Historical Proclivities in the Preemptive

Peter G Res



None of my explanations
for insomnia fit, bursting the seams
ideologies in the plotting of cities
by Father's green obtuse
dome lamp with beaded string
in chinsy chiseled brass
and fine, painted glass
like a clerk might've used
in the 20's, when, simultaneously, Grandpa
went flapping in his cushioned orb
of Brooklyn-Alexandria light.

He grew tired, felt himself ready
tried to escape through the belly
before a subtle syntax
could coax him out
to the world he was born
a writer.

The father of accountants
for the city of new york,
perhaps a series of numbers
came in an old floppy
gray lined postal bag
As, a then, young and fit stork
brought the flaming arithmetic
to his brain, the ear for music,
poetry, inherited in vein
perhaps some gold dust
left over from the good life cascading
from the blaring blue.

Into the plaintive sac, Le Sac
en Gabe's Français, Espanola,
or Arabic (the hidden referent?)
pitter pat of splat speech acts
in bay ridge sunlight
it was now the 50's.

Kiss me, Greta Garbo
she has seen the souls of men
she has been silenced nightly.
Gabe decreed her a real doll
and she spooned to the tune
but enough of culture
we're looking for fat facts
moon pies in each of their wise
cracks becoming seamless, almost Operatic
with time. What was insomnia's
rhyme scheme? Every child asks.
Dunce capped and glancing
from the school room's dark:
fart and spark in freedom
yeah, freedom...
(subtle music on clouds)

Surely, the midnight's proud
hours, what of them?
When Gabe sat down with the stems
of coffee containers his ice cream blotched
me to wake in defiance of moonlight
without television

or sufficient trite
to think myself romantic.
His is the frantic silence
that builds in the corners of lips
that commands the right
to keep us in
drooled sentimentality:
"Enough of the bacchanalian spree."
Silken, but do not dream.
Whatever you do
to stop.

The geometric problem
trains of this
sleepy life.
Do not wake.
The man's math was simpler
than this.





Peter G Res is an MFA student at the low residency program in poetry at New England College. He is a writer, poet, and scholar. He lives in New Jersey with his dog, and rarely sleeps.