Joe Read online

Joe

  By

  John J. Beach

  ~~~~

  Published By

  Joe

  Copyright © 2013 by John J. Beach

  ~~~~

  License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase a copy of your own. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  ~~~~

  Contents

  Introduction: Joe

  Airport Terminal

  Flying in the SUV

  Dwelling Place

  Rough Housing

  Petting Livestock

  Member of the EPA

  Further Basement Detail

  Hitting the Bricks

  Immurement Empathy

  Social Function and the Secondhand Eight Year Old

  Inter Networking

  Curves and Tangential Lines

  Ends of the Earth

  Aetiolation

  Devising

  Watching the Boy Play

  Pig Iron

  Pedestrian Priest, Bicycling Boy

  Ōþala

  Repointing

  About the Author

  Introduction

  The terzanelle is a poetic form that combines elements from the terza rima and the villanelle. Terza is italian for one third (of three equal parts), while rima means rhyme. Each stanza of a terza-rima poem contains three lines—often ten syllables each—and the poetic structure uses an end-rhyming pattern: ABA, BCB, CDC, and so on. A terza rima poem can consist of any number of these interlocking tercets, but it usually concludes with a couplet (or a single line) rhyming with the second line of the last tercet. The subject matter of the poem can be about anything, but anecdotes or descriptive portraits are popular.

  Joe is a book of 20 terzanelle poems. These poems are also a work of sequential fiction created and arranged in order to tell the story of a young boy. After his mother moves halfway around the world without him, Joe is transplanted into new surroundings and culture. Here, he befriends a pig, and, within an old photograph, he discovers what he believes is a great mystery.

  Joe is dedicated to the inquisitive children who live inside of all of us. May we never outgrow them.

  ~~~~

  Airport Terminal

  “I love you—with an exclamation mark.”

  Her words rustle in Joe’s brain. She unbends,

  rises ready to board and disembark

  without her young man. Where this journey wends,

  her path, uncertain. Like a wind-blown leaf,

  her words rustle in Joe’s brain as she unbends

  their small family. “The Great Barrier Reef

  can be seen from space, Joe. It’s biotic.”

  Her path, uncertain, like a wind-blown leaf.

  Her touch, bloodless. It’s a broken-off stick,

  no longer serves the community. “It

  can be seen from space, Joe. It’s biotic,

  the largest skeleton the world has knit.”

  At this point, Joe feels his bones. His mother

  no longer serves the community. It

  will exist in memories that smother

  “I love you” with an exclamation mark.

  At this point, Joe feels his bones. His mother

  rises, ready to board and disembark.

  Flying in the SUV

  Rear-storage pockets on the bucket seat—

  Joe tips fingers in, stretches back the flaps,

  repeats a plop-popping polyester beat.

  Dad pendulums eyes from road to boy, wraps

  short, meaty-hands on the steering wheel’s neck.

  Joe tips fingers in, stretches back. The flaps

  flop. Joe’s hand flutters, circles the flight deck

  (the plastic armrest), landing in a screech.

  Short, meaty-hands on the steering wheel’s neck

  twist, crush out an audible squeak, beseech,

  “Read. Quietly. My son.” Joe props upon

  the plastic armrest. Landing in a screech,

  his eyes claw roadway signs, catch on

  names of cities, rattle inside his head.

  “Read quietly, my son.” Joe props upon

  the floor carpet, haunch sits. Both his hands spread

  rear-storage pockets on the bucket seat.

  The names of cities rattle inside. His head

  repeats plop-popping polyester beats.

  Dwelling Place

  “That’s it, there.” Joe watches the farm house grow

  two-, four-, eight-times larger as they draw near

  driving up a stretch of Class 5 gravel,

  park their beast, wait for Grandma to appear.

  His father’s mother is now Joe’s mother

  (two-, four-, eight-times larger). As they draw near,

  her gravity pulls one then the other.

  She presses her freckles to their faces.

  His father’s mother is now Joe’s mother.

  Slender hugs become sumo embraces,

  stretches. Morning begins at five o’clock.

  She presses her freckles to their faces.

  Little Boy, her cat, paces, likes to stalk

  murky against the wood, looks for someone,

  stretches. “Morning” begins at five o’clock

  at night, with cat’s lair shrouded from the sun.

  That’s it. There, Joe watches the farmhouse grow

  murky against the wood, looks for someone

  driving up a stretch of Class 5 gravel.

  Rough Housing

  For the first week, Joe follows Little Boy,

  learns the lay of the house—slanted. Its floors

  tip towards rugged decor that’s Hoi Polloi,

  rooms with air pockets full of the outdoors.

  The cat knows the warmest spots, and Joe soon

  learns the lay of the house. Slanted, its floors

  don’t quite meet the walls, and a mousey tune

  scratches, burning between the two by fours.

  The cat knows the warmest spots, and Joe soon

  is there listening with him. Joe’s dad roars,

  “Can’t catch mice in walls, even if they’re dead!”

  Scratches, burning between the two by fours,

  trip and blow breakers in the feline head.

  Too much care murders a cat. Brooding thoughts

  can’t catch mice in walls. Even if they’re dead,

  they’re beyond worry. Feeling at a loss

  for the first week, Joe follows Little Boy.

  Too much care murders a cat. Brooding thoughts

  tip towards rugged, decor that’s Hoi Polloi.

  Petting Livestock

  Her other cat is a pig named Fat Man.

  Grandma Mother calls him, “Kitty, Kitty,

  here, Kitty.” Joe’s dad prefers “White Trash Can”

  and not hauling scraps to him. The City

  once complained about the stout omnivore.

  Grandma Mother calls him, “Kitty, Kitty,”

  but cutesy words don’t domesticate boar,

  change ordinances, or remove complaints.

  Once complained about, the stout omnivore

  and Grandma Mother, neither of them saints,

  greasy-palmed some councilmen, requested,

  “Change ordinances or remove complaints.”

  In the end, this failed, and her pet, bested,

  lives now just out of town, well fed, sloppy.

  Greasy-pa
lmed, some councilmen requested

  pork-free statute law if the pork pet be.

  Her other cat is a pig named Fat Man,

  lives now just out of town, well-fed, sloppy

  “Kitty.” Joe’s dad prefers “White Trash Can.”

  Member of the EPA

  When it rains hard, the cellar water-fills.

  Joe’s new job is to broom it to the drain,

  move low-spot puddles or “start growing gills.”

  Floor’s patched, glaciated, looks like moraine

  accumulated into pebbled sheets.

  Joe’s new job is to broom it. To the drain,

  he squeegees in canals and silty streets,

  landscapes for his Lego adventure teams.

  Accumulated into pebbled sheets

  are years of green substances. Swirled in streams,

  they’ve become “radioactive,” scrubber

  landscapes for his Lego adventure teams

  clad in vinyl hazmat suits and rubber.

  Joe’s mission: near-surface waste disposal;

  they’ve become radioactive. Scrubber

  work’s hazardous, but, each man has his role.

  When it rains hard, the cellar water-fills.

  Joe’s mission: near-surface waste disposal,

  move low-spot puddles or “start growing gills.”

  Further Basement Detail

  It’s a pine painter’s caddy, white painted,

  repurposed, a rest home now for captured

  moments, life Polaroided and ancient.

  The film images are washed and blurred,

  randomly sorted, bent into this box

  repurposed, a rest home now for captured

  memories, postcards, bad-investment stocks.

  Joe notices details, organizes

  randomly sorted. Bent into this box,

  a picture of the basement surprises

  the boy. In the background, there is a space.

  Joe notices details, organizes

  what he sees, and knows a wall in that place;

  yellowing, mortared, cement blocks seal off

  the boy. In the background, there is a space

  that’s been repurposed like this picture trough

  (It’s a pine painter’s caddy, white-painted).

  Yellowing, mortared, cement blocks seal off

  moments, life Polaroided and ancient.

  Hitting the Bricks

  Joe is down there and doesn’t love a wall

  that curtains frozen, airless space behind,

  drapes enigmas, from the sun wears a shawl

  of new and old brick courses well aligned.

  He has come to examine the façade

  that curtains frozen, airless space behind.

  Joe is a hunter, hunting down the fraud

  and would have the rabbit out of hiding

  he has come to examine. The façade

  multipled. Joe would have it dividing

  at his touch, breaking open the warren,

  and would have the rabbit out of hiding.

  This stone fence needs unmending; he’s the one

  wants it down, uncovered, but it stands strong

  at his touch.  Breaking open the warren,

  that two-by-four space, is his new mouse song.

  Joe is down there and doesn’t love a wall,

  wants it down, uncovered. But it stands strong,

  drapes enigmas from the sun, wears a shawl.

  Immurement Empathy

  Mother taught Joe to search the Internet.

  Deprived of oxygen, the body rots.

  Pancreatic enzymes digest, beset

  the abdomen, which blisters aqua spots.

  Skin shrinks, looks like hair and nails have grown.

  Deprived of oxygen, the body rots,

  outpours green substances. A gassy moan

  often protrudes and bubbles off the tongue.

  Skin shrinks, looks like hair and nails have grown

  for weeks until they detach after lung

  fluids have oozed up and out. The death spew

  often protrudes and bubbles off the tongue.

  This is where hyperlinks have led Joe to.

  He can feel his last meal. Churning inside,

  fluids have oozed up and out. The death spew

  reeks of methane and hydrogen sulfide.

  Mother taught Joe to search the Internet.

  He can feel his last meal churning. Inside,

  pancreatic enzymes digest, beset.

  Social Function and the Secondhand

  Eight Year Old

  “Well… Mother says religion is a crutch,

  a crime, which holds up God while crushing men.”

  Joe blabs this out, and, perhaps, it’s a bit much

  coming right after the priest says, “Amen.”

  Father “Spaghetti” sits well with the boy:

  “A crime? Which holds up God while crushing men?

  No, son. I don’t believe so. He’s brought joy,

  brings us all together.”

  “For His bounty,

  Father?” (Spaghetti sits well with the boy.)

  “All things good: pot-luck dinners… that brownie.”

  (He wishes he could be eating.) “His grace

  brings us all together for His bounty,

  to share our blessings, fill the empty place

  that is hunger… leaving hope.” (Unfulfilled,

  he wishes he could be eating.) “His grace

  is not desire; God’s in what we build.”

  “Well, Mother says religion is a crutch

  that is hunger, leaving hope unfulfilled.”

  Joe blabs this out, and, perhaps it’s a bit much.

  Inter Networking

  The card reads “Happy Nine Point Seven Five.”

  Joe’s mother will always count in the nine

  months they grew together, were both alive,

  abutting, shared a prenatal blood line.

  Although their universe is expanding,

  Joe’s mother will always count. In the nine

  weeks Emma’s been gone, Joe’s understanding

  who he is, and he’s become more like her.

  Although their universe is expanding,

  the two of them Skype weekly to confer

  life’s nutrients. She’s still feeds him, birthing

  who he is. And he’s become more like her,

  lives far off, is obsessed with unearthing

  a duration of interment. Pregnant

  life’s nutrients, she’s still feeds him: “Birthing

  bears fruit but also the seeds to replant.”

  The card reads “Happy Nine Point Seven Five”:

  a duration of interment, pregnant

  months they grew together, were both alive.

  Curves and Tangential Lines

  On the way to the store, Joe asks his dad,

  “Whatever happened to Granddad’s first wife?”

  There’s a brief pause. “Did I ask something bad?”

  “No, son. She… had a different walk of life,

  loved him, but the timing just wasn’t right.”

  “Whatever happened to Granddad’s first wife?”

  “He didn’t follow her. She thought he might

  although she asked him not to. I’m sure she

  loved him, but the timing just wasn’t right.

  Dad was a creature of his time. Marie,

  your Grandma Mother, lives more in the past,

  although she asked him not to, I’m sure. She

  left us one day, all angry. ‘Dad,’ I asked,

  ‘do you think Mother’s ever coming back?’

  Your Grandma Mother lives more in the past

  and Dad knew that, said, ‘I’m sure she is, Jack.’”

  On the way to the store, Joe asks his dad,

  “Do you think Mother’s ever coming back?”


  There’s a brief pause. “Did I ask something bad?”

  Ends of the Earth

  A hogshead is a unit of measure.

  It varies depending on what’s in it.

  A hog’s ass is just full of manure,

  infinite shovelfuls of walled-up shit.

  Straw-matted and thick, or a farm slurry,

  it varies depending on what’s in it.

  Slow in coming and now in a hurry,

  Joe’s dad has up and left for Australia.

  Straw-matted and thick or a farm slurry,

  a man’s hog-ass head may muse Thalia,

  flourish in idyllic fertilizer.

  Joe’s dad has up and left for Australia.

  Having half a world may make men wiser,

  know as much as hogs know about Sunday:

  flourish in idyllic fertilizer,

  wallow in comfort, mark your scent, and pray

  a hogshead is a unit of measure.

  Know as much as hogs know about Sunday:

  a hog’s ass is just full of manure.

  Aetiolation

  The hog shed was built to house one only.

  Insulated cement blocks four-foot high—

  just room enough for one boar and lonely

  stretches on the inside. Outside, the sty

  fenced in a hundred twelve feet of wallow,

  insulated cement blocks four-foot high,

  a tarped cat door opening to swallow

  a Fat Man’s entrance. His integral life:

  fenced in a hundred twelve feet of wallow,

  he has two automatic feeders rife

  with dry food, a wet sprinkler he can bite,

  a Fat Man’s entrance. His integral life

  is free from being eaten, from the light,

  from true companionship. He has affairs

  with dry food, a wet sprinkler he can bite,

  a young boy who comes by to share his tears.

  The hog shed was built to house one… only

  from true companionship. He has affairs—

  just room enough for one boar and lonely.

  Devising

  Joe scratched and chiseled Portland brick mortar

  with an old screwdriver and claw hammer.

  He worked around one brick’s perimeter

  on the third course, held down the tools’ clamor,

  kept silent about this undertaking

  with an old screwdriver and claw hammer.

  All the while, he was decision making