Palminteri

His is the celebrity
Taken less seriously
Than the old sincerity
He’s a man, he’s a boy, he’s “what the hell is this?”

His is the restriction
Of blood to the heart
Bushy haired and bloated
Like his father, like his son
Like the shrill of his voice when he’s angry

His is the arc of light
Descending upon our valley
Its mountains and pointy trees spotting our sight
Boulevard warehouses, boxes on wheels
A new generation, it’s time to change formats

He cries to his mother on the phone
“they promise me nothing these days”
His mother says “Charlie, I told you this years ago –
Bastards underestimate beauty”

He remembers altitude
He remembers hell
He remembers pentagons of trees
He remember garlands
‘round necks of Girl Scouts
Sadly
There’s nothing to do about that
But slam shut the memory trap

He scampers down his driveway in his billowy robe
Says “where’s my goddamn paper?” To the sticky sky
The sticky sky disgusts him, so he runs back inside
Says “coffee for me” to himself, as his runners sleep late

His is the prescription
Of numbers encoded
Of meetings in mornings
With agents of his own decline
‘til they finally get it right
One day in the bulk canyon light

His is the celebrity
Taken like parody
Given like sanctity
To the women, once scouts, now old like him

His is the celebrity
Of hockey shirt Saturdays at work
Sandals on sand, a fake gun in his hand
The dolly jitters, to suggest tension
As he says to the bleached woman in black
“Can’t I use my prescription sunglasses?”
She looks away
And defers to a higher power

His is the celebration
Of what he sees there
On the folding table, uneven on the beach
As the sun shrugs its shoulders and slumps for the night
And the men with cargo pants pack up the machinery
He looks to both sides before wrapping
The blotched Thin Mints in his handkerchief
He looks again and then pockets his prize
Thinking “they can fuck me, they can fuck me, they can fuck me."

2002