Please check out my new poem:
https://forthmagazine.com/poetry/2017/07/look-sky-poetry-frank-possemato/
Thank you!
Please check out my new poem:
https://forthmagazine.com/poetry/2017/07/look-sky-poetry-frank-possemato/
Thank you!
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Please read my short story “moment of truth” here:
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged akashic, boston, fiction, noir | Leave a Comment »
Poem “By the numbers” in Underground Voices. Please check it out.
http://www.undergroundvoices.com/UVPossematoFrankJUNE2012.htm
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In Bloom
By Frank Possemato
Accumulating, almost
formed into a simulacrum
90’s nostalgia hovers in the forecast
the downpour can’t be far off
before it comes allow me a word
just before that millennium’s last decade
is reduced to easily repeated jokes
about flannel, bad hygiene, low riding cars
and dial-up connections
let me attest that I was
12 years old on January 1st, 1990
and 22 (and in the hospital) the night the much-hyped year 2000 arrived
so the extent that decades matter at all
every moment
every living breathing sleeping waking second of
my young adulthood
happened in the 1990’s
so here’s how I saw it:
The 1990’s, now in hindsight, were the great retirement home for popular culture
the culmination,
though not the climax,
of where we all were heading since rock and roll-
an America big enough for talk radio and the Red Hot Chili Peppers,
where fathers and sons and daughters could find common ground in Neil Young and Pearl Jam, and Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre
became household names,
with a Democrat president and a Republican lead house,
where you a could see Marilyn Manson open for Nine Inch Nails
or a reunited Eagles for a thousand dollars a ticket or a reborn Bob Dylan for much less,
a time when your daughter could get a tattoo and your grandfather could surf the internet and we all lived something like happily
ever after.
Except of course we didn’t
Follow me down
to an Ames in Conway, barely 1990
and overhearing a mother buying her sons
a Nintendo game
they weren’t cheap back then
I didn’t know these boys
But I knew this purchase would define their days to come
in one hand The Legend of Zelda in the other
Bad Dudes
the kids, younger and less experienced than me,
are leaning Dudes
she gives the back of each box a bewildered skim
“This one looks violent”
Zelda it is,
for once the intersection of parental guidance
and video game awesomeness
and at a very young age
I felt that grown up feeling
of being happy for someone else’s happiness
Follow me down
to a time when a moment, a two second shot, a hook
from a video could inform your day
as you walk the street and look for yours
a time when the aesthetic to aspire to
was more college than high school
a combination of 60’s dirt and 80’s metal
an era that saw the first black president- Michael Jordon
when the people in videos and on the diamond
were still older than me
Joey reporting from the BU arcade
the news of the day
they’d just wheeled in a new cabinet
on its side
the words
Mortal Kombat 2
We’d bought MK one with textbooks
he had sold back
the bloodless SNES version
but a world to get lot in
none the less
We are all consumers,
and Optimus Prime, Cobra Commander and wrestling were as much a part of the Generation X experience as 120 Minutes ever
was,
but there was a healthy, necessary, cynicism in the relationship between consumer and consumer culture that has since gone
critically out of balance.
Just today I heard in the bank
the Guns N’ Roses version of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”
because the one thing that Dylan’s stark transcendent original needed
was an answering message in the middle
and what unanswered shit we gave them for that
but more years than I want to admit later
said message has brought me more joy
than debt consolidation or blood thinners
ever will
evocative of days of cheap extra value meals and playing Sonic The Hedgehog until your eyes twitched
Heading back with my crew from Burger King
with Dr. Pepper in my veins
unhooking a payphone as we past it
like in the Green Day video
because it was there
and of course we were too old for it
but we’ll never be so young again
and rebellion was only an NWO t-shirt away
declaring your allegiance
by unzipping your jacket on the bus
in solidarity feuding with
the suits and babystrollers in the front
and Sting coming down from the rafters.
Spending the day at Tower Records
and buying nothing
coming home empty handed save for a few riffs
scribbled on my hand
from a Tab book I didn’t buy
go home and try them
belief systems crushed under sneakers
on the teenage sidewalk
it was bs, and a work
and like everything that ended up mattering to me
it started as a joke
and ended as a prayer
Expressed in scale
the tall ship or the microchip
Nirvana was a long time ago
played with the same resentment
that things don’t get better
unwrapping an action figure
in the backseat as my parents drive
past Braintree Station
memory buttons
which one is steering?
A song on the radio you didn’t even like back then
evokes nothing but completeness, simplicity
and we’ll never know
if this is the inevitable
feeling that things ain’t what they used to be
that every generation discovers
but is it nostalgia alone
that leaves one with a sense
that something truly went amiss?
One shutters to think what happens to idealists
when it’s your turn to inherit the earth
And yet, maybe, for all the real or
imagined slacking ease
the spirit of the 90’s, like growing up itself, really wasn’t about winning
it was about being a loser, then surviving
outlasting
making a tent out of what’s real to you
then listening to the rain on the roof
There is no secular music
and you can’t pray with your dick in your hands
to have once felt so strongly
and still feel memories fading into closer
to remain uncomfortable to the world
but neither let it go nor become self-parody
that
might just be revenge after all
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged 90's, 90's are back, 90's Nostalgia, 90's poem | 4 Comments »
Revival
Hungry and broke
on the ass-end of history
the western wind has long since
stopped blowing
and the south wind is late coming
nobody
(everybody)
knows it’s a fallen age
the ringing feeling that something
that happened
is still happening
feels the hint of empire
of the past
but like grass
that unwanted
grows in a valley of death
life somehow seeps through
where the heavy shadows
overcast
to start a new evolution
grown in what you
gave
(nothing)
and creeps up
ignored
unstoppable
Frank A. Possemato
Originally published in The Fossil Record
Share these words if you liked them
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Hallways
By Frank Possemato
My friend John Lee,
a bottom-dweller just like me,
to clam the long-life misery
watches his chances come and go
mostly go.
We met on Cemetery hill
in the neighborhood
that I life still
where the darkness
of the dimly lit existence
never ceases
to kill.
Here in this place
of many places
inspiration gets too long
in the heavy-eyed gas station lights
where thoughts go through your head
mostly unsaid.
John will take his stand
by the runway
one open-ended night
but until then
the best life
is one you can walk away from
obviously
and I
I’ve been an evangelist
a collector a thief
a player
a stranger in the alley
a brother
a son
and if I cant win you
with my self-destructive smile
then you just caught me
in the rain season
it will all be clear
when I come back to all the put-off things
mostly never
but when the restlessness is all you know
with that ragged, start-over
feeling in your throat again,
pretend
with your fictional friends,
that the distance can be measured in miles
but the end is so ridiculously
out of sight.
Sweet Lady
we could be married in the spring
you’re in waiting
just like me,
we could keep the brightness of living
always
but that’s just the best intentions
getting in the way
so I’ll choke on nostalgia
or exaggerate it out of existence
but when you look at me
like you’re the only one who can stop the
flood
what else can I do
the meanwhile confusion
can put to death our short-sleeved dreams
leave only the bleak
sand hills and dust fields
leaves you with reason to think
we’ll all be cut down
by the daily struggles and tragedies
mostly small
but keep the sight
keep the day light
we’re both chasing the same thing,
from the backyard
to the boulevard
every hour
and every cent,
to walk deliberately
and not walk alone
mostly forever.
Originally published in Clarion
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