Pissing in the Wind

 

M.J. Arcangelini

—Photo by Adam Brodsky, Lang Memorial, 2017

—Poetry by M.J. Arcangelini, Santa Rosa, CA

 

 

 

PISSING WITH ORION
 
Waning crescent moon flirts
From behind a veil of clouds
 
My pee shyness doesn’t stop
Me from pissing with Orion
 
He lays down his sword and shield
To do what guys often do together
 
We whip ‘em out in the night
Cracking stupid jokes to each other
 
Discussing shared politics as if
Sitting in the kitchen drinking beers
 
Piss splashes on dry fallen leaves
Cold air gripping belly and balls
 
Until, drained at last, everything
Gets tucked back in. As this moment
 
Of masculine intimacy passes, he
Picks up his sword and mounts
 
The early morning sky to stride
Across the horizon toward day.
 
While I return to the warming
House pulling my robe tight
 
Against a chill morning and the
Promise of colder days ahead.

 

 

 

—Photo by M.J. Arcangelini

 

 

CAUTION AND THE WIND
 
Caged within this overly cautious curmudgeon
sits the reckless young adventurer he once was,
scratching dates into the walls of his cell,
telling his stories to anyone and no one,
wondering, what happened? When did this
paranoid old coot take over his life and
exile him to a world which no longer exists?
The curious winds which once carried him to
unexpected places now squeeze through
the bars of his cage to stir dust in the corners.
He who once threw all caution to the wind
winces now as it is thrown back in his face.

 

 

 

—Photo by M.J. Archangelini

 

 

VOICEMAIL
 
I called a friend last night.
Got voicemail.
Left a message.
 
I thought I could try
calling a different friend;
decided against it.
 
I am mostly content to be alone.
There are certain people I miss,
many of them conveniently dead.
 
The few who are still alive
all have voicemail.

 

 

 

—Photo by M.J. Archangelini

 

 

LINES FOR THE BIRDS
 
The birds all think it
Was awfully nice of
People to string lines
All over the place
For them to perch on
Whenever they please
Unobstructed views
For sighting predators
Or hunting prey,
No leaves in the way,
With plenty of room
To spread their wings
And flap them in the
The passing breeze
 
__________________
 
8:57 PM
 
and the power company says
the power will be back on by 10
and it’s only been off since 7 or so
but of course it seems so much longer
 
and the heat lingers into the night
until 86° feels comfortable under
an early sky of sparse stars
the others will come out later
when it’s darker, cooler
 
so quiet I am aware of the tinnitus
which usually passes unnoticed
the distant revving of a motorcycle
a dirt bike from the sound of it
punctures the night like a stuttering firecracker
stretching out its one bright moment

 

 

 

M.J. Arcangelini
—Photo by Bruce Deemer

 

  
43 YEARS LATER
For Mike James
 
That poem of mine you said you liked.
The longish one that skips back and forth
Between poetry and prose like it can’t
Tell the difference. The mean-spirited one
That mocks the efforts of others,
Cruel, judgmental, with little evidence
Of compassion for anyone else.
The poem that drank too many beers,
Smoked too many cigarettes,
Tapped its fingertips impatiently on the table.
 
Yes, that one.
 
You were 7 years old when I wrote it.
We have both grown a lot since then.

 

 

 

 —Photo by M.J. Archangelini

 
THE SEPTEMBER HEAT WAVE
 
Two does and four fawns
arranged around the backyard
as though for proper feng shui
foraging what little the dry grass has
to offer, last of the fallen apples
sniffing chrysanthemum
turning their noses up at mint
nibbling at acacia, rejecting it
temperature in the upper 90s
they are looking for water
 
112° the next day
no deer
 
The next morning I put out
two buckets of water
110° by 3 PM
no deer
but a blue jay perches
on the rim of a bucket
drinks, thinks
drinks, thinks
flies away
 
the deer will be back
 
_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SOLSTICE
—Cynthia Linville, Rocklin, CA

Days lengthen and lengthen
stretched out like taffy
pulled behind glass in a
beach-boardwalk candy store:
         pristine
         soft
         delicious.

_______________________

Newcomer M.J. Arcangelini (b. 1952, Pennsylvania) has resided in Northern California since 1979. He has been writing poetry since age 11 and has published extensively in both paper and virtual venues (including The James White Review, Rusty Truck, The Ekphrastic Review, The Gasconade Review, Trailer Park Quarterly, As It Ought To Be Magazine, The Rye Whisky Review, Live Nude Poems) and over a dozen anthologies. He is the author of six published collections, the most recent of which is Pawning My Sins, 2022 (Luchador Press). He is currently working with musician Daniel Mandel on a forthcoming CD. Welcome to the Kitchen on this solstice, M.J., and don’t be a stranger!

 

This coming Friday, the annual Community of Writers Benefit Poetry Reading takes place up at Tahoe, with a stellar list of readers, online or in-person, 7:30pm. You must register, though, so click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

_______________________

—Medusa, with our thanks, also, to Cynthia Linville for dropping by with today’s timely solstice poem! Already, the days begin to shorten...

 

 

 

 M.J.
—Photo by John Burroughs, Cleveland, OH, 2021










 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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