My Friend, Mr. Goombats

___________________________________

Mr. Goombats,

He lives in a box.

Westfield, New Jersey, 1993

Pretty stupid poem, right?   We were so stupid as kids, we didn't realize (or care, maybe) that it didn't even rhyme.   Somebody said it, we all laughed and it became a classic poem.  Stupid kids. 

Hello, everybody!   I'm Tony Carlino, and  I'm talking into a microphone my grandson has cause  he wants me to tell stories about when I was young on the Lower East Side.   But I told him not to bother me.   But he begged me, so anyway, I'll  tell him the story of Mr. Goombazza.   That's pronounced Goombats, with a "ts," at the end.  G-O-O-M-B-AH-T-S.    His real name was Carlo Goombazza, but nobody said it like that that I ever heard. 

So, Mr. Carlo Goombats.   That was a long time ago, but not really.  Well, I suppose for you it's a long time ago but not for me.   When you get older time is different, the years all compress into one big, uh. . . it's all the same, almost.  Twenty years doesn't mean the same thing now as it did when I was forty.   But why am I talking about this?   Sorry. 

Anyway, the story is like this:  Mr. Goombats came to 5th Street around 1925 he was about forty years old by then.  He got checks every month from the government because of something that happened to him during the war.   But he also worked, small jobs here and there, off the books when he could.   One day, he was unpacking a new bureau or dresser or something that came in a huge cardboard box.   He liked the box more than the dresser.   He was trying to put the box on top of the closet shelf so he took a ladder and climbed up.   Now, I'm not sure, exactly how this happened, I wasn't there, but they say he fell and was knocked unconscious and the box fell on top of him.   When he woke up he started screaming because he thought he had been buried alive and was in his coffin or something.   My mother came running in and saw him furiously trying to untangle himself from the box, still screaming.  All she could see were legs and arms flailing about.  She screamed, "Mr. Goombats!   What are you doing?"
"Hah?   Who's that?   Who's there?"   he shouted, like a lunatic.

"It's Mrs. Carlino, Mr. Goombats!  Please, calm-a yourself down!"  My mother slipped into a thick Italian accent or even into Sicilian when under stress.
"Signore Goombats!   Dio mio!"
"Help me!" he shouted, as if were about to be eaten by a wild animal.  "It's killing me!  I can't breathe!"
"Oh! Dio!"  My mother ran to get my father, who came in and picked the box up off Mr. Goombats.   After he calmed down, everybody had a good laugh.   Including me who had run in with my father.  Except for a small wound on Mr. Goombats forehead, there didn't seem to be any damage.   So, we went home and, Mr. Goombats left the box right where it was and went out to Vidool's Cafe for a nice espresso. 

I don't know what happened after that, but, little by little, more and more, Mr. Goombats would be inside the upside down box, napping, reading, or listening to the radio.   My father would say, "Mr. Goombats, what are you doing in there all the time?"   He'd come out of the box and say, "I don't know, it's nice in there."   Then they'd have a normal conversation.  

Most of the time was spent reading.   He set himself up nicely with a pillow and a thick blanket under him for the hard floor.  He had a kerosene lantern which gave him plenty of light for night reading.  During the day he read and napped in the box.   He cut open two small "windows" in two sides of the boxes for ventilation and to enable him to see the rest of his apartment, in case someone came in.   In those days people were always going in and out, visiting, borrowing things, or just passing by to say hello.  During the hot summer months he would put the box out on the fire escape.   No one bothered him.  Most people didn't even notice him up there.    

That was the thing about Mr. Goombats.   He was so normal and nice, sometimes he did such great things, but then. . . well, he liked to spend time in that box.   And, as time passed he spent more and more time in it.   But he, himself, changed very little.  He remained kind, jovial, and always there when you needed him.   And by, "there," I mean generally, in that box.  

"It's nice!   I feel cozy and safe!   Johnny, come in!"

He would invite all the kids (and grown-ups) to visit him in his box.   Some kids were afraid to go in, but Vinnie "Peanuts" and me, (how Vinnie got the nick-name is a long story)  we weren't afraid.   We liked and trusted Mr. Goombats.  

At first, inside the box was fun, me and Vinnie played all kinds of games in there.  Like boys do.   But after a while it got boring.   Plus,  Mr. Goombats started to fix it up in there.  Like, he added a rug, hung a couple of pictures, and things like that.   It was like a dog house for a grown-up, if that makes sense.   In the winter, he covered it with a thick blanket and slept in there at night.   All night.   It was kind of smart because in those old tenements there was no heat most of the time and those apartments were drafty and freezing cold.  I hate to think how many babies did not survive their first winter.   A lot.  That was the saddest thing about life at that time.  

* * *

Mr. Goombats, as I said, enjoyed reading.   More than that you could say, how they say, he was an avid reader.    He read a lot of books about history and philosophy, but he also read novels and biographies.     Sometimes, he get these books from Reader's Digest,  "condensed books."    There would be four novels in one book!   He thought that was the greatest thing ever.  

 Most of what he read was in English so he really improved his vocabulary.  He was always using words that nobody understood.   That was okay.    But sometimes he invented words.  Well, I don't know if he invented them, like, he knew they were not real words, but I think it just misused real words and turned them into fake words.   There's a comedian that does that but I don't remember his name right now.  

So, he would say things like this:  "Oh, that Mr. Garrity!   He's a drunk.   And very punctious."    What he meant by that, nobody knew, and nobody wanted to ask.   But after I while, I started asking.   Part of the reason I think he used these words was to improve our vocabulary that is, the kids of the neighborhood.   Other times I really believe he just wanted to make us laugh.   He loved that.    But he was always teaching us new words.   We didn't really learn those new words, but the words he made up, those were sometimes hilarious, so we always remembered those.   

He took me to the tobacco store with him one day to see how they make the cigars.   Mr. Pontevechhio, the cigar man, always had a cigar in his mouth, of course, was a short, gray-haired man, and really skinny. 
"Hey, Signor Pontevecchio!   How do you stay so skinny?" Mr. Goombats asked.
"I just eat right!  Vegetables, fruit, you know."

"Very perspacious of you!"
"Wha?"
"You're diet is witsome and very healthtious."

"Ah.  Yes, it sure is," said a befuddled Mr. Pontevecchio.  "It sure is." 

Fortunately, he did not do this too often, and then he stopped trying to impress everyone because no one understood him half the time!  Ming!  What a nut!

* * *

What else?   Oh, the guy loved animals.   He was always taking in stray cats or taking care of the cats and dogs that wouldn't come into his house, and he'd find good homes for them.    He would go 7th Street park and feed the sparrows and other birds little bits of crumbs.   In the winter when food was scarce, especially after a snowstorm, he would tramp through the heavy snow with a big bag of crumbs and toss it out onto the snow.   The birds loved it.   I think they actually got to know him.   Not the pigeons, however.  He hated pigeons with a passion.    He'd be sitting there, so peaceful, so kind, feeding the sparrows and starlings and robins but if a pigeon landed he'd jump up off the bench about five feet in the air and start screaming,  "Bah!  You son-of-a-bitch!   Get outta here!  Gaah!" like they were criminals or vermin, scaring away all the other birds at the same time.  

But for the most part, there was no animal he didn't really love.  And if you had a pet, he would always come by and visit it.   One of our friends,  Nick the Greek kid, had a little dog, I don't know what it was.   When it got sick, Mr. Goombats paid the vet to come to the house to see him.   Made him all better.   That dog loved Mr. Goombats, whenever he was sitting on a bench in the playground and the dog came by, oh, Maddona!   The dog would go crazy, unless he was allowed to run to Mr. Goombats.   Oh!   One day, Mr. Goombats is coming home from the store, he's about to cross Second Avenue and what do you think?    Nick and his dog is crossing in the opposite direction.   The dog sees Mr. Goombats, gets loose and darts into the Avenue.   This big truck is coming and Mr. Goombats, he was crazy, he runs into the street, grabs the dog, throws him to the sidewalk and bang!    What do you think, he gets hit by the truck.     Well, everybody started screaming.   When I came running out of my building I thought he was dead, I started crying like a little baby.   I was screaming, "Don't die, Mr. Goombats!  Please don't die!"  Madonna, I was so scared.    Not just me but Vinnie Peanuts, too, Nick and I think the dog was crying, too.    But the cops came and took care of him and took him to Bellevue, they said he was okay, but I just couldn't stop crying.   Me and Vinnie and Nick wanted to go in the ambulance with him but they wouldn't let us.    and he lived.   That was the first time he was in the newspaper.  


* * *
In 1931, I was ten years old.  Same as Vinnie Peanuts.  It was Christmas time and me and Vinnie, you see, really wanted bicycles for Christmas.  Some of the other kids on our block had bikes.   We were so jealous.   They would let us ride them, but you know, it's not the same as your own bike.  

But Vinnie and I were smart for our age, we knew that the way things were going with both our Pops out of work so often, bikes were not going to happen.   So we settled on other things, things we knew we'd never get either but it was fun and we couldn't help it.  Last Christmas we got socks and a couple of warm shirts and believe me, that was great.  But a bike. . oh.  

One day,  Mr. Goombats said, "Hey boys!   Let's go to Heshey's (a toy store on Clinton Street) and see what Santa's gonna bring you!"   My mother objected but good Mr. Goombats he insisted.   So we snuck off to Clinton Street without my mom's knowing it.  Heshey's was a great store, big and just crammed with all kinds of stuff, not just toys, he had everything.   But lots of toys and games.   We walked through the store and Mr. Goombats kept saying, "So, what should I tell Santa to bring you?"   He thought we still believed in Santa and we let him believe it.  
"How about those skates?" he suggested.    We had skates, that is, we shared a pair.  
"Hey, there's a nice baseball glove like Tony Lazzeri uses!"  
I had a glove and Vinnie had two.   We found them in the garbage good as new.  (Vinnie and I didn't want to think about why there were three gloves in the garbage pail in front of a tenement on 4th street.   We knew it had been a rough winter).

Suddenly my eye was fixed on a model sailing ship, you know, like from the old days, the days of the pirates.  

"Mr. Goombats!    Tell Santa I would really like one of those model pirate ships!"
"Oh, yes, very good choice, very educational, very beautiful, too!   My dad was a sailor you know.  I love the sea myself.   Never been on it but I read about it a lot, and. .."
"Thank you Mr. Goombats!"    Vinnie Peanuts chose six-shooter cap gun. 

These were really nice but nothing could have compared to a bike.  But I was happy about the pirate ship.   Really.

Christmas morning came and what to you think?   Out in the hallway, (there wasn't room in the house)  Mr. Goombats starts yelling, "Oh, my God, I don't believe it!  Look at this!"

Well me and Vinnie Peanuts, he lived right above me, we knew what was up.   We were supposed to go out and see the Pirate ship and the gun and jump up and down and yell, "Yay!  Santa!" or something like that.    So, out to the hall I went and my lower jaw dropped to the floor.  

"Vinnie!!" I screamed, "Vinnie Peanuts!  Come and look!   Come and look!  Vinnieeeeeeeee!"   Well, poor Vinnie practically rolled down the flight of stairs and then he saw them:  two  beautiful, new, bright blue bicycles!   We started jumping up and down and hugging each other, screaming, "Yeah!!!    I don't believe it!   Oh, boy!!" 

And Mr. Goombats, he stood there holding his head in his hands, and yelling, "That stupid Santa brought you the wrong gifts!   I'm so sorry!"   Well, neither of us knew what he was talking about, but my mother did, and she started to cry.   Pop came out and he cried too.   Never, I don't think, had they ever seen their son more happy than at that moment, or since that moment.  I don't think I've ever been that happy since.  Thank you, Mr. Goombats.  Boy, did we enjoy those bikes. 

* * *

I mentioned that Mr. Goombats' father was a sailor.   He worked on a tug for a few years in New York harbor, then he joined the Navy during the Spanish-American War.  He was killed in some kind of battle just off the coast of Cuba, near Havana.    He was listed, I think he still is, as "missing in action."    Mr. Goombats was only about 10 years old and although he didn't see his dad much he loved him a lot.   He still had a picture of him, on the wall in his kitchen.   It was of his dad in his Navy uniform.   It was his prized possession.  

His mother, still a young woman, re-married a few years later to Enrico Bollino, a prosperous butcher on Grand Street.   They lived pretty good for a long time, I mean the butcher shop made a lot of money, and the husband and wife really got along well.   Mr. Bollino seemed to have been very generous with Mr. Goombats, but after a couple of years Mr. Goombats moved out.   He was becoming an adult now and he knew that both he and his mother needed privacy.   He lived in various parts of the city, working odd jobs here and there, then he moved to the 3rd Street and worked part time for Mr. Goldenschantz,  at his metal shop on Great Jones.  He lived there a long time, then he came to my building on 5th Street, which was one of the best blocks in the whole Lower East Side.  Really.  Or, maybe it just seemed that way to me.   You see, we were very happy there.   My happiest years, in fact.   And even though we were poor at times, we were never, how do you say, poverty stricken.   There was always good food on the table and I always had good clothes to wear.  Neighbors were friendly, you knew everyone, and we all looked out for each other.  There were lots of other kids my age, there were always children playing in the street, (until late at night in the summer) and we always felt safe, any time of the day or night.   We were safe.   I mean, good Christ in heaven, what else could you ask for?

Anyway, wow, once I get started. . . eh, Mr. Goombats he moved in when I was very little, like 4, so I always remember him being there.  He, and other neighbors, were really like members of an extended family.  Like uncles and aunts and cousins.    And some, in fact, no joke, we acutally called "aunt" or "uncle," out of respect, especially if my folks knew them from their town in the Sicily.   There was Uncle Calogero, (there's a name you don't here anymore) and Aunt Rosa, like that, they weren't really related but they were so close as friends that they were better than a lot of real aunts or uncles.   Oh, Christ what great times we had with them and their kids!   

Oh, my God, Mr. Goombats, I was talking about Mr. Goombats!    So he moves in he's about forty years old.   I asked him one day why he didn't have any children, any wife.    He said that he was too busy learning about the world and trying figure out what he was going to do, to be.   Then, the war came.  He volunteered for the Navy, but they rejected him for some reason.   Then he volunteered for the Army, and they took him.   He didn't see a lot of "action," he said, but enough to make him hate war forever.  

"War is evil," he used to say, "Don't let anybody tell you different."  

So, anyway, he had no wife and no kids, but seemed happy.   Not that he didn't go out with a woman every once in a while.   He was actually a pretty good-looking man my mother seemed to think, and always hoped that he would get married.   She was always "setting him up," so to speak, with friends, or even her own sister.   Oh, my God, what a disaster that was.   Her big, fat, disgusting, sister Grace.   Oh my God.  

My mom invited Grace for a Sunday dinner.   She was, at the time, about thirty-eight years old and unmarried.     She also invited Mr. Goombats without telling him about her sister, whom he already knew quite well.   She was always around.   So it was really kind of silly to do this surprise thing like it was a "blind" date, as they say. 

Anyway, I remember that day like it was yesterday.  My mother was a nervous wreck.   "Paolo!" she yelled at my father.   "Put on a clean shirt!"

"What's wrong with this shirt?"
"That's not a shirt, it's an undershirt!   What's wrong with you?" he practically shrieked, her voices going up several octaves.

"But it's clean!"
"Oh, Dio, I'm gonna explode, my head, it's gonna explode!"   My mother's head was always about to explode.    "Put on a real shirt!   Like people wear for Sunday dinner!"

"What's so special about today?"
"Oh, Dio mio, I told you Grace was coming over."

"So what?   She comes over all the time."
"Yes, but so is Mr. Goombats."

"Oh, know. . . you didn't. . . you aren't. . ."

The doorbell rang.

"There she is!!   There she is!" my mother repeated over and over shaking her hands like they were on fire.    "Go put a shirt on!!"   My father got a nice clean white shirt and red tie.  

"Come in Grace, how are you?"   They kissed.    "Johnny!   Come an kiss your Aunt Grace."

Grace handed me a box of pastries.   I put them in the icebox, and went and sat at the kitchen table.  

"Mmm . . .they sauce smells good!"   said Grace leaning over the stove.   She took a loaf of bread off the shelf and broke off a piece that would have choked a horse.  

"You know I can't resists your sauce."    She dipped in this huge piece of bread, practically up to her elbows and started eating it.  

Grace was sort of given the wrong name, if you know what I mean.  

"Don't spoil your appetite!"  my mother warned.
My dad entered with his shirt and tie on. 
"Grace, hello!" he couldn't help notice the bread soaking with sauce and the sauce that was now all over Grace's face.   "You sure you got enough sauce there?" Pop said.   

I snickered at the table, and my mother shot me a look.    She handed Grace a napkin.

"Here Gracie, there's a little sauce on your. . ."
"So, who's coming?" asked Gracie, her mouth filled with food.   

"Mr. Goombats." My mother was so excited. 

"Oh," said Grace.  "He's so good looking." 

"Yes he is!   Can you imagine, a man like him, not married and so good looking, and they say he's got a lot of money, too."

Grace shoved the last of the bread in her fat ugly face as the doorbell rang. 

"There he is, there he is!"
"What are you getting so excited about?  He was here this morning."
"I know but now. . ." 

Mom opened the door and became Loretta Young.
"Oh, dear Mr. Goombats, do enter."

Mr. Goombats had a shopping bag filled with stuff including a large bottle of Chianti.

"Hey!  Grazie!   Grazie tanto!" shouted my dad, who loved Chianti. 

"Benedica tutto in casa!" Goombats said, offering a blessing. 

My mother, still acting weird, said, "Mr. Goombats, I believe you've met my sister, Grace." 
"Ma, certo!   How you been Grace.  Haven't seen you since, what, Wednesday, at the church?"

"Oh, yeah!" said Grace,  "I think. . . "  she interrupted herself with a loud belch. "Oh, excuse me!" 
Mom laughed awkwardly. 
"Okay, let's open the wine," mom said, "and have a toast!"
"Oh, I don't know," said Grace, "wine gives me such gas!" she said, laughing.  But it was true, believe me.

Dad obliged and filled some glasses, even mine, which he then mixed with water. 

"Salute!" my father said. 
"A salute!"  everyone else said, drinking a bit of the grape.

"I'd like to make a toast!   I'd like to make a toast!" my mother said.  "To new beginnings!" she said with all the seriousness of Eleanor Roosevelt. 

Well, we really didn't know what to make of it, so we toasted anyway.

Dinner was going well enough although Grace started to get a bit sloshed during the roast chicken.  She was telling us about her foot problem, when she started hiccuping, badly and loudly.   We couldn't help it, but it was really funny and we all had to laugh,.  She laughed too.   But then,  she dropped her napkin on the floor and bent over to pick it up.   She let out the loudest fart I've ever heard.    It could have been a gunshot, for all I knew."  

"Oopsie!" mom said, practically passing out.

"Oh, my. . .excuse me," said Grace, belching and hiccuping at the same time.   Then, for her grand finale, she let out tremendous volley of anal gas, even louder, than the last one, at the same time as she belched and hiccuped. It was a feat of incalculable proportion.  I couldn't take it.  I was going to pass out trying to stifle my laughter so I ran out of the room.    My mother died a little at that moment.   

I don't recall how we got through the rest of the dinner, with her continued bombing and her ridiculous, "Oopsie," comments.  But we did.  Finally, we got to the coffee and anisette.   I think we all said a silent prayer that Grace would not touch a piece of pastry, but no, she ate half the cheesecake herself.  It was a gruesome sight. 

Mr. Goombats thanked us, and made a quick exit.  Grace was already asleep her head on the table, still bombing away.

My mother never had Grace over again.   I'm not sure she ever spoke to her again. 

* * *

Mr. Goombats did well with the ladies, it appeared.  He could often be seen with a woman on his arm of a Saturday night, walking on Second Avenue.  But none of them ever lasted.   We wondered if it had anything to do with the box.  

One day Vinnie and I saw Mr. Goombats coming with a really nice looking woman, walking toward the house.  

"Vinnie!" I said, "Let's hide in Mr. Goombats house and see what happens when they get inside.   He'll never know that we're in there.  Then we sneak out when they leave!"
"Let's go!" shouted Vinnie Peanuts.  

Nobody locked their doors back in those days so we just walked into Mr. Goombats house and ran to his box.    What we saw in there we couldn't believe.   It was beautiful.   Like a little house.  Pictures on the wall, tiny pieces of furniture, a tiny vase with a couple tiny flowers in it.    No wonder he liked it so much in there.

"Here they are!" Vinnie whispered.    In came Mr. Goombats and Mrs. Glassberg from Tenth Street.   She was a widowed dressmaker.   Very lovely. 

"You have a lovely place here, Signore Goombazza." 

"Please, call me Carl."

They sat in the living room.  He served blackberry liquor and cheese and crackers on the coffee table.   I think they must have just had dinner.  

They talked a bit, about many things.   Then, he said it.  It was unbelievable.

"Would you like to come in my box?"   

Mrs. Glassberg's face had an expression on it that I had never seen on a person, before or since: a bizarre mix of bewilderment, fear, confusion and doubt of what she just heard.   It was amazing.
"Excuse me."
"Would you like to see my box?   You must be curious, no?  I think you'll like what I've done with the interior."
"Of your box?"
"Yes."
She began to swoon.  "Oh. . . oh.. ."

"Mrs. Glassberg, are you all right?" 

"I. . . I think I need some air. . ." she whispered. 

"Yes, yes of course," he helped her stand and they walked out together.  

Well, that was the last anyone had seen of Mrs. Glassberg.  We heard that she moved to the Bronx. 

* * *

One day, Vinnie Peanuts and I were talking to Mr. Goombats.  We were in his kitchen and he was just off the kitchen--in his box.    He said, "Why don't you kids go outside and play?   It's a beautiful day, you should be outside."
"Well, we like it in here, you got so many interesting things."

And he did, all kinds of pictures and postcards on his wall.  All of them from either the old country, that is Sicily, friends and relatives he hadn't seen in many years, or, mementos of his step-father, Mr. Bollino, the butcher and his family.  

"I know, I know,  you like the pictures, but you're only young once, and it's not healthy to spend the whole day inside!"

"But you are inside and it's a beautiful day." 

"Oh, no!  I'm going to play bocce later."
"Can we come with you?"
"Sure, let's go now."

So, off we were to the bocce courts on Houston Street, where we met all of Mr. Goombats' friends.   They all called each other by name but in an funny way: they were all, "Mr." followed by their first names.   So, there was Mr. Patsy, Mr. Sam, Mr. Nyats.  Oh, yeah, that last one.   Seems his real name was Ignacio (pronounced, "een-nyats-eeo") but very quickly.    Ignacio got butchered into 'nacio (nyatsio) and then, simply, Nyats.   And it was said very very fast, so, if you listened very carefully you might hear the actual name slip through, Ignacio.  

"Hello Mr. Nyats!"
"Signor Carlo, come sta?"

"Mr. Patsy," with the accent on the second syllable.

"Mr. Benny!   What time we gonna play?"  
"Hey, Mr. Carlo, you still sleeping in-a da box?"  And so on.

We watched the old men toss the ball, some with great accuracy and some with great inaccuracy.    But every throw was accompanied by some sarcastic  comment usually in Italian, and usually quite funny.    I wish I understood them all.

After a particularly bad toss by Mr. Nyats, a particularly good player, Mr. Goombats said, "Aye!  Che fare?  Ma, che fare?   Voglio vicere questa gioco!  Ha capite?  Ma, cosa pazzo!"  And, of course, everyone laughed.   ["What are you doing?  What are you doing?  I want to win this game.   Do you understand.  What a nut!"]

Then, it was Goombats toss, one of the worst tosses ever seen. 

"Dats it!  I give up!  Here, Mr. Patsy here's your fifty cents, how can I win this crazy person as a team mate?  Eh?"   And everyone laughed.  

Mr. Goombats had the last laugh when the team had a chance to win and Mr. Nyats made another especially bad toss to end the game.  

"Ma perche non gioco la calcio?  E perfetto per te!  Va!  Va giocare la calcio!"

["Why don't you go play soccer?   It's perfect for you?  Go ahead, go play soccer."]

An excellent taunt showing no sportsmanship whatsoever.

And we wonder why Sicily was never a world power.  

But I'll tell you this: the most important thing for these guys was fun.  Most of them had had miserably difficult lives to this point, coming from desperate situations in the old country.   Some faced near starvation, some of them actually saw members of their families starve to death.   Some worked in fields all day and slept in the stables with the horses at night.  Some left loved ones behind for several years before saving enough money working for pennies a day,  digging ditches in the snow, rain, and searing heat.   So making a bad toss in bocce?   There was nothing to do but laugh.   Life was too good now.   They were in America.   In New York.   On Houston Street.  Life was good.  And nothing would bring them down again.

* * * 

* * * 

One day, he came banging on the door of our apartment.  

"Mr. Carlino!   Did you hear?   The president wants to go to war with Germany!   War!  Can you believe it?   What for?   What did Hitler ever do to anyone?"

"Mr. Goombats, sit down."

They discussed the situation.   It became obvious, even to Mr. Goombats, that war was inevitable.   It was the first time I ever saw Goombats cry.  It would not be the last.   But what could he do?   Hitler had to be stopped.  That much was clear.

And so, we all did our best.  I was about to join the Army Air Corps, when I was stopped by Mr. Goombats, who was sobbing.  

"Johnny," he said, "don't do it.   Don't go.   You're like a favorite nephew to me, if anything happened, I couldn't survive. Please, find another way.  Please."

"Mr. Goombats, you know I have to go.   Vinnie and I are going together.  I'll be alright.  I promise.   Flying in a plane is not so dangerous as being in the infantry.   Don't worry about me, please.   Just say a prayer, and it will all be taken care of." 

We embraced.   He held me tight.  I think I just realized now, sitting here today, talking into this stupid microphone, how much that man loved me.   That crazy old guy, I loved him to. 

* * *

The war ended, and Vinnie and I returned, remarkably, on the same day.   There was a party on the block.   Mr. Goombats hired a small band, lots of food, and plenty of wine. He danced with everyone.   I danced with Maria Cellino.   It was the first  time we met but we both knew we were meant for each other.   I guess I have Mr. Goombats to thank for that, for forty-seven years of a beautiful marriage, three kids and six grandchildren.   I wish Mr. Goombats could have lived to see all of that.   But he saw a lot. 

* * *


As the years went on word began to spread about Mr. Goombats and his box, it even got mentioned in the Daily News.   They had a reporter come down to photograph Mr. Goombats and his box who, by that time brought a small typewriter and had begun writing.   He must have written to the paper, who knows?

He starting writing more and more.  He wrote a lot of letter, hundreds of letters to just about anyone and everyone, presidents, royalty, and celebrities of every kind.   He wrote to Babe Ruth, from whom he received an autographed picture.   "The Babe," promised to come visit him one day, but never did.    He wrote to philosophers, statesmen, poets and writers around the world.   And he received many responses.     Letters to and from everyone from Ghandi to Joe DiMaggio.  He had a heated debate with Albert Einstein over a ten year period about the nature of God, spiced with filthy jokes.  He also took Casey Stengal to task for his "platoon," system.   "Either the kid can play or he can't," Goombats wrote.  Casey wrote back, "I agree but not when you're not in the wrong but not in the right or the ballplayer has enough hits against right-handers. Sincerely, Casey."

Many were curious about this man who lived in a box inside another "box," so to speak.   The military expressed interest in the box for it's possible application for troops.  One day, a member of General Patton's staff arrived to visit Mr. Goombats.   Mr. Goombats promptly threw him out onto the street, screaming, "Fascist!" as the guy ran down Second Avenue.    This incident was also mentioned in the newspaper and made Mr. Goombats even more well known.   He had become a kind of celebrity.    He was even quoted by a Senator during a session of Congress.   Something about two boxes in every home, or something.   It was not a very good paraphrase, and Mr. Goombats never actually said it.

* * *

Unbeknown to Mr. Goombats, Pop and I purchased a big TV for him.  It was 1954 and everybody was getting one.  And Mr. Goombats, spending more and more time alone in his apartment, we thought it would be good for him to have a television.    While he was out, we pushed it in and arranged it so that he could watch it from inside his box. 

Oh, what a great feeling it was the first time we heard Mr. Goombats laughing out loud at what he saw on the television.   He watched all the comedy shows, his favorite was Jackie Gleason.   But during the day, he wrote.   He wrote stories, essays and letters to just about every newspaper around the world.  He had a phone now, too, so he could call and talk to anyone anywhere. 

One day, a limousine pulled up in front of the apartment house.   This was in about 1959.  A tall, thin man came out of the limo.  He looked familiar but I wasn't sure who he was.   I was standing in front of the building, and he walked right up to me.  

"Is this the home of a Mr. Carlo Goombazza?"
"Yes, it is."
"Would you know where can I find him?"
"Apartment 9, second floor." I said, "Excuse me, sir, but who are you?"
"Arthur Miller," he said.
"The playwright?"

"Yeah."
"Oh my God.  I don't believe it.   You're here to see Mr. Goombats?"
He started laughing.   "Is that how you pronounce it?"
"Oh, yes, we often leave off the last syllable.   An Italian thing."
"Yes, I know." 
Suddenly, the window of the limo lowered and a high pitched voice called out rather meekly.

"Honey, this is not going to take long, is it?"

"No.  I'll be right back."  He ran up the stairs.   In the meantime I was staring at the window thinking, "No.  It couldn't be.  Stay calm, boy.   Stay calm."   Then the window came rolling down again and Marilyn Monroe's head stuck out. 

"Excuse me sir!" she said.    Oh, God in heaven she was talking to me!

"Yom-a, ye, yes-sha! Yes," I think I said. 

"Would you mind telling Mr. Miller that I'll be back in about an hour."

"Shu...sha... yee-ha, ye, yes, oh courso!  Ya ho.  Holm!" 

"Are you alright, sir?"  Marilyn asked.
"Hockma!"   I ran inside.  I acted retarded in front of Marilyn Monroe!   I acted like a freakin' retard in front of Marilyn, I repeated to myself, as I pounded my forehead with my fist.   Marilyn!  

At any rate, Miller and Goombats laughed and talked for about 45 minutes.   Apparently, Mr. Goombats had written to Miller about one of his plays and Miller was so intrigued by what he wrote that he felt compelled to come down to a tenement on the Lower East Side to meet him.  

That was Goombats.

* * *

It was the 1960's and the neighborhood was changing quickly.   Most of the old friends were gone, moved to Brooklyn or Jersey, or Long Island.  The city was becoming very dirty and unsafe.   Maria and I, and Mom and Pop decided it was time for us to go too. 

Mr. Goombats was, by now, closing in on eighty years old.  We were worried about him, even though he was still spry and took care of himself.   One night he was mugged and left bleeding on 4th street.    We begged him to come with us.   We were moving to New Jersey, and we could have purchased a house with an attached apartment just for him.

But he refused.   He didn't want to be a burden on anyone.  I tried to tell him he would be relieving a burden.  I wouldn't have to worry about him.   But it was no use.  He wasn't leaving his apartment.   The apartment that he had lived in for so many years; that held so many memories; that was his home. 

* * *

So, for the next ten years, we would drive into the city once a month without fail and visit.  It was always great to see him.  And he always looked well.  He kept busy, he said, with his writing, and watching TV and he claimed, there were still women.   Who could doubt him?

* * *

The phone rang late one night in 1981.   I knew what it was before I answered it.   In fact, I couldn't answer it.  I just started to cry.   My wife picked it up.  It was as I feared.  He took a bad fall and had a brain hemorrhage.   I thank God I wasn't there.   He died right away, they said.   No pain.   Thank God.   I wanted to.. . . to hold on. . . oh, God, deep breath, Johnny.   I always meant to . . . to. . . turn this thing off.  

* * *

My wife and I went through Mr. Goombats' belongings.  He had no family or relatives.   What we found was astonishing.  All the letters he had received over the years, from all those famous, some now historical, figures!   They are now in the archives at the NYU library. Anyone can go read them. 
We also found the autographed photos of Jean Arthur, Bette Davis, Errol Flynn, John Garfield, Gene Tierney,  Marlon Brando, Gregory Peck, Barbara Sreisand, Bing Crosby, and many more.   Those we kept ourselves.   

We also found a will.   Most of his possessions and money, which were not small, were left to me and Vinnie  Peanuts, who never forgot Mr. Goombats either.  He also left our children several bicycles.

As for Mr. Goombats' earthy remains, he did not wish to be buried.   His wishes were to be cremated and his ashes scattered from an airplane over the waters just off the coast of Cuba, near Havana.   I took care of that personally.   

As for his box, well, we had a nice ceremony for that.  I just couldn't stop crying during it.

* * *



* * *

Seems that nobody remembers Mr. Goombats anymore, or very few at least.   When those of us who do remember meet, usually at weddings or funerals, we can't help but talk about the old days and laugh, and talk about Mr. Goombats and his beloved box.  But soon, there will be no one left who knew him at all or has any memory of him at all.  It will be like he never existed.   Can that really be?  Can it be that no one will remember his sweet nature, his intelligence, his kindness, his generosity, and all the strange things did?  

Eh, soon, it will all be gone.  |

What can you do?   It makes me sad.

* * *

Oh, one really great, great thing happened.   A bunch of us who knew Mr. Goombats got together, each putting in some money and we had a plaque made and put on the front of the old tenement on 5th Street.   It says something like,

HERE LIVED CARLO GOOMBAZZA

From 1925 to 1981

WRITER, PHILOSOPHER, 
INVENTOR, PHILANTHROPIST
LOVED ANIMALS

 LIVED IN A BOX

WAS A FRIEND TO ALL

It's still there.    You can go see it.   I tell you, it's the thing I did that I'm most proud.  How do you like that, Mr. Goombats!  


* * *

I rarely drive to the old neighborhood anymore.  There is no one there to see, nobody from the old days, and it's much too depressing.   The city has changed so much.  It's so sad: no kids playing in the streets, no one hanging out on their fire escapes, nobody nowhere.   Are there any families still living in the city?   It seems not.   Everything has changed.   Mr. Goombats would not recognize it.  I don't think he would recognize the whole world.  I don't want to live in a world that Mr. Goombats would not recognize.


But, what else can I say?   Nothing.  I've talked enough and I'm tired.  That's it. 

I'll see you soon, Mr. Goombats!   And we'll sit and talk about the old days, eh?   

CHRISTINE

I met Christine Cookson soon after she had arrived in NYC from Boston.   She did not have any friends in the city, save one, her room mate.   I remember it like it was yesterday;  there was this beautiful young woman sitting at the bar in the restaurant where I worked as bartender talking to a man in a suit, a young man, who could have been her boyfriend.  I was aware that the conversation was not a warm, happy one.  After a time, he left.  I don't think they kissed.    She remained at the bar to speak to the manager about the possibility of working there.  She and I began to chat.  I sensed her anxiety and tried to put her at ease.    We hit it off right away.   I made her laugh, which, she later told me, made her feel much less anxious, lonely, and fearful of moving to a strange new town.    I introduced her to several of the waitresses.  We exchanged phone numbers.

She was, of course, an aspiring actress/singer/dancer.   I offered myself as pianist/accompanist/vocal coach to her.  She happily accepted my services.    In fact, I helped her prepare for an important audition.    Her voice was sweet and very pleasant but not nearly strong enough for Broadway.    But she was quite beautiful, a tall, fair blond, with bright, very opulent blue eyes and a magical smile.   Wow.   She was not thin, but not heavy either.   Curved just perfectly in fact.

After the audition, at which I was her accompanist she ran out of the room and threw her hands around my neck.  It was our first physical contact.    I was thrilled.   I hugged her back, and she thanked me for being such a good friend.    Later that night, while I was at work, during the busiest part of the night, I received a phone call.   It was from Christine.   She said she just had to call and tell me how wonderful I was, and how lucky she thought she was to have met me.   It sounded like she was about to cry.   "Joe," she said, "you are a wonderful person.  I'm so happy I met you."

It wasn't long after that that we took the relationship up a notch to physical intimacy.   It completed what I thought was the initial phase of a budding romance.   Weeks past, we saw plays, dined out together, exchanged back rubs, talked, walked, all the things young people in love do.  Oops.  Did I say, "in love"?  Funny, but I was sure she loved me, or was "in love," with me.  I'm not sure I quite was "in love," with her at that point, but it was certainly going in that direction.   I found myself more and more smitten by her every day.  Until, one day, I felt as if I truly did love her.   How could I not?    Her charm and beauty and her obvious feelings for me were irresistible.

I had her over for dinner one Sunday afternoon with my friends Steve and his sister, Julie.   We were seated around the table when I became quite serious.   I said, "Christine, there is something I have to tell you."   Everyone went silent.  Christine looked concerned.   "You see," I continued, "Steven and Julie. . . are Jews."

After three seconds of silence the three idiots burst into laughter.  Julie always loved my sense of humor, sick as it was, but now, so did Christine.  We had a blast and I cooked a wonderful meal.

Weeks passed.

I purchased tickets to, "Cloud 9" playing at the Theatre DeLys, (now the Lucille Lortel).   Afterward it was dinner and jazz by candlelight at Knickerbockers on 9th and University.  It was truly the most romantic evening of my life.

That night, we made love like we never had before.    Clearly we were at another level of intimacy in the relationship.   I had never seen her so responsive and "combustible."  Of course, I was highly skilled in the art of love-making.  Or so I liked to believe.   But that night. . . oh, that night was unforgettable.  And all the silly clichés were proven true: the earth did move, and we did hear the angels sing, the heavens, did, indeed, open up before us, and we did behold Love, the Universe, and ourselves, together, embraced by each others arms and that mysterious, infinite Joy that powers the cosmos. 

O! Divine Rapture!  O! Celestial bliss!   Venus and Apollo danced before us!   And we were drunk with love.

I know, cornball funny now.   But then, that night, that night, as God as my witness. . . that is how special that night was.

The following day I called.   The following day, mind you, I called her at home.   Remember this was the days before cell phones).

"Sorry," her room mate said.   "Is this Joe?"

"Yes."

"Sorry," she said again. Long pause.  "Uh, Christine is not here."

There are moments of lucidity, of blinding flashing clarity, in which one somehow connects to some universal force and the mind know things it should not possibly know.  This was such a moment because at that moment a strong chill went up my spine, just like they say, and I knew --  I knew --   I would never see or speak to Christine again.   I did not reason it out, there was nothing in what her room mate said.  I knew it.   There was nothing to reason out.

"Um, do you know when she'll be back?"

"Um. . . no. . . "

"I'll call back later then," I said, pretending to believe that there was still  hope.  Trying desperately to fool myself. 

"Well, you see Joe, she's gone to Boston."

"Boston?"

"Yes."

"Well, when will she be coming back?"

"I don't know.... I don't . . .   Joe, I don't think she is coming back.   Look, I've got to go."  And she hung up.

Well, she didn't need to say anymore.   I knew it already.   Why did she leave?   Does it matter?  It didn't seem to matter at that time.  I already knew what I had to know.  She was gone and was never coming back.

Do I go after her?   Do I call her in Boston?   Do I fight the good fight and demand an explanation?  Justice? 

Why bother?   She had already hurt me so badly, so deeply.  Why make myself vulnerable to more just for some foolish sense of satisfaction or pride.   No.  If the bitch didn't have the integrity  to tell me she was leaving or why she had to leave, then fuck her, I thought.   (My first lesson in the lack of personal  integrity of females). 

And so, as best I could, I began to let her go.   My heart shattered, I vowed not to become cynical or bitter. Yes, I vowed to recover and move on.   I vowed -- in vain. 

* * *

There is still a hole in my heart, a dull ache, now, all these years later, a gift of dear Christine.   I wonder how she is and if she ever think of me.  Please, if there is a God in heaven, let her once or twice remember me and smile.   Not for what she did or what happened but for how she said I made her feel when she first arrived in New York., even if it was but for the briefest of moments.    Let her remember that and smile.  Dear Lord, give me that!

* * * 

Now and then I feel sure that I've seen her, that I've caught a glimpse of her;  that she is in some crowd at a theater, or in a restaurant.  Or getting off a bus, there!  It is her!  I run, and tap her on the shoulder.   "Christine?" 

But it is never her.    

Yet I know she is out there, somewhere.  So I walk the streets of the city and look for her.   Often late at night, in the rain, or freezing wind,  any and all kinds of weather, because I know she is out there, I look for her.  She is out there, somewhere in the darkness, so I look for her in the darkness.   In the knowing and sacred darkness.

Former Poetry

This was once a poem.
It was profound and beautiful.
It had rhythm and meaning.
It sang of so much.

If you had read it,
When it was a poem,
You would have been
Moved by it.

You would have read it aloud,
To hear the beauty of its words,
To experience the words.
And you would have loved it.

You would have shared it with others,
Discussed it, analyzed it,
Read what others had to say about it.
You would have wished to meet the poet.

But that was long, long ago.
It no longer has meaning,
Nor is it beautiful or profound.
No one reads it, recites it, or knows it.

It is not worth knowing.
It has become shallow and lifeless.
It is anathema, and no one cares
Who the poet was.

No one can recall his name.

So it is forgotten.

On Revisiting Stravinsky's, "Les Noces," After Thirty Years.

"To hear music is not enough.  Music must be listened to.
A duck also hears."
                    ~  Igor Stravinky


Has so much time really passed since I last heard my favorite recording of a 20th century piece?   Perhaps the greatest work of the musical arts (forgive me, Beatles fans) written during the century, Les Noces, (The Wedding) is Igor Stravinsky's matchless masterpiece.   Because of it I had what might possibly be the single greatest revelation of my life.

I was introduced to, "Les Noces," during a college course on music of the 20th century.   The professor, a brilliant man, with a world-wide reputation for scholarship and musicianship, played a recording in class.   I thought I was hearing a group of pigs that were stuck under a fence.   "This is either a complete joke, a game of intellectual 'Emperor's New Clothes,' or I am a real idiot," I thought.   Well, the latter could not possibly be true.   After all, I had been studying music virtually my entire life!  Before I could read, I could play an instrument!   I was a gifted pianist!  And I got really good grades in music history classes and thoroughly enjoyed them.   I had the respect of all the professors of the extraordinary music department of the college in which I was enrolled.   So, I concluded that a game of intellectual fraud was being played upon me.   "Les Noces," was nonsense, and those who held it as a work of genius were too ashamed of admitting that they did not "get it."   I would not relent.

The course complete, the summer upon me, I found myself with some free time, time I thought I should use well.    Aside from a part-time job, and taking two summer courses at the college, I determined to investigate this,  "Les Noces,"  further.    If there was truly genius in the work I was determined to uncover it.   Otherwise I would declare it a sham.

I went to the lending library at Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts.   There I took out the piano-vocal score, and a recording of, "Les Noces."   I would study it, a little every day, alone in my bedroom, undisturbed where I could focus and concentrate.   The recording was an interesting one: Stravinksy himself was the conductor and the pianists were Samuel Barber, Aaron Copland, Roger Sessions, and Lukas Foss.  (If you don't know those names. . . shame on you).   "A lot of talent there!" I thought.   Yes.  Indeed.

So, I began my study.   Comfortable on the floor of my bedroom I played the recording and followed along with the score.   At first, nothing, no difference, just a long of screeching noise.   It was difficult to take, so I stopped it less than half-way through.   This was not going to be easy.  

The following day I decided to pick up the piece later on, about three-quarters of the way through.   Again, nothing.  Awful, in fact.   I barely held on to the end, which thankfully came before I had to scream.   I left, to play basketball and get the bad vibes out of my system.    Things were looking bleak.

Day three was different.  I started again about three-quarters of the way through and began to recognize certain musical motives re-appearing at different times that I had not before.   Nothing special.   Did not make it sound any less like pigs stuck under a fence.   But, I believe, there was, at  least, some compositional thought put into the work.   I listened to it again.   For the first time, I was able to re-listen to a passage of this work, and this time I made even more connections.   It was becoming very interesting on an intellectual level.

Day four.   Starting from the beginning, and playing only about half-way through, then repeating it, I was having the same experience as the day before.   I noticed subtle thematic use of material I had not heard before.  Then, still more.   The music certainly did have a homogeneity to it.   Then, something different: the text.   I began to pay more attention to the text being sung:  snippets of conversations, proverbs, folk tales that one would hear at a peasant or folk wedding.   I began to recognize a certain charm, a poignancy to the text, which included a rather profound invocation to God and certain saints.

I think it was at this point I became hooked.   I had to listen to the entire piece now, without a break.   It held my interest throughout.   The final scene came and I noticed again, patterns of thematic material, simple,  plainly displayed, quite appropriate to the text.

Day five.   With great excitement and anticipation I started the recording and opened the score.   Now, it was like visiting an old friend.   I anticipated themes, patterns, certain moments, which began to speak to me. One melodic idea I even labeled for it appeared over and over and most prominently on the word, "happiness."    I called it the, "Happiness motive."  And there were others.

More importantly, I began to imagine choreography, or rather, how I would choreograph this scene to give it the most meaning, symbolism, poignancy.   I tried to match Stravinksy's work with movement and imagery.   It was extremely interesting.

Then, it happened.    I came to the final scene.   The bride and groom are being led into the bridal chamber.

"Dear heart, little wife, my own.   Dearest flower and treasure of mine; fairest flower and sweetest wife, let us live in happiness, so that all men may envy us."   

Words of such simple sentiment.   The music, now completely stripped down to a sparse texture of pianos and percussion, consisted of chorale-like repetitions of the "happiness motive," as I called it.   It all worked perfectly together.   Sublime.  I noticed instructions in the score:  "During this music the curtain slowly descends."    I saw it clearly in my mind, the bride and groom are led off-stage, to the wedding chamber,  the revelers now standing in prayerful stillness, and the stark music fading away, till the "happiness motive," is transformed into the sound of church bells fading in the distance, all while the curtain descends.  

I noticed something else: my cheeks were wet.   I had started to weep from the beauty of this moment, the perfected union of text and sound.   Without question, I believed at that moment that this was the greatest piece of music I had ever heard.   My opinion has not changed in over thirty years.  

Thank you, Igor!

***

But that was not my final revelation of that experience.

Coming soon. . .  the uber-revelation. . . 

Latest Greenwich Girl So Offensive That Even I Can No Longer Laugh

I've joked so much about the empty-headed world of Greenwich Girl as seen through her "newsletter."   I've spoken about how simple-minded, how spoiled and silly,  how vacuous she must be.   I've gone on about how she represents all that is evil about what America (and the West) have evolved into, and the degradation her and her ilk forces upon all of us.

But this week's edition, this week's reportage, can no longer be laughed at.  It is seriously offensive.   It is as if she deliberately wishes to present to the world a person, a world, of privilege and wealth to offend.    She gloats in her new pink pants, the diversity of a scarf, and the joy of shopping.   She revels in the most superficial banalities that the poorly bred, with money, finds important.    She reminds us why we are hated around the world: for her.   She reminds us how much we hate wealth without responsibility.  

 "As we all know, mixing + matching pastels = you can never go wrong!  Whether your sailing the waves or strolling through Saks , this combo of must-have casual yet chic wardrobe essentials does not."

Can you imagine the mind that can write this and actually think it's admirable?    That she wishes to share this knowledge of nothing with others?   That does not feel shame at holding these thoughts and opinions?   Can you imagine such a mind?    Can you imagine such a person?   

I could not imagine even carrying on a conversation with such a thing as this.

It is no longer funny.   It is no longer fodder for sarcastic humor.  It is hateful, infuriating and sad.  And it's something she will never understand.

Poems for Nancy

O!  Nancy, my Love, O! Sweet Nancy!
To me you are no passing fancy!
     My heart you do fill,
     But what's this?  A bill?
Two hundred and ten for a quickie?

In sooth I did love a fair lassie,
Did diddle her patch of sweet grassy.
      "Your love-making's nifty,
        Now hand me a fifty."
I did, and she walked out the door!

I once loved a woman in Greenwich, 

Who proved to be quite the cruel fat bitch. 

            She told me, "Do stay!
            But first you must pay."
 I had no idea she was a God-damned spoiled brat whore, and only interested in men for their money, the blond fuck.  

One day I dear Nancy was choking,
Was asked if I was not joking. 
      "What's funny?" I said,
       And then she was dead.
And so, I rid the world of a fucking disgusting whore pig piece of shit pig-slut!

I held out a 40 for sex,

Cause Nancy refused to take checks
        "That forty I'll take,
          But make no mistake, 
I usually get a lot more, but hell, for five bucks I'll blow anyone."  

Twas a curious, devilish, sight,
It swung freely from  left to right,
            For Nancy did hang,
            A sign front her yang,
It said simply, "Open All Night." 

A Nancy did steal my sad heart, 

Then tore it asunder in parts, 

            For a harlot was she,

            Her love was not free,
 So I kicked her till her brains poured out all over the place and there was blood everywhere.    Nice.

Dear Nancy did hail from CT, 

A state without love or pity.

   "Tis a whore that I am,

    And my smile's but a sham, 

For your love I could not give a damn."  

"I know that I said that I loved you,
But please do not call anymore."
With these words my heart broke wide open, 

Lies still to this day on the floor.

            But happy was she,    

            And spoke with much glee.
About how she was only after rich guys and would fuck anyone

with lots of money and she was proud of this, like, this didn't make her a prostitute. 

How many had Nancy allowed

Her privates to be so roughly plowed?
     "As long as there's cash,
      I'll open the sash,"

And another did plunder her, loud!

If only dear Nancy could love me,
I would have had all that I need,
      But being a slut,
      With one bulbous butt,
She only could love her ATM, or some guy who drives a BMW, the pig-whore.

My love would not pick up a phone, 

Nor easily throw me a bone,
      She laughed till she peed,
      Whilst I bled with such pain you can't believe it, why she couldn't just return a call, say something, anything, you know, just good manners, the bitch.   Bitch from hell.

'Tis Spring!  And my heart fills with yearning!

For Nancy, who left my soul burning. 
       So I lit a match,
       Where fire would catch,
And her house burned down and killed the bitch and her fucking family in flames and burning agony and unimaginably hideous pain.    Then I stood and laughed heartily over their charred corpses, danced and sang, "Light My Fire."      Sweet.


* * *

An Epic Poem of Love

How often I've thought of the pleasure, 
It fails me never, to think,
Of how I did murder my treasure,
By holding her head in the sink. 

I only had asked for some sweet calm, 
A salve to comfort my pain, 
Just two words to act as a balm,
To end the distress in my brain. 

Thus was I forced to reach out for, 
The top of her phony blond head,
To rid the world of this whore,
And hold it until she was dead. 

"The world will be thankful!" I shouted.
"And shower me grandly with praise!
With bowers of laurels, undoubted,
To the march of a grand Polonaise!"

"He rid us of Satanic evil!"
"Of Satanic birth," they will cheer.
"Whose heart was so cruel and primeval,
So mankind could live free of fear!"

"Pitiless, spiteful, malicious!
"Her soul was the color of lead." 
"Get back into Hell, O!  Pernicious!
Lets burn off her hideous head!"

She squirmed, she battled, she sputtered, 
But only, by God, Had she uttered, 
          Those two little words,
          That twittered like birds, 
          Caused strong men to weep, 
          And sinners' hearts leap --  

         'Twas not in the heart
          Of this loathsome tart, 
          To render that phrase, 
          That all men would praise! 

          Not God on His Throne,
          Could make her intone,
          Not Hercules might, 
          Nor Plato's insight,
         
          Not Hell in it's fury, 
          No judge and no jury, 
          No Kingdom on earth, 
          Could make her give birth, 
                To two simple words --
       
                                              "I'm sorry."  

***    ***  *** 


If you've enjoyed my poems of love I thank you and wish you the fulfillment of love in your heart!

And, Nancy, you should only get rickets.