Carlo Parcelli


"The Gilded Index of Far-Reaching Ruin"

That’s How I Remember Her

                That’s how I remember her,
Bronze and barefoot 
                With some biker’s face bouncing between her thighs 
                     Like a greasy, hirsute cyst
Doing wild kingdom outtakes through the walls. 
         Borrowing my toothbrush, borrowing money, borrowing my four stroke,
Borrowing my boxers, or at 4:00AM calling from the County jail
                 Asking me to swaddle my baby
And come make her bail. A “wildebeest” I told her,
          “It’s not a deer,” “I’ma wilda-beast”’
She leered back faux  Italiano wearing nothing but cotton underwear
                  And spreading her legs she purred,
          “Now be a dear and get your ass over here.”

And her friend not quite right in the head
                  With his colors, his bayonets and his live grenades 
           Who crashed in the furnace room
While his old lady waited tables pulling a double shift,
                  Crouched behind the deep fryers making $50.00 tips, 
           Then staggered home strung out to renew his subscription 
                  To ‘Crabs and Scabs.’ 
And Bible class tattoos in paraphrase:
                   “A rech man
           Cant get thru the eye uv a neadle” with a little 
Mockup of a hypodermic etched between his pecs.
           And “Thow shallt not kill”
Above a blood-dripping dagger.
            And above her snatch, “Litle Jezus sleapt her.”

That’s how I remember her. With three thugs in tow
           From the chop shop, heroes come to deal with our neighbor
The one who pulled a shotgun on me, my kid and my girl coming home,
           Because band practice had gone on too loud and too late. 
So one of her outlaws reaches into his leather 
           And pulls out a loaded 38. 
“No, no, no,” I said. “Cut the guy next door some slack.
           He’s going through a messy divorce.”
“Fuck man, bitches” moaned the mechanic, “I can relate to that.” 

That’s how I remember her. Burning down the house
           ‘Cooking’ me a birthday dinner.
Running into the street barefoot in cutoffs
           Squealing, “Come quick! Something’s on fire!
I think it’s the house!” A volunteer fireman
           On the street, ogled her once, rushed in and put it out.
“No landlords, no cops, and honey, 
           You call your wife and 
Tell her you’ll be dining out.”

That’s how I remember her. On the couch playing footsy
            While her beau, Armed and Dangerous, got another beer.
Shooting a glance, I said, “Get the fuck outta here!”
             And leapt up like she dropped a burning roach into my lap.
“What’s up?” asked Armed and Dangerous, coming back.
             “Your girl friend dropped a burning roach in my lap.”
“Oh, yeah. Bitch told me she didn’t have no dope.
              Right bitch?”
“I got you, don’t I” she snarled back.
               “Bitch, get your ass up and fix me a sandwich.”
“I’ll get it. Baloney and swiss?” 
               “No man, let this lazy bitch get it.”
“No, you two lovebirds cuddle up and enjoy Bewitched.”  
That’s how I remember her. 
She’d called me crazy because I read my little daughter Rabelais.
               Yet she’d sit and listen 
Wet hair wrapped in a towel,
               Doing her toes blood red or some shade of deep bruise,
While Pantagruel listed his litany of arse wipes
               And concluded his favorite was the down of a warm goose.
My little daughter howled, while Toenails said “That’s awful.
               Sweetheart, your father’s a lunatic.
When I get my big house, you can come live with me
               And will make your daddy live in the backyard in a tree.” 
That’s how I remember her, 
               At the cold metal kitchen table sobbing
“I killed my baby. I killed my baby”
               After that cold cunt at the club told her
“Honey, you done it a favor.”
          Now her face buried in my chest,
Bewildered holding her, I looked at the keyboard player,
                Just a baby himself, a runaway.
          Three hours later she was high,
And angry, rabbit punching any and every male in sight.
                “Hey can one of you heartless fucks
Drive me to the club. You can watch me strip.”
                 “Nothing we haven’t seen.” 
           “Then keep it in your pants and give me cab fare.
No, I’m never fucking again.
            No. No. Only girls.
I’m only fucking girls from here on in.”

That’s how I remember her. My baby daughter 
              Distracting the cooing, lovestruck wait staff,
Providing cover while we stuffed her diaper bag
              With chicken from the buffet.
You and Cloe and Nancy comparing chlamydias
              While chugging clams dipped in tartar sauce.
Or going schoolgirl over that handsome ducktailed 
              Felon Jack Pridemore. Filling the water glasses 
With Smirnoff’s and toasting 
              The busboy with the ‘stellar’ ass
Then stealing the tips.               

That’s how I remember her. Wrapped only in a towel
            Talking to her 'fiancé' long distance
                  In a room full of bikers and their molls.
Bumming cigarettes, bumming papers, bumming rides to her job 
            Selling light bulbs over the phone
And giving blow jobs $35.00 a head on her break.
                       High, hung over or puking out her guts,
            She was always loving and tender with my kid,
                       Sang her lullabies, kissed boo-boos
            Played ‘this little piggy ’ and hide and seek.
She always promised she’d pay me back,
                      And by vanishing to Colorado one early morning,
            She did. 

Other installments of "Deconstructing the Demiurge"

"Crimes of Passion"
"Work in Regress"
"Onionrings: Adding machines_Crisco"
"Collateral Damage, or The Death of Classics in America"
"How Dead Industrialists Dance, or Swing Time"
"Tale of the Tribe"
"Millennium Mathematics: The Centos"
Eschatology of Reason: The South Tower
Eschatology of Reason: The North Tower
Eschatology of Reason: De Rerum Natura
Eschatology of Reason: The South Tower (revised
De Rerum Natura: Hearing Voices
Eschatology of Reason: Shaping the Noise


selections from:

Eschatology of Reason:
‘The Gilded Index of Far-Reaching Ruin.’

Without Usura


I. A Brief Course in Secular Eschatology
II. Congo Redux
III. A Koan Operated Turing Tape (lost found)
IV. Maxwell’s Demonology
V. About the Author
A. At 64
      B. That’s How I Remember Her

The poet's comments on his growing poem:
"Is Everyday Language Sufficient to Embody Everyday Experience?"