The Iliad of Joe Green

 

I beat up the Gamashay  twins.

It was back in 63.

My friend Johnny said to me

“Do you know what you’ve done?

Do you know what you’ve done, Joe?

Do you know what you’ve done?”

 

I looked up to my friend John.

Looked up from my book.

My book was the Iliad.

I gave a John a dirty look.

“There’s no balm in Gilead

For those moronic twins.

I caught the bastards going out.

And caught them going in.

 

It was my left hook, John.

It was my left hook.”

 

“Did you forget their cousin Frank?”

Johnny said to me.

“He’s built just like an M1 tank

And he’s back in town you see.

He’s 16 and he’s damn insane.

He already has a beard.

He’ll take you like a freight train.

Plus he’s really weird.”

 

I looked at John. Put down my book.

I’m sure my eyes did narrow.

Then I gave John a frightened look.

Thought of the falling of the sparrow.

“Tell me John, say it ain’t true.

Their cousin from Wilkes Barre?

Their cousin from Wilkes Barre?”

 

“Yes, that’s who I mean, Joe.

Yes, that’s who I mean.”

 

I ran back into my room.

Stayed there for a week.

I read and read the Iliad

But I was somewhat meek.

I tried to think just what to do

And concluded I would run.

Living in Honolu -lu -lu

Might be rather fun.

 

But the best and well laid lams

Often go astray.

My mother she did come to me

At the dawning of the day.

“It’s a perfectly nice day outside.

I want you to go out.

I’m taking your library card.

Go ahead and pout.

 

Go ahead and pout Joe, go ahead and pout.”

 

I knew then my doom had come.

So I snuck out outside.

“Look here the bastard is!”

The Gamashay twins cried!

And there like some damn dinosaur

Stood their cousin Frank.

He was taller that he was before.

Still built like an M1 tank.  Lord!

Still built like an M1 tank.

 

“Come here, you little shithouse rat”

Cousin Frank did cry.

And I saw just where my doom was at

And knew that I would die.

But then I thought “If all is lost

To Hell with all these willies.

I would pay a terrible cost.

But I’d take it like Achilles.”

 

And so I sneered at Cousin Frank

And started spouting Greek:

The first lines of the Iliad.

I prayed my soul to keep.

I almost got up to that part,

The great part in Line 9

When I heard Line 10

In Homeric Greek

And the voice it wasn’t mine.

 

The voice it wasn’t mine!

 

I stopped and stood in wonder

Seeing what I saw.

There was a clap of thunder.

Oh, the Gods exclaimed in awe.

It was Cousin Frank reciting

Homer’s immortal verse.

He was weak on the pluperfect.

But, by God, I had heard worse.

 

Weak on the pluperfect.

But, by God, I had heard worse.

 

And Frank and I smiled one to one

And left the rest behind.

Two youths in a steel mill town

Loving the life of the mind.

 

We fell into discussion

Of Homer’s metaphors

And just what Herodotus said

Of all those damn Greek wars.

 

Frank and I strode out right then

From that steel mill town.

I mean this metaphorically.

You better write it down.

I went on to a wild, wild youth.

Frank stayed on the straight and narrow.

And in three years led the Classics Club

At the University of Wilkes Barre.

 

So come all of ye strange young lads

Who love the classics well

But despair of ever leaving

The awful steel mill hell.

Pay heed to this fine story

And know you might be free:

Leaving the steel mills behind

For the wine-dark sea!

Argentinean Black Catholic Jew

I.

Cante

He was an Argentinean Black Catholic Jew
It’s too bad but I am one too.
How sadly I think of my father!

After Mass he would play
Hernando’s Hideaway
Then the Blues, then yell at my mother.

After Mass he would play
Hernando’s Hideaway
And bitch of the Schwartzes and Yentels.

Then damn the Ofays
And, in his own special way,
Evict some of the Yids from his rentals.

II. Cante Cante

Take a Jew. Take my father.


Born in the beginning of the 20th century –
that century of universal disaster.

Born in the USA to a family of neurotic vaudevillians:

African American Jews who disguised their Jewishness
and pretended to be an Argentinian family of tango dancers.

An African American Jew dancing the tango:
the one dance that, above all, speaks of fatality,
of destinies engulfed in pain. It is the dance of sorrow.

Then take this Jew (my poor Papa)
and arrange it so that he falls in love in Berlin
months before Hitler takes over …

Falls in love with that fatal woman: Ilsa.

The rest of the family flees while my Papa -- the fake gaucho -- is drawn inexorably into the darkest of the dark underworlds that existed in Berlin: the Nosferatau: the secret society of decadents with their Vampire balls and Grand Guigonal orgies

and my father and Ilsa dancing El tango de la muerte there while Europe descended into madness and my father danced –

danced to the dark music of the bandoneon and the violin:

A long stillness as the watchers waited in the dark and my father and Ilsa waited frozen on the stage and then

the quick motion that begins the tango!

stillness…

and then the sudden violence –

the dynamic of a frozen world suddenly shattered,

the apotheosis of the twentieth century!


III. Cante Cante Cante

I stepped out into the night from the funeral home remembering
how horrible it must have been for my father
to pretend he was a Catholic.

This explained his strange melancholy
during my first holy communion and,
as I remembered more of the story he told me,
I thought back to those times when,
my mother gone to Novena,
how he would lock himself into the bedroom
and all we could would hear was "Hernando's Hideaway"
on the old record player and

the sounds of my father shuffling about,

breathing …

IV. Cante Cante Cante Cante

Ilsa said "I am IRA.
And I think I can get us away.
But you must be baptized
And then in disguise
We’ll go to the U S of A!"

They fled cross the dark Irish sea.
My mother was Ilsa you see
And they remained in good health
And Pope Pius the Twelfth
Cried fie and fiddle dee dee!
Then they came to these shores at last
But the fad for the tango had passed
What could a Jew do?
So he did a soft shoe
Grateful that he wasn’t gassed.
He starred in some old minstrel show
Papa said he wanted to go
Mama said “You Black Jew
You’re working for two.

Dance – it’s all that you know."

 

The Loneliest Ranger

 

 

How My Mother Gave Up Drinking Gin

 

Christmas eve of Fifty-Seven my mother gave up drinking gin.

She kicked me out into the snow and wouldn't let me in.

"Freeze your pagan keister Mister Joseph Green

You can stay outside till Easter making fun of Bishop Sheen!"

 

She was drinking Christmas cocktails with my Uncle Joe

Who had drunk up all the whiskey.   He denied it but I know.

They had run flat out of vermouth and you know just what that yields:

The telling of the Awful Truth while smoking Chesterfields.

 

Uncle Joe confessed to Mama and told her he was gay.

My Mama said "Oh, no you're not and what an Awful Thing to say."

I was watching TV and said "Look there Uncle Joe!

He acts just like you do sometimes!"  Joe just said "I know."

 

I pounded on the door and wept "Oh, mama I will freeze!"

Then slipped and fell on the front porch steps and fell down to my knees.

I raved and begged and then I prayed.  Then gave a little shout.

When a gentle voice behind me said  "Now, what's this all about?"

 

And I heard celestial music and peered into the night.

Oh, it was the Virgin Mary all dressed in blue and white!

Yes, it was the Virgin Mary!   Ask me how I know.

She looked like a Maid of Derry but had a snake beneath her toe!

 

And there inside a pink cloud was a merry angel choir

And kind of to the left were all the martyrs in a fire

And then there were the patriarchs and little Johnny Doan

Who was baptized by my Mama when they left him all alone.

 

Whose parents thought he died last year a Baptist to the last

But was re-baptized by my Mama and so went to heaven fast

With all the other Catholics.   She saved him from the Hell

Of the awful Baptist heaven.   He was happy I could tell!

 

For there was St. John Bosco and St. Sebastian too!

But Johnny didn't answer when I shouted "How are you?

I'm freezing here. Help me out!"  But I couldn't see him through the swarm

Of Catholic saints all wanting to... just keep him safe and warm.

 

"Oh help me Blessed Mother.   There's no room at the Inn

For my mother and my Uncle Joe are inside drinking gin!"

But... yes it was St Patrick!   And he said "No, lad she ain't

I know your Uncle Joe's a homo but your mother is a saint!"

 

Saint Pat raised up his crozier and cried "Erin go Bragh!"

And Mama was so embarrassed as instantly she saw

All the saints and angels and the Blessed Mother too

Float into our living room.   What else could she do?

 

"O, Lord I am not worthy!  Oh, help me in my sin!

For it's the eve of Christmas and I sit here drinking gin

For Joe drank up the whiskey and I fear there's none around

And I have no drink to give you."   There was hardly any sound

 

Till the Blessed Virgin Mary said with her charming Irish lilt:

"Ah, there's no need to worry.   I absolve you of your guilt.

For we have good Irish whiskey-- the finest you have seen.

Ego te absolvo!   Where's the glasses Mrs. Green?

 

And turn off that damn homo.  We'll have no more of sin.

Turn on Perry Como and let the Sacred in!

 

Just turn on Perry Como and let the Sacred in!"

 

Uncle Joe was quite offended at that awful "homo" slur

But, of course, he just pretended for he knew just who they were.

And he joined the Host of Heaven as they danced a jig aerobic.

They were Irish and were Catholic and so, of course, quite homophobic!

 

Then suddenly all rested and beamed with angel joy

As good old Perry Como sang "The Little Drummer Boy."

"Thank God for the Irish," the Blessed Mother said

And I crept up into my room to read James Joyce: "The Dead."

 

And put my special music on and watched the general snow

And wondered what was going on and danced a slow tango.