Angelo Zeolla
Stoop Dub
As beads
of sweat trickle down
the flesh of this mid-summer
night
The six train softly
crawls down the elevated
towards Pelham Bay Station
side street of Mahan Ave twilight
Where wide eyed jazzmatazz
minded poet puffs a toscanello
in childlike emulation
of those long gone
birds of passage
whom he struggles to remember
in black & white contemplating
their possible exploits in
early novecento Pittsburgh
on 3 in the morning front stoop
amidst ambivalent outer-borough
banter about M5 beamers
dark tints and a chromed out
set of new shoes—
The moon looms overhead
knocked for six because the
stars won’t come out and play
cigar smoke drifts sheepishly
in the mix and guidos curse
the pungent stench it wreaks
They curse the poet decrying him
him a freak stinking of toscanello
smoke who rocks a cheap
pair of penguin
chuck taylors whose ideal world
is one in which all the banks are
razed down to their last glowing ember
and the only currency in circulation
is that raw poetry found at the bottom
of one’s soul that causes cats to be
one with the machinery of
night floating across roof tops
contemplating bop and always
remembering that BIRD LIVES
E BRIGANTE SE MORE!
Where one only needs to
be content with the
rumble of barreling six train
toward
metropolitan
sublime infinity
Where all this neighborhood
bullshit goes up in smoke
like puffs off a freshly lit
toscanello
and the jazzmatazz
minded poet is enlightened
by tumultuous twisted
metal
gallop of six train iron stallion
booking it double time for
heavenly Bleeker St.
so Dago Bards can recite
some poetry and make
eyes at doll faced
subterranean
sirens that whisper
sonnets heavenly.
Angelo Zeolla is a poet from the Bronx, NY.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 