Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #2                        Page 10
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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack

Pat Reinvents Himself
(Until I evtered the army at 17 I was called Pat)

Pat reinvents himself to survive. An Edison
Whose light bulbs are cartoon ideas. A Franklin
With a Charley Brown kite. Pat Pending.

            In the hallowed Bronx,
            he dreamt scientist, dreamt priest.
            Pat did not dream me.

Pat tried to even out the world.
Left foot down, right foot up.
Counting steps, counting words.
This is the way to do it. Seven.

                      Frank Murphy __

         Pat Is Uncle

         Pat is uncle Pat, great uncle. At seventy he is
         The oldest of his family. No one remembers
         The child he was, except him. Pat Patriarch.

                     One ailanthus tree.
                     There were also oaks, maples,
                     traffic signs, streetlights.

         Pat walked in the factory areas of the Bronx
         Vacant lots, abandoned buildings, deserted streets.
         Fascinated with discarded things. How did
         a picture frame get to Lincoln Avenue?

                          Frank Murphy __

Pat Dreamt Eisenhower

Pat dreamt once that he spoke with Eisenhower
All smiles and golf balls. In the dream, he
would have died for that man. Pat Patriotic.

            Somewhere in space is
            always 1944.
            Pat was four years old.

Pat stuttered and couldn't spell.
Looking at his lips in a small mirror
saying, a e ah oh oo
he wondered if there were a connection.

                  Frank Murphy __

         Pat Is Son

         Pat's mother, nee Marie Maher, loved the
         Saints, the assessable, magic, candle hungry
         Saints. Each child of hers a saint. Pat Patrick

                     In the light of old .
                     Churches, light sucked up like
                     Soda through a straw

         Pat fetched vanilla sodas for Mrs. Riley
         who was dying of Cancer. This he knew.
         136th St. Bronx, N.Y. 1945
         "Here we are like just poured drinks"

                          Frank Murphy __

Pat 1952

Pat swam in the Harlem River. Diving from
The Third Avenue Bridge. In droopy draws
Did brutal cannon balls. Pat Patton.

            Suddenly breaking
            the shit-line floating softly
            on Harlem River.

Pat, sad to say, threw like a girl.
He was the one picked last in any game.
All forgotten when with others he hit the water.
It was the best of times. The best.

                      Frank Murphy__

     Pat Recruits Francis

     Tap, tap, Pat backwards eyes closed, a blind
     boy walking in a minefield. Landmines in "ST"
     sounds. Stone Stab Stare. Pat Anticipated

                 The first day was hard
                 waiting to say his name out loud.
                 Pat was Francis then.

     Mules talk, pigs stutter, school was
     a landmine, the street a battleground.
     Pat dug a trench, dug it deep
     crouch down with Francis Stationary.

                      Frank Murphy__