07-13-2012, 01:53 AM
by Alex Vermitsky
I.
Candy Cones experienced a brief renaissance in Candy Land
an oddity of architectural taste: finicky and old-cat guarded
Cones eye-dotted by the predicable phases of a comfortable moon
or garden back proximity to generous crop yields
ascetics put to council by the wise: gingerbread
men, lolly girls, dark skinned chocolate that defied
definition; a choice to live without a map " who
does and does not possess a
milky white center
to working class bungalow men who mistake genius for candy corn
to hippy dippy dots who want art to point at the sky
and children who were taught to turn away from all things round
to age - suspicious of cyclical nonsense
because mocking the earth shapes is just a way of saying
you’re so sweet!
still these cones are everywhere and they’re not going anywhere
and you used to drive the midnight like it was the face of the moon
used to champion freedom songs to the girls curled up in back seats
skin-stuck to the sweat of black leather
singing:
when we were young!
Charlie, we were young!
II.
Anyway, I’m eating dinner and
Benson’s wasting my time with the Easter Sack
saying, “bundle of joy, bundle of dirty joy.”
as I try to choke down this consommé to be polite
and our conversation tends towards-
the cum slips on an otherwise hushed Easter Island, a falling in Quito,
Dade County pick-pocketing with two bad hands in your pants
in cold rooms of artificially pumped heat where you…
back and forth transcribe his face on the dry-wall of your stuffed heart,
beat out instinctive rhythms learned in Modern University:
a bog-side cabin abandoned for fishing holidays, abandoned
for the pursuit of minutiae, abandoned because (is it father?)
holy or domestic
I have seen Charlie O in Lake Lackawanna huddling under unknown shades
I have seen Charlie O in Naples resisting old Italian ways
I have seen Charlie eat shit for our Republic in Easter suits of muted grays
Art is transformative " Death is in finite
in Charlie O’s case
now he is Death Idea "
now floats to the surface like spring lilies:
Million Star gypsophila: white on bog water,
dressings to cover the murk
art is to pluck small flowers from gack! retch!
fingertips: as deep as one wills one’s self to go
playing it safe until you recognize Charlie O under your fingernails
until you realize the smell is indescribable
And anyway, I’m eating dinner and
Benson’s asking me to wash my hands
saying “bundle of nerves, twenty-eight death-cusp bundle of nerves”
and he reminds me that life mimics-
Charlie O in moon boots:
boyish conquer of ancient Maine, twist inventor
of go-on forever endings, the resurrection of cool
landings upon landings
Charlie O’s statue studied by the boys left behind: the go-overboards
Hag psychics tuning radios for comfortable Spring sounds:
the sound of the moderate sun
the sound of a levelheaded breeze
the sound of friendship off mute
Charlie O as forever painting of Chucky Osmond
lost in a wood of sightless crickets and
just the ground
just the quiet simple ground they give you
in songs of old-fashioned faith
reverent bedwarm covering of mildew
buoyant naps of Christian Grace
III.
...so I finally looked at Charlie O
through rain on top of Stanhope lakes
both seed and sky to mute again
these charcoal plains, this gravel wind
where Charlie fished on Ketamine
and lust now hushed for muscles give
not long for boy - for boyish risk
of half-drunk mourning's half-drunk sick
-because when you died Chucky, Chris and I did this silly thing: this thing where we let all your fish out into Lake Musconetcong - which seemed to be a good idea at the time; seemed to be especially poetic for two college kids who were, for Christ sake, 22. just like you - remember? - but they were saltwater fish you asshole - and you didn’t tell us cause why would we ever need to know? " isn’t that right? what possible reason would we ever have to know such things…
I.
Candy Cones experienced a brief renaissance in Candy Land
an oddity of architectural taste: finicky and old-cat guarded
Cones eye-dotted by the predicable phases of a comfortable moon
or garden back proximity to generous crop yields
ascetics put to council by the wise: gingerbread
men, lolly girls, dark skinned chocolate that defied
definition; a choice to live without a map " who
does and does not possess a
milky white center
to working class bungalow men who mistake genius for candy corn
to hippy dippy dots who want art to point at the sky
and children who were taught to turn away from all things round
to age - suspicious of cyclical nonsense
because mocking the earth shapes is just a way of saying
you’re so sweet!
still these cones are everywhere and they’re not going anywhere
and you used to drive the midnight like it was the face of the moon
used to champion freedom songs to the girls curled up in back seats
skin-stuck to the sweat of black leather
singing:
when we were young!
Charlie, we were young!
II.
Anyway, I’m eating dinner and
Benson’s wasting my time with the Easter Sack
saying, “bundle of joy, bundle of dirty joy.”
as I try to choke down this consommé to be polite
and our conversation tends towards-
the cum slips on an otherwise hushed Easter Island, a falling in Quito,
Dade County pick-pocketing with two bad hands in your pants
in cold rooms of artificially pumped heat where you…
back and forth transcribe his face on the dry-wall of your stuffed heart,
beat out instinctive rhythms learned in Modern University:
a bog-side cabin abandoned for fishing holidays, abandoned
for the pursuit of minutiae, abandoned because (is it father?)
holy or domestic
I have seen Charlie O in Lake Lackawanna huddling under unknown shades
I have seen Charlie O in Naples resisting old Italian ways
I have seen Charlie eat shit for our Republic in Easter suits of muted grays
Art is transformative " Death is in finite
in Charlie O’s case
now he is Death Idea "
now floats to the surface like spring lilies:
Million Star gypsophila: white on bog water,
dressings to cover the murk
art is to pluck small flowers from gack! retch!
fingertips: as deep as one wills one’s self to go
playing it safe until you recognize Charlie O under your fingernails
until you realize the smell is indescribable
And anyway, I’m eating dinner and
Benson’s asking me to wash my hands
saying “bundle of nerves, twenty-eight death-cusp bundle of nerves”
and he reminds me that life mimics-
Charlie O in moon boots:
boyish conquer of ancient Maine, twist inventor
of go-on forever endings, the resurrection of cool
landings upon landings
Charlie O’s statue studied by the boys left behind: the go-overboards
Hag psychics tuning radios for comfortable Spring sounds:
the sound of the moderate sun
the sound of a levelheaded breeze
the sound of friendship off mute
Charlie O as forever painting of Chucky Osmond
lost in a wood of sightless crickets and
just the ground
just the quiet simple ground they give you
in songs of old-fashioned faith
reverent bedwarm covering of mildew
buoyant naps of Christian Grace
III.
...so I finally looked at Charlie O
through rain on top of Stanhope lakes
both seed and sky to mute again
these charcoal plains, this gravel wind
where Charlie fished on Ketamine
and lust now hushed for muscles give
not long for boy - for boyish risk
of half-drunk mourning's half-drunk sick
-because when you died Chucky, Chris and I did this silly thing: this thing where we let all your fish out into Lake Musconetcong - which seemed to be a good idea at the time; seemed to be especially poetic for two college kids who were, for Christ sake, 22. just like you - remember? - but they were saltwater fish you asshole - and you didn’t tell us cause why would we ever need to know? " isn’t that right? what possible reason would we ever have to know such things…
To die onstage, or to die in bed, I suppose are much the same, especially when both are off Broadway. 
