Mike Jurkovic

Marty’s 81

Marty’s 81, has a parched, post-pneumonia cough
and the shits from diverticulitis. A blood clot in his leg
he can’t afford the apixaban for
cos you can’t survive on a pension and social security.
Lives w/his daughter in a shit-lorn town in the Hudson Valley
that everyone struggles to avoid lest you’re
driving through in a funeral procession
because his third wife Peg, a beautiful girl, a very smart girl,
took to the booze n the old farm house they’d rehabbed
somewhere in shit-lorn, Pennsylvania.
28 years. He counts. 28 years.
Played Carnegie Hall as a child
and sang doo-wop w/the mafia boys
back in Bensonhurst. Bought his first Vette in ’59.
A turquoise baby that stole your breath
while Sal The Snake stole your wallet.
Shows me pictures on his cell phone.
His whole life in his hands. In the hands of strangers.
The old stone house he restored w/Joan, his second wife
who had five kids and took on my three.
Plays piano for Saint Margaret’s
down the road in shit-lorn at the intersection where
the light don’t work. The ’62 Corvette. The ’65.
People were worth something then he rasps,
cold phlegm seizing his pipes.
Shows me his cousin Maury’s place up in Saratoga.
Raises horses and runs a marina on Manhasset Bay.
Maury’s the smart one he swears scraping his lungs.
More pictures of grandkids and horses, cars and pianos.
His fix-it shop in shit-lorn where
he still fixes vintage stereo equipment.
I take in a piece here a piece there he says for pocket money.
I tell him about my McIntosh w/the fried left channel.
Here’s my email, send me some pictures maybe I can help ya
he says. Served in the service but that don’t mean shit.
His son’s got his hunter green ’74 Vette until he can get
a place of his own. Pictures of his daughter’s daughter
who just turned four. Gonna start her on scales
when the cough’s all gone. Any day now, he says.


In a room above a deli on the corner in a dream

Christmas lights chroma
the morning civics at Molly’s
as Jack swears Jimmy was
the best barkeep ever
and you nod yeah cos
you’re new in town
and don’t yet know
the whole borough truth
But you swear
on your mother’s grave
you know these guys
from the deli
on the corner
in a dream
about a deli
on the corner
in a dream
And you really need
some down time
but the devil
(and his deep state)
have other plans
for you boyo
in a room
above a deli
on the corner
in a dream
in a room
above a deli
on the corner
in a dream


Blue Candle

Here in the heart
of Mea Culpa County,
the girl who helped thunder
had nothing really
to do w/the rain.

She was just a girl
(pronoun/verb)
standing in the shadow
of the cross,
who lit a blue candle
amid the high mountains.

Who knew love’s rhombus
proved proverb and vowel.
A girl of moon,
of infinite clouds
who had nothing at all
to do with the rain.


About the Author

Mike’s poetry and music reviews have been published globally but with little reportable income. Latest full length collections: mooncussers, (Luchador Press 2022); AmericanMental, (Luchador Press 2020). Blue Fan Whirring (Nirala Press, 2018) Anthologies: Calling All Poets 20th Anniversary Anthology, (CAPS Press); Reflecting Pool: Poets & the Creative Process (Codhill Press, 2018); Like Light: 25 Years of Poetry & Prose (Bright Hill Press, 2018) among others. Now in its 23rd year, he serves as President of Calling All Poets. CD reviews online at All About Jazz and Lightwood. Mike serves as chairman of the curated Music Fan Series, Rosendale Theater. He hosts New Jazz Excursions alternating Saturdays 10am-12pm on WIOX 91.3FM, Roxbury, NY. Streaming live at wioxradio.org. The Rock n Roll Curmudgeon appeared in Rhythm and News Magazine, 1996-2003.

He loves Emily most of all.

www.mikejurkovic.com         www.callingallpoets.net

(click here to close this window)