The Great Jimmy Hoffa Scavenger Hunt (Revision)

[Todd]

His voice still ghosts as angry static
over twisted copper phone lines. You only see
an empty Green Pontiac,
an open driver’s door.
Yet, the steel drums remain full
of possibility, rusting
sentinels in Jersey City landfills. You imagine Giants
Stadium could frame his bones—
as if he cared for childish pursuits
played by that pussy Bobby Kennedy.

We do not see his tears
bleed from statues,
or his face form in a clump
of mashed potatoes, and mistake him
for Abraham Lincoln, or Jesus,
or David Cassidy—as if any of them ascended
from the Machus Red Fox parking lot.

This is no skin-scraping, finger-bone-divining séance.
There is no tap we wait to hear.
If you must look to the dead for guidance,
ask Mary Jo, the drowned girl,
to write her prophecy in the grease
trap drippings scrawling
with her limp finger:

That which is dead
will not remain so.
That which is buried
will rise.

~~~
Edited for some line breaks mostly. The original thread is quite old and here

[jdeirmend]

Todd, that was breathtakingly evocative.

I tend to hate free verse, both writing it and reading it, but something so rich in images and connotation is very hard not to admire.

The economy of expression is superb. Not a line seems wasted.

What I see in it: the figure of Jimmy Hoffa, being something of a dirtbag who was likely murdered by criminal ties or loose, shadowy affiliations, is dressed up into an extended metaphor for the haunting facticity of repression. More generally, we might that the poem concerns itself with the dark secrets of life that tend to hide themselves, and of which we can't help but go in search of -- but ironically enough, these secrets end up finding us, and not the other way around.

The poem accomplishes this, in part, by making Hoffa out to be a sort of anti-Icon.

Throughout, it sustains an oily, creepy, gritty, noir sort of feel that is thrilling.

There are, as usual, allusions that I feel powerless to get to the bottom of -- but Hoffa was not really an item for my generation. Anyways, hopefully the remarks are useful to you in some way.

[ChristopherSea]

His voice still ghosts as angry static
over twisted copper phone lines. You only see
an empty Green Pontiac,
an open driver’s door.
Yet, the steel drums remain full
of possibility, rusting
sentinels in Jersey City landfills. You imagine Giants
Stadium could frame his bones—
as if he cared for childish pursuits
played by that pussy Bobby Kennedy.

We do not see his tears
bleed from statues,
or his face form in a clump
of mashed potatoes, and mistake him
for Abraham Lincoln, or Jesus,
or David Cassidy—as if any of them ascended
from the Machus Red Fox parking lot.

This is no skin-scraping, finger-bone-divining séance.
There is no tap we wait to hear.
If you must look to the dead for guidance,
ask Mary Jo, the drowned girl,
to write her prophecy in the grease
trap drippings scrawling
with her limp finger:

That which is dead
will not remain so.
That which is burried
will rise.

~~~
Edited for some line breaks mostly. The original thread is quite old and here

Todd, your poem is well constructed and has probably been workshopped a bit. I really like what you have done, especially the Hoffa work. Nonetheless, I would re-examine Mary Jo's final note. To me, it seems a bit over the top for a last bit scrawl. Do you need both lines? Also, I absolutely wanted to hear her point a finger at that dead and bloated Ted Kennedy. I felt that you left me drowning in Poucha Pond. You may have missed an opportunity. At least consider using 'Dear Teddy,...' How about:

Dear Teddy,
Things not meant
to be
buried will rise.

Or something of a Dear Teddy nature, even if you insist on both lines.

Don't let him get away the negligent homicide twice!

Thanks for bringing this back for us to enjoy and ponder!/Chris

[Todd]

James: Thank you. I appreciate the detailed comments, and your interactions with the poem.

Chris: Thank you, I take your point on the ending. I'll give the Ted Kennedy ideas some thought. I appreciate you taking a look.