Joe Dolce: Three Poems

C C A D A

 

Tambourine of the cicada.

Ululation of the cicada.

White noise of the cicada.

 

Emerging out of cricket jangle,

a crescendo of chattering, surround-sound clattering,

mating call, war cry, territorial stake, community sing,

the sonic arc steeply decrescendos

back into frog cry and kookaburra hoo-hah.

Between arias, erratic vocalists flutter about gums,

jockeying for position, fastened firmly

onto bark (just look at the moult grip

of dried exuviae) readying for

the next tsunami of babble.

 

An array of 1300 species:

Magicicada, Cherry Nose,

Dog Day, Brown Baker, Red Eye,

Greengrocer, Yellow Monday, Whisky Drinker,

Double Drummer, Black Prince—

the Periodic Nymph lives fifteen years

under dirt, before surfacing.

Small ones pitch so high,

they are inaudible, but the large male,

its abdomen a hollow sound box

(disabling tympana, while singing,

preventing damage to its own hearing),

vibrates at 120 dB. Too close proximity

to a human ear inflicts permanent deafness.

 

Mostly night choristers, avoiding predators

(like the robber fly),

swarms shouted in Homer’s Iliad.

Messiaen sat for hours, notating birdsong,

but no composer has yet snatched bugsong.

I’d use a permutation of notes:

C C A D A

C A D A C

A D A C C

D A C C A

A C C A D

 

Tambourine of the cicadas

Ululation of the cicada.

White noise of the cicada.

Joe Dolce

 

Gall

Overlander to Murray Bridge

to scatter step-father’s ashes.

Up the river, off a small barge,

as per last wishes.

At midnight, strangulating charge

down right side, doubles me up,

a hundred kilometres from town—

on a moving train.

Choices: stop,

call an ambulance,

or lie down on my side,

breathe and tough it out.

Six hours to the next station,

I chose the latter, blanket

about me, pain slightly abated.

A second wind gave me patience,

floating in half-sleep.

Dawn arrival. Hail taxi man.

After tests, ultrasound peep,

at town clinic, verdict: gall sand.

Doctor wants to cut me: not cheap!

Back at motel, I’m debating.

I call the radiologist direct, for a Second.

Hesitating: Sounds premature. I’d wait a bit.

(Three decades later, I’m still waiting.)

Joe Dolce

Last Meals (Dead Man Eating)

 

Lawrence Russell Brewer.

(Murder. Lethal injection.)

Two chicken-fried steaks.

Half kilo of barbecued meat.

Triple-patty bacon cheeseburger.

Meat-lover’s pizza. Three fajitas.

Omelette. Bowl of okra.

Half litre Blue Bell ice cream.

Peanut-butter fudge with crushed peanuts.

Three root beers.

He ate all of it. Texas stopped last meal privileges after that.

 

John “Killer Clown” Gacy.

(Rape, 33 counts of murder. Lethal injection.)

Dozen fried shrimp. French fries.

Bucket of KFC—original recipe.

Gacy once managed three KFC restaurants.

 

James Edward Smith.

(Murder. Lethal injection.)

A lump of dirt for a voodoo ritual.

The warden refused. Smith settled for yogurt.

 

Thomas J. Grasso.

(Two counts of murder. Lethal injection.)

Steamed clams and mussels.

Burger King double cheeseburger. Barbecue spare ribs.

Two strawberry milkshakes. Half a pumpkin pie.

Can of SpaghettiOs.

Last words: “I did not get my SpaghettiOs.

I got spaghetti. I want the press to know that.”

 

Victor Feguer.

(Murder. Hanging.)

A single unpitted olive.

Requested the pit be buried with him.

 

Ricky Ray Rector.

(Two counts of murder. Lethal injection.)

Steak. Fried chicken. Cherry Kool-Aid.

Pecan pie.

Left the pie, telling the guard, “I’m saving it for later.”

 

Joe Dolce