Joe
Page 1
Joe
By
John J. Beach
~~~~
Published By
Joe
Copyright © 2013 by John J. Beach
~~~~
License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase a copy of your own. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
~~~~
Contents
Introduction: Joe
Airport Terminal
Flying in the SUV
Dwelling Place
Rough Housing
Petting Livestock
Member of the EPA
Further Basement Detail
Hitting the Bricks
Immurement Empathy
Social Function and the Secondhand Eight Year Old
Inter Networking
Curves and Tangential Lines
Ends of the Earth
Aetiolation
Devising
Watching the Boy Play
Pig Iron
Pedestrian Priest, Bicycling Boy
Ōþala
Repointing
About the Author
Introduction
The terzanelle is a poetic form that combines elements from the terza rima and the villanelle. Terza is italian for one third (of three equal parts), while rima means rhyme. Each stanza of a terza-rima poem contains three lines—often ten syllables each—and the poetic structure uses an end-rhyming pattern: ABA, BCB, CDC, and so on. A terza rima poem can consist of any number of these interlocking tercets, but it usually concludes with a couplet (or a single line) rhyming with the second line of the last tercet. The subject matter of the poem can be about anything, but anecdotes or descriptive portraits are popular.
Joe is a book of 20 terzanelle poems. These poems are also a work of sequential fiction created and arranged in order to tell the story of a young boy. After his mother moves halfway around the world without him, Joe is transplanted into new surroundings and culture. Here, he befriends a pig, and, within an old photograph, he discovers what he believes is a great mystery.
Joe is dedicated to the inquisitive children who live inside of all of us. May we never outgrow them.
~~~~
Airport Terminal
“I love you—with an exclamation mark.”
Her words rustle in Joe’s brain. She unbends,
rises ready to board and disembark
without her young man. Where this journey wends,
her path, uncertain. Like a wind-blown leaf,
her words rustle in Joe’s brain as she unbends
their small family. “The Great Barrier Reef
can be seen from space, Joe. It’s biotic.”
Her path, uncertain, like a wind-blown leaf.
Her touch, bloodless. It’s a broken-off stick,
no longer serves the community. “It
can be seen from space, Joe. It’s biotic,
the largest skeleton the world has knit.”
At this point, Joe feels his bones. His mother
no longer serves the community. It
will exist in memories that smother
“I love you” with an exclamation mark.
At this point, Joe feels his bones. His mother
rises, ready to board and disembark.
Flying in the SUV
Rear-storage pockets on the bucket seat—
Joe tips fingers in, stretches back the flaps,
repeats a plop-popping polyester beat.
Dad pendulums eyes from road to boy, wraps
short, meaty-hands on the steering wheel’s neck.
Joe tips fingers in, stretches back. The flaps
flop. Joe’s hand flutters, circles the flight deck
(the plastic armrest), landing in a screech.
Short, meaty-hands on the steering wheel’s neck
twist, crush out an audible squeak, beseech,
“Read. Quietly. My son.” Joe props upon
the plastic armrest. Landing in a screech,
his eyes claw roadway signs, catch on
names of cities, rattle inside his head.
“Read quietly, my son.” Joe props upon
the floor carpet, haunch sits. Both his hands spread
rear-storage pockets on the bucket seat.
The names of cities rattle inside. His head
repeats plop-popping polyester beats.
Dwelling Place
“That’s it, there.” Joe watches the farm house grow
two-, four-, eight-times larger as they draw near
driving up a stretch of Class 5 gravel,
park their beast, wait for Grandma to appear.
His father’s mother is now Joe’s mother
(two-, four-, eight-times larger). As they draw near,
her gravity pulls one then the other.
She presses her freckles to their faces.
His father’s mother is now Joe’s mother.
Slender hugs become sumo embraces,
stretches. Morning begins at five o’clock.
She presses her freckles to their faces.
Little Boy, her cat, paces, likes to stalk
murky against the wood, looks for someone,
stretches. “Morning” begins at five o’clock
at night, with cat’s lair shrouded from the sun.
That’s it. There, Joe watches the farmhouse grow
murky against the wood, looks for someone
driving up a stretch of Class 5 gravel.
Rough Housing
For the first week, Joe follows Little Boy,
learns the lay of the house—slanted. Its floors
tip towards rugged decor that’s Hoi Polloi,
rooms with air pockets full of the outdoors.
The cat knows the warmest spots, and Joe soon
learns the lay of the house. Slanted, its floors
don’t quite meet the walls, and a mousey tune
scratches, burning between the two by fours.
The cat knows the warmest spots, and Joe soon
is there listening with him. Joe’s dad roars,
“Can’t catch mice in walls, even if they’re dead!”
Scratches, burning between the two by fours,
trip and blow breakers in the feline head.
Too much care murders a cat. Brooding thoughts
can’t catch mice in walls. Even if they’re dead,
they’re beyond worry. Feeling at a loss
for the first week, Joe follows Little Boy.
Too much care murders a cat. Brooding thoughts
tip towards rugged, decor that’s Hoi Polloi.
Petting Livestock
Her other cat is a pig named Fat Man.
Grandma Mother calls him, “Kitty, Kitty,
here, Kitty.” Joe’s dad prefers “White Trash Can”
and not hauling scraps to him. The City
once complained about the stout omnivore.
Grandma Mother calls him, “Kitty, Kitty,”
but cutesy words don’t domesticate boar,
change ordinances, or remove complaints.
Once complained about, the stout omnivore
and Grandma Mother, neither of them saints,
greasy-palmed some councilmen, requested,
“Change ordinances or remove complaints.”
In the end, this failed, and her pet, bested,
lives now just out of town, well fed, sloppy.
Greasy-pa
lmed, some councilmen requested
pork-free statute law if the pork pet be.
Her other cat is a pig named Fat Man,
lives now just out of town, well-fed, sloppy
“Kitty.” Joe’s dad prefers “White Trash Can.”
Member of the EPA
When it rains hard, the cellar water-fills.
Joe’s new job is to broom it to the drain,
move low-spot puddles or “start growing gills.”
Floor’s patched, glaciated, looks like moraine
accumulated into pebbled sheets.
Joe’s new job is to broom it. To the drain,
he squeegees in canals and silty streets,
landscapes for his Lego adventure teams.
Accumulated into pebbled sheets
are years of green substances. Swirled in streams,
they’ve become “radioactive,” scrubber
landscapes for his Lego adventure teams
clad in vinyl hazmat suits and rubber.
Joe’s mission: near-surface waste disposal;
they’ve become radioactive. Scrubber
work’s hazardous, but, each man has his role.
When it rains hard, the cellar water-fills.
Joe’s mission: near-surface waste disposal,
move low-spot puddles or “start growing gills.”
Further Basement Detail
It’s a pine painter’s caddy, white painted,
repurposed, a rest home now for captured
moments, life Polaroided and ancient.
The film images are washed and blurred,
randomly sorted, bent into this box
repurposed, a rest home now for captured
memories, postcards, bad-investment stocks.
Joe notices details, organizes
randomly sorted. Bent into this box,
a picture of the basement surprises
the boy. In the background, there is a space.
Joe notices details, organizes
what he sees, and knows a wall in that place;
yellowing, mortared, cement blocks seal off
the boy. In the background, there is a space
that’s been repurposed like this picture trough
(It’s a pine painter’s caddy, white-painted).
Yellowing, mortared, cement blocks seal off
moments, life Polaroided and ancient.
Hitting the Bricks
Joe is down there and doesn’t love a wall
that curtains frozen, airless space behind,
drapes enigmas, from the sun wears a shawl
of new and old brick courses well aligned.
He has come to examine the façade
that curtains frozen, airless space behind.
Joe is a hunter, hunting down the fraud
and would have the rabbit out of hiding
he has come to examine. The façade
multipled. Joe would have it dividing
at his touch, breaking open the warren,
and would have the rabbit out of hiding.
This stone fence needs unmending; he’s the one
wants it down, uncovered, but it stands strong
at his touch. Breaking open the warren,
that two-by-four space, is his new mouse song.
Joe is down there and doesn’t love a wall,
wants it down, uncovered. But it stands strong,
drapes enigmas from the sun, wears a shawl.
Immurement Empathy
Mother taught Joe to search the Internet.
Deprived of oxygen, the body rots.
Pancreatic enzymes digest, beset
the abdomen, which blisters aqua spots.
Skin shrinks, looks like hair and nails have grown.
Deprived of oxygen, the body rots,
outpours green substances. A gassy moan
often protrudes and bubbles off the tongue.
Skin shrinks, looks like hair and nails have grown
for weeks until they detach after lung
fluids have oozed up and out. The death spew
often protrudes and bubbles off the tongue.
This is where hyperlinks have led Joe to.
He can feel his last meal. Churning inside,
fluids have oozed up and out. The death spew
reeks of methane and hydrogen sulfide.
Mother taught Joe to search the Internet.
He can feel his last meal churning. Inside,
pancreatic enzymes digest, beset.
Social Function and the Secondhand
Eight Year Old
“Well… Mother says religion is a crutch,
a crime, which holds up God while crushing men.”
Joe blabs this out, and, perhaps, it’s a bit much
coming right after the priest says, “Amen.”
Father “Spaghetti” sits well with the boy:
“A crime? Which holds up God while crushing men?
No, son. I don’t believe so. He’s brought joy,
brings us all together.”
“For His bounty,
Father?” (Spaghetti sits well with the boy.)
“All things good: pot-luck dinners… that brownie.”
(He wishes he could be eating.) “His grace
brings us all together for His bounty,
to share our blessings, fill the empty place
that is hunger… leaving hope.” (Unfulfilled,
he wishes he could be eating.) “His grace
is not desire; God’s in what we build.”
“Well, Mother says religion is a crutch
that is hunger, leaving hope unfulfilled.”
Joe blabs this out, and, perhaps it’s a bit much.
Inter Networking
The card reads “Happy Nine Point Seven Five.”
Joe’s mother will always count in the nine
months they grew together, were both alive,
abutting, shared a prenatal blood line.
Although their universe is expanding,
Joe’s mother will always count. In the nine
weeks Emma’s been gone, Joe’s understanding
who he is, and he’s become more like her.
Although their universe is expanding,
the two of them Skype weekly to confer
life’s nutrients. She’s still feeds him, birthing
who he is. And he’s become more like her,
lives far off, is obsessed with unearthing
a duration of interment. Pregnant
life’s nutrients, she’s still feeds him: “Birthing
bears fruit but also the seeds to replant.”
The card reads “Happy Nine Point Seven Five”:
a duration of interment, pregnant
months they grew together, were both alive.
Curves and Tangential Lines
On the way to the store, Joe asks his dad,
“Whatever happened to Granddad’s first wife?”
There’s a brief pause. “Did I ask something bad?”
“No, son. She… had a different walk of life,
loved him, but the timing just wasn’t right.”
“Whatever happened to Granddad’s first wife?”
“He didn’t follow her. She thought he might
although she asked him not to. I’m sure she
loved him, but the timing just wasn’t right.
Dad was a creature of his time. Marie,
your Grandma Mother, lives more in the past,
although she asked him not to, I’m sure. She
left us one day, all angry. ‘Dad,’ I asked,
‘do you think Mother’s ever coming back?’
Your Grandma Mother lives more in the past
and Dad knew that, said, ‘I’m sure she is, Jack.’”
On the way to the store, Joe asks his dad,
“Do you think Mother’s ever coming back?”
There’s a brief pause. “Did I ask something bad?”
Ends of the Earth
A hogshead is a unit of measure.
It varies depending on what’s in it.
A hog’s ass is just full of manure,
infinite shovelfuls of walled-up shit.
Straw-matted and thick, or a farm slurry,
it varies depending on what’s in it.
Slow in coming and now in a hurry,
Joe’s dad has up and left for Australia.
Straw-matted and thick or a farm slurry,
a man’s hog-ass head may muse Thalia,
flourish in idyllic fertilizer.
Joe’s dad has up and left for Australia.
Having half a world may make men wiser,
know as much as hogs know about Sunday:
flourish in idyllic fertilizer,
wallow in comfort, mark your scent, and pray
a hogshead is a unit of measure.
Know as much as hogs know about Sunday:
a hog’s ass is just full of manure.
Aetiolation
The hog shed was built to house one only.
Insulated cement blocks four-foot high—
just room enough for one boar and lonely
stretches on the inside. Outside, the sty
fenced in a hundred twelve feet of wallow,
insulated cement blocks four-foot high,
a tarped cat door opening to swallow
a Fat Man’s entrance. His integral life:
fenced in a hundred twelve feet of wallow,
he has two automatic feeders rife
with dry food, a wet sprinkler he can bite,
a Fat Man’s entrance. His integral life
is free from being eaten, from the light,
from true companionship. He has affairs
with dry food, a wet sprinkler he can bite,
a young boy who comes by to share his tears.
The hog shed was built to house one… only
from true companionship. He has affairs—
just room enough for one boar and lonely.
Devising
Joe scratched and chiseled Portland brick mortar
with an old screwdriver and claw hammer.
He worked around one brick’s perimeter
on the third course, held down the tools’ clamor,
kept silent about this undertaking
with an old screwdriver and claw hammer.
All the while, he was decision making