added 08.20.11)

Places

I am hiding
can you see me
walking to the dances
where singers rejoice
lovers unite
preachers pointing fingers
to the heavens and hells
rings of glory, rings of fire
predicting the end
to everyone
but them?

I see you hidden
between the cold sheets covered
with her perfume, cheap, like the woman
who wears you around her waist,
bumping in rhythm
on the market streets
sellers of all that glitters
for lovers and losers.

I tried to write a song
but my fingers bled
black and blue thinking of you
until I asked him to write it for me
as I caressed his shoulders strong
torso muscled, eyes focused
on the prize hidden in between
the Crack Jacks remains
of sticky, stubby caramel corns and rancid peanuts.

Eyes closed, I twirled my index
finger until it hit the village on the border state
Thomas Brothers promised
with mountains taller and valleys lower
than you.

With four to the floor,
I'm motoring around the bends
up the winding roads,
a new place
to hide
but only from myself
and never, ever
from you.

- Joseph D. DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 07.03.11)

Inside Us All

resides the Devil
the leader of the dead condemned
who tells us to hear his voice
obey his commands
to do the taboo
the unthinkable
the irresponsible
only once, then twice, even thrice
until the distinction between
right and wrong
dark and light
remains indistinguishable
to those who should know
the difference.

Hear that sound?

It's opportunity knocking...

- Joseph D. DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 05.30.11)

Hurry-up and Pee

is something I've thought of a million times
well, maybe only a half million
in so many different situations.

"Take this into the bathroom, sir,
and fill it to the thin blue line" said the uncaring technician
while I pray the poppy seed muffin from last night's dessert
doesn't disqualify me from another job
- even though it's only an online teaching gig.

"The cops are comin '- finish already!"
whispers my fifteen year old drinking buddy
as we piss in the park woods, like all bears would,
after downing a half case of beer.

"And there it goes - another towering homerun for Gonzales!"
shouts the broadcaster through the radio speaker mounted above my head
as I struggle to wiggle any drops out
in a standing room only stadium men's room.

"I can't stay in this position forever, darlin'",
purrs the kitty in the cozy bed
as I rush to little boy's room
to alleviate fluid build-up
of the uncomfortable kind
for the more kindly type.

And right now
as I frenetically type away
I need to finish this
before I . . . oh shit
never mind.

- Joseph D. DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 04.02.11)

Nightmares

Are meant for mean old men like Scrooge
who were taught the golden rule:
do not do onto others
before they do unto you
unless
you can get away with it
without
visitations from spirits of the past, present or future.

Bad dreams have never been
a money thing with me
but more of a reminder
that I'm not good enough
to live in my own skin. Why? I'm not sure
but I always find ways to re-live my worst fears
of taking those final exams without preparation
not having the proper qualifications for the best job
or being kicked out of my parent's home for being - adopted.

The best of the lot are the macabre
a murder I did not commit
or one that was recently found out
and I run like the wind
away from the authorities
men in old time police uniforms driving keystone cop wagons
who close in on me in abandoned warehouses
sirens blaring, speaker phones as loud as civil sirens.
I check my handgun
for the number of bullets left in the cartridge
but the damn thing always jams and I'm cornered.
I fail to escape the fuzz but it's always fun
to nearly exchange fire with Elliot Ness
before I'm handcuffed
and thrown inside a paddy wagon
headed for downtown booking and beatings.

Still, the one I'll never forget
the one that awoke me
to a heart racing sweat
was not for an electric chair execution
but a visitation of a man long departed.

While boarding abroad
sleeping in my grandfather's bed
in Cerreto Sannita, a small Italian mountain town
that sent hundreds of immigrants to the good U.S. of A.
in the 30's to live in small isolated neighborhoods
only to lose their lives in dye mills and steel plants
instead of living the American dream
a man from my past gave me the message:
"Tell your father I understand
why he never returned to our home
. . . and I forgive him."

I wonder if nightmares
are simply fears played out
in black and white
sometimes color
or simply a nudge from souls departed
to tell us to live our lives
to the fullest without hurting others.

Sleep on it
and if you find out
let me know
what Christmas future
has in store for me, okay?

- Joseph D. DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 02.14.11)

Behind Art

Is the creative spark
to push individuality
non-conformity into unity
in merely a few words, images
that explain everything
but says nothing
beyond the ordinary
experiences of men, women
who fight to survive
against wars, economic collapses
bosses, big and small,
and lovers scorned
who see anger at every turn
and strive to stifle, squash
any and every attempt
at one person's attempt to explain
pain, love, brutality, compassion
in the corner of one's mind.

So the next time you see
a homeless, hobo, bum
climb out of a dumpster
ten yards away from a work of art
by a harborside dock
in my hometown
- like the ten foot tall black hand
holding a multicolored fish called Wanda
in its vice-like grip -
open your wallet, pull out a Jackson
for his/her lunatic rantings of ownership
of art such as this
just may be true . . .
. . . and the artist
may be me.

- Joseph D. DiLella

(added 02.14.11)

Jacob's Ladder?

Clergy shout it
behind the pulpit
to those below them
in the rows of repentance -
the way for the righteous
is up
one step at a time
to the big meet and greet
with the deity of sublime resolve.

My little lost cowgirl of splendor and grace
the one with the knee high boots
and knockout smile
always reminded me
of biblical admonitions
while roping steers
"God looks down upon us
no matter where we were
even in the pastures" she said
as we stole away moments
of pleasure
under the watchful eye.

One late afternoon in the barn
stacking hay loads
in pens meant for cows, pigs
I borrowed a twenty footer
and up I went
to meet her. Hours later
on my way down
I slipped on a rotted wooden rung
and fell ass first
onto the finest dairy milker of the bunch
breaking my fall
but breaking her back.

"Why did you kill my Bessy?"
daddy dearest snarled as he caressed the diary's best
in his calloused hands. "What were you doin' upstairs?"

Reflecting on the man upstairs
and his words of wisdom I replied,
"The crane dumped over the excess hay.
I tried to push 'em in, even and straight
but they fell on the poor thing."

The haggard rancher stood over me
looked deep into the eyes of his daughter
before saying, "Next time
you help yourself to the milk,
you'd better be prepared to buy the whole cow -
or you'll climb up Jacob's ladder
much sooner than you think."

The next day
I left farming all together
- right after I kissed the girl of my lonely nights goodbye
to take up door to door solicitation
of Gideon's finest bibles
for those non-believers
who think being scared straight
is only for wicked.

- Joseph DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 12.24.10)

Night Vision

Whiskey, rum, wine
may wash away pain
but tonight's drip drip dripping
of mother nature's little helper
falls down on me, around me
and through the gutter
playing rat-a-tat songs across the red car canopy
while I soak in the coolness
to another summer night.

Minutes later, I take refuge behind bars of steel
meant to protect me
from society's infamous
and the innocent
scattered throughout the neighborhood.

And I see them all.

Across the alley
flickering images
through the curtains
of UFC battles on a 3-D flatscreen
a couple coupling to the beatings
like bronco riders taming the wild beast.

The blue and red lights alternate flashing
while the MAN checks on a license plate of the gang cruiser
as another homeless staggers down the sidewalk
and pukes in the street.

Waves of shouts
for the victors
boomerang off the walls
of the bar
as the fans cheer
another loser pummeled
until he taps out
on the thirst for fame
from a ring, a cage
meant more for animals than humans.

I pray for more water
from the heavens
so I can taste the last of God's blood
the dirtiest of it
puddled in the bucket
and slide it into my Jack Daniel's
my fifth glass tonight.

Time to sleep off my night
in my girlfriend's flat
and forget about
my wife's rage
my baby's tears
my heart's numbness
of just another day
worst than the one before.

- Joseph DiLella

(added 12.24.10)

Whatever it Takes

To stop you
from taking the watery plunge off Golden Gate's
infamous point of no return
has been my goal since
the first night I met you
in coach as you flew
between cars
looking for anyone to confess
your desolation, isolation, configuration
to your final out of control
spiral through the rings of HELL.

Cajoling, coercing, connecting
to the real you
is a tough road, my friend,
for the part that wishes for life
won't listen
beyond the immediate pain
unemployment checks used to fill in
with numbers low enough
that bank tellers snicker
when handing
the meager payouts
to your sweating palms
that always need to hold a drink
- vodka - water chaser
a bubbly sparkling blend inside crinkled plastic bottles
that fools nobody
but it medicates you, as you admit,
to accept reality
one more stinkin' day.

After hours of telephone counseling
the wound surprisingly healed over
a thin layer of, "I'm okay, really,
you've cured me."

But are you?

How did you turn it around?

You haven't explained it
yet
so is the truth
a convenient lie
Al Gore would be proud of
to get me off your back?

We plan to meet
in person
on that final weekend
of gamesmanship
between the Giants and Padres
for the division title.

But here's the bigger problem:
Do you promise
to stop me
from jumping off the highest building
if my team loses
or will we go hand and hand
gently into the night
one for lack of hope
the other for
lack of perspective?

- Joseph DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 11.07.10)

I Need a BIG Whiskey

Said the man on the street
who shouted high to the rooftops
and low to the little children in the streets
between saxophone toot toot ta toots
that rang true to even seasoned musicians
on the Brooklyn streets.

"I'll give you what you need
if you can answer me one question:
How the hell you learn to play so well
like the devil blowin' when he takes a soul to hell?"

After tying a yellow looking shoelace
frayed more than those on my cleats from high school days
he cocked his head up.

"Funny you ask me that question
for the other day
some guy with a pitchfork
and a pointy tail sauntered by
and begged to know my secret.
Know what I told him?" he replied
as he crooked his finger my way.

I bent over to hear his secret.

And he said
- no shouted -
in my good ear

"I need a BIG whiskey."

After the ringing subsided
in my now other bad auditory canal
I slipped him a twenty.

Sax man shoved it
in his pocket, patted my shoulder
and told me his secret.

Today, you can find me
on a different street
playin' my horn
and asking for handouts
as I always seem to thirst
for more than I've got.

- Joseph DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 09.09.10)

Dave Isn't Here

"I used to own my own boat,
planned to sail it around the world
until I busted my legs,"
said the hooded storyteller
as I wheeled him
up, over or around
sidewalk barriers
even able bodied people couldn't clear
just outside my apartment complex
that one night after a vicious argument
with my wife and mother of our only child.

"I used to have a young daughter, too,
a lot older than your 18 month old,
he said in softer tones
as we moved up and across the flood channel
where other men and women of the night
made home in the shadows
with pets as protectors
from cops, others
more desperate.
"She's her own woman now
a professor in Women's Studies."

"Talk too her recently?"

"Yeah, a couple of years ago
but any call from the states
across the Canadian border
just too damn expensive."

"Bet she'd like to hear from you
- even collect," I said, wondering if mine
would grace Ivy Halls one day.

"Nah, I'll call her from Hawaii -
the government owes me
a freebie as a busted-up veteran.
I'll make 'em pay."

An hour later,
over the bridge and through the woods
not to grandmother's house
we parted ways
on the shore
next to the amusement park,
the 75 year old wooden roller coaster
and a place he'd known
comfortably
as bartender
a dozen or so years ago,
not as refuge
but as a human
with wife, daughter, job,
home.

"Thanks man,"
he said for the dozenth time
as he reached out his hand
. . . and I hesitated
before grasping it firmly.

I faced him
for the first time
and although he sounded
more like a man of forty before
he looked the part of a sixty year old
in the boardwalk lights.

Not to wash away the man
but my hands
of the grime his calluses collected
like a bicycle chain in need of lubrication,
I walked into the public washroom
for vacationers with money
for ice cream, hot dogs, sunglasses
but not for men like Dave.

Still, three of five sinks had feces
proudly mounted
as three scoops on a waffle cone
a practical joke
from a fraternity down the street
but one that gave
my friend, those that needed it most,
no sense of dignity.

A minute later
with hands no cleaner than before
I looked for the refugee
of the night
but he was out of sight.

I bike there almost every afternoon this summer
but I've never seen him again,
doubt I ever will
though I hope
a post card from Hawaii
or Toronto
might fall out of my mailbox
one day
when I least expect it...

- Joseph DiLella

(added 09.09.10)

Storyteller

“Is this a poem?”
she asked after handing me a honey dripping piece
of baklava
as I read her swooning lines
of one word couplets,
exclamations of LOVE
and LUST
executed and convicted
in the usual fashion.

The author blinked her baby blues
my way
before entangling our sticky fingers
and whispering, “You know he’s out of my life, right?”

Caught between the devil and the deep
blue sea I replied, “I see”, and returned
to my psychoanalysis on the crayon scrawled musings
and secrets of a loony bin inmate twice removed.

“So – is it poetry?”

Inching closer
on a bench meant for threesomes
of bus patrons on 10th and Central
the nutcase laughed hysterically
as a drunken college student tripped
on the sidewalk and fell
into her boyfriend’s arms.

“If you breathe life into it
– fiction or non –
it’s poetry.”

“Do you know how much I respect your opinion?”
the temptress responded before folding the paper
into a heart – which I did not wish to take.

As good ol’ number 23 pulled up
to the puke-puddled curb
with misfits aboard who gazed out their windows
like zombies searching for just the right brains
I nodded and tucked away the crumpled
blood-pumping verses into my jeans,
kissed her meekly on the cold rosy cheek,
and waved goodbye amongst the living dead
while wondering which questions of
love lost
love gained
in a poetic fashion
would ever come between us . . .

- Joseph DiLella

(featured in the poetry forum 06.15.10)

The Howling

The shrill whistle of the wind
relentlessly clawed
at brick, mortar, and panes
rattling through the air like a Katrina hurricane.

Between the lightening sirens
screams of discontent
thoughts on other storm fronts
erupted like dam breaks
flooding my mind
with thoughts I had hidden away
for years.

I prayed
to my God
I could grab each one
by the throat
and throw them all off
the highest ground
so I
and others
could finally rest
in peace.

The eerie silence of the fourteen year old
military prep student who couldn’t speak for days.

Pillows, sheets and bedding bloodied
and face fractured spoke for her.

A father’s revenge would be swift
if she had been mine
an act for men everywhere
who had daughters
in places that needn’t be.

His large hands
scarred from general stints in ‘Nam and Iraq
were tied behind his back
so all he could do was hold his daughter
the day she finally let go
and cried openly in his arms
for hours.

Bobby Womack’s rendition of California Dreamin’
wafting through the hallways round midnight
of my Ivory Tower job
that owned me like a plantation worker
working for peanuts
and my owner’s wealth.

Five years later
I finally stopped performing
a purposeful dance
around my master’s campfire,
a tango of civility,
to those creatures around me.

Not so long ago I was vital
to poor readers and worse writers
who needed someone, anyone,
to guide them into deeper thoughts
than multiple choice and show and tell tap dances
until I was terminated
by popular demand.

Then music stopped entirely
the day she had entered my life.

Hip Hop was her favorite diversion
the scent of her was mine,
the one who promised me
the time of my life
but only left me with the residue of desire
and a revealing text message
of guilt on my cell
that led me to sign away my rights
on another stack of papers
my wife filed three months later
for custody of our seventeen month old.

Hail ping-ponged on the tin roof
and ricocheted off the glass
like paintball pellets
used on civil protestors on campus
who screamed for less war
more tax dollars for the poor.

What had I done?

I ran for cover
cowered behind a set of tall bushes
next to the WWII memorial statue
home of the brave.

Swept up in a tornado
swallowed up like Dorothy and Toto in Kansas
my Jack Daniels bottle tipped over
onto the mattress, rolled over and over again
as I gazed at the blown-in window
while twenty foot elms flew around the yard.

Ol’ Blue Eyes played softly on YouTube
as I looked into her baby browns
framed like an angel
in my bleeding hands
the ones who would never hold
or sing her to sleep
ever again.

Before I heard
the click of the hammer
after I pulled the trigger
I prayed my little one
would never hear about
my indiscretions
my cowardliness
my final act
until she was old enough
or found a calm in her life
that I never could.

- Joseph DiLella

(added 06.15.10)

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