"Your Own Pilgrimage"

Determined to save your life,

you pick up where you left off,

before you were interrupted,

by the merely mundane motions

of a rather pedestrian life,

filled with soccer games ( known as

futbol in the real world),

ballet practice, Capoeira, Pilates, tennis,

and The noblesse oblige of a mortgage

which you strapped to your back

like a day pack,

without even thinking twice

about it.

Now that you've recovered from

what feels like a thirty year hangover,

you stumble down the stairs

of a house which you've grown out of,

half-numb, make your way to the kitchen,

grind your freshly roasted Gautemalan Antigua

beans in a Conical burr grinder,

with its whir, whir, whir,

carefully scooping out just enough

of the fine black dust to tamp

it, with your bamboo handled tamper,

ever so firm and gentle in your motions,

pat, pat, pat. . . next lifting

the basket with the precision of a practiced surgeon,

you twist the basket to the right, fifteen degrees

and depress the button which ignites the

steam to shoot through the beans at exactly

two-hundred and thirty-five p.s.i. .

Ah. . .you are simultaneously at rest

and stimulated by the first

whiff of cafe, next the crema forms at the

top of your porcelain demitasse,

which traveled all the way from Ho Chi Minh City

for just this moment, when you

decide, to cash it all in, no matter what comes,

and obtain a ticket to Brasil, where you can

buy a condo for less than the price

of a Lexus and begin the long anticipated

run, up to the Copa Mundial in 2014.

You choose to ignore the sirens of reason,

and instead, give heed to this high calling,

which so many ignore with due diligence,

attempting to strangle such wild-eyed ambitions,

as they sit in their vehicles in what looks like

a parking lot, but is a highway leading

nowhere very important.

You follow your red balloon,

sailing with such grace and ease,

wherever it may fly,

and leave the rest

holding their course for a day

which may never arrive.

-C.A. McCoy

(c) 2012

Sugo

After years of quiet acquiescence,

walking softly, not coughing or sneezing

burping or heaven forbid anything else

at an inopportune moment,

after denying

oneself for the other in the name of

their sacred trust for thirty-six years

together, Angela decided to make a break

with tradition,

even though her husband

withheld his approval of her pursuing,

of all things, a driver's license, at age

sixty-one!

What the dickens did she

need a license for anyway? Didn't she

have him there as her personal chauffeur

whenever she needed to make a run to

Lombardo's Italian Supermarket to pick

up some fresh cloves of garlic, oregano,

extra virgin olive oil or fresh tortellini ?

wasn't he always "Johnny on the spot",

to drive her to the parish hall bingo games

or up to "The Lake"?

What was the world coming to with all this

independence and usurpation of Emilio's

role as husband and provider

for the famiglia? Once something like

this starts, there's no putting it back

in the box. "Piano, piano si va lontano".

she'd start out little by little but she'd

go a long way.

The next thing you know, Angela will be

wanting to do something really crazy,

like run for city council. She might even

end up looking for a job and once she starts

working she might not need to depend

on Emilio as much, no, it's beyond

imagination. No good could possibly come

of this desire to get a driver's license.

It's out of the question!

A year later, Angela pulls up in her shiny,

silver Fiat cinquecento, with a sunroof and

spoiler on the back,

Emilio jumps up from

his recliner, and races to meet her in the driveway

to unload the groceries from her trunk.

Some marriages, like sugo, need to simmer

a long, long while before they're any good.

-C.A. McCoy

(c) 2012

Remembering

Some words just cling to you

in an uncanny way,

they stick to your ribs,

or the roof of your mouth,

like chunky peanut butter

that’s been out of the fridge

overnight. . .

words which roll easily off

your lips, like the word,

“mimayskomai” in Greek,

which means to remind

yourself of something,

even something you’re not

really sure you ever knew

. . .but you do, at some

visceral level, which you can’t

even begin to explain

to yourself or others.

It’s this kind of remembering

we all do when we ride a bike,

even after years of being sedentary

for years and years,

or driving a car, when we’ve been

driven around in a city for far too long

by someone else, whose meter was running.

“mimayskomai”, Mim A. Sko My. . .

It’s automatic, like the muse struggling

to capture your attention, even when

all you want to do is update your status

on some “social media” site.

Sometimes I wish I could remember

where my car keys are

in this same, mystical, unconscious

manner. But it doesn’t work quite

like that, as keys have been

fashioned by machinery

which are internally resistant

to this kind of remembering.

Tough luck you say. You’d like

to have it that way, but the universe

is just not cooperating with your

every whim, so get used to it, and

start mim-ays-komy-ing something

that really makes a difference

in somebody’s life. . .like perhaps

your best friend’s birthday,

or your parent’s anniversary.

You can do this, and you don’t even

have to “try” to, really, you can.

Just remember, recall, or bring

to mind, that despite

all of your initial gut feelings,

you really aren’t the center

of your universe. Just remember

this one thing and everything

else will work out for you,

better than you could ever

imagine. Go ahead, let it stick

to your ribs, or the roof of your

mouth, like chunky peanut butter

and let it roll gently off your lips:

Mim-ay-sko-My. . .oh my.

-C.A. McCoy

(c) 2012

The Time and the Place

Twenty-ninth of January,

you know I'm goin' for broke,

watchin' other people smile and laugh,

it seems like a bad joke.

Standin' in the rain,

watchin' the ferries sail by,

wondrin' what it was,

that came between you and I.

Somewhere in the clearing,

I can still see your face,

wish I could remember

the time and the place.

Visions of you and I,

supping over candle light,

speaking with our eyes,

'til long into the night.

Walkin' hand in hand

over streets of cobblestone,

wonderin' what it was like,

when this love was unknown.

Somewhere in the clearing,

I can still see your face,

wish I could remember

the time and the place.

Now you are down East,

and I am way out West,

Wonderin' what you're up to,

and how you have been blessed.

Funny how the time has past,

and with it I have too.

Your silence has endowed me with

a sullen, greyish hue.

Somewhere in the clearing,

I can still see your face,

wish I could remember

the time and the place.

Wish I could remember,

the time and the place,

the time and the place.

-C.A. McCoy

Carnival at Midnight

Jody's seen those Kung Fu movies

thinks he's a real man,

practices daily 'till there's blood

upon his hands.

Merilee is winking while sucking

on a lime,

Bobby's down the corner

singing tunes out of time.

And it's the Carnival at Midnight

if you did not know,

It's the Carnival at Midnight,

it's the big show.

Sally's at the bank,

she says she's got to run,

slipping the teller a love letter,

while nodding to her gun,

She says she's not in it for the money,

but only for the fun,

now I can see her point of view

while I'm blinded by the sun.

And it's the Carnival at Midnight

if you did not know,

It's the Carnival at Midnight,

it's the big show.

Ramon is in the kitchen

frying up a chicken plate,

nursing a hangover

and wishing it was late,

Now Stephen watches everything

from his sacred seat,

gazing at the people

promenading on the street,

And it's the Carnival at Midnight,

if you did not know,

It's the Carnival at Midnight,

it's the big show.

Now if you see me out on Broadway

before I hit it big,

please say hello to Lawrence

and all the folks I dig.

I'd do it my own self,

but I might not do it right,

in the presence of the poet,

I tend to get uptight.

And it's the Carnival at Midnight,

If you did not know,

It's the Carnival at Midnight,

it's the big show.

Last night I saw David,

he was playing the Chinese gong,

signing fortune cookies,

and saying I was wrong,

Now no-one knows the hour,

no-one knows the day,

when the Lion of Judah,

returns the Judgment Day,

And it's the Carnival at Midnight

if you did not know,

It's the Carnival at Midnight,

if you did not know,

It's the Carnival at Midnight

Yes it's the Carnival at Midnight,

'til he comes to stay.

-C.A. McCoy

Light

In the rain

and grey skies

your eyes

caught mine,

and just then

Light

filled the space

between my

smile and yours.

-C.A. McCoy

Lament of Padraig

Real men of Erin

never drink to excess or

dye their rivers green.

-C.A. McCoy

Please, Don't Call Again

Each note, deftly executed by fingers

which depress just the right key, with

just the right force, playing works penned

long, long ago by composers, who live on

through each intricate masterpiece, evoking

a sense of nostalgia for misty days, walking

through alleyways of the University District,

espresso and brioche on my table, as I overhear

conversations of those nearby, while thinking of

your last phone call, asking if we might get together,

and then you, phoning back just minutes later and telling me that

maybe it was a bad idea after all, that you shouldn't

have asked to meet me, and how sorry you were.

Somehow, the cello accompanied by a pianist,

playing Francis Poulenc comforts me in an inexplicable

way, and I resolve to move on, and vow to never

be at your mercy again.

-C.A. McCoy

Reticence

by C.A. McCoy

To R.H., il miglior fabbro nuovo

I could have written much, much more,

If I hadn't been so taken with your

own seemingly effortless creations, sifting each

word from a life spent plumbing the

significance of one phoneme after another,

combining your experience as a master craftsman,

with the exploits of a life lived with what some

might term the "contingencies of secondary causes",

while those who know you well, might merely

term the "unbridled willfulness" of a Berkeley boy

who never quite escaped the time warp of the

the sixties, with all its self-indulgence, rebellion,

and erudition in just the right measure.

I could have written much, much more

had I simply taken you at your word

when you voiced praise for my translations and

other works, but instead, I chose to stop,

to suspend my own efforts and watch you

hold sway over your fawning followers for

four more decades before settling down to

begin the hard work of writing, one lonely

word at a time, in an effort at full disclosure

before leaving this imperfect world. Now,

I'd like you to know that you had a great

part in who I have become, even if we

haven't spoken or seen each other in years.

I could have written much, much more,

about screeching steel wheels crisscrossing

kilometers and kilometers of open spaces, near frozen

streams where legions of geese had already

flown away to more congenial climes,

while I made my way down east from the Pacific forests all the way

through the Rockies and over the expansive plains,

steadily heading towards the windswept island they disparaged,

spinning yarns about those who remained

there, on that rocky isle, eeking out their livelihood from

the seas which surround it, and me making my way as far as

Gander, to hop a flight to Rome, flying on nothing

more than a song, and hoping to find adventure.

I could have written much, much more,

but I, like those before me, felt too much

the frailty of pencils and other writing

Implements, and instead, chose to sing words to

my muse until they could no longer be contained.

It is only now, that my longing for home has outlived the denial of my calling

and I ache inside, knowing I should have returned before this,

while each word finally fits firmly in place,

like a hand scribed spruce lock-notch, on a house not made with hands,

but with visions and dreams of a life hewn of fear;

fear of success and of those who have neither the ears

nor the desire to seek the sublime in the old sense.

I could have written much, much more.