R.A. Pavoldi is a self-trained poet writing over 50 years. He credits the Napolitano American dialect and school of hard knocks for his voices. Some places he is grateful to have published include: The Hudson Review, North American Review, FIELD, Cold Mountain Review, Crab Orchard Review, Hanging Loose, Tar River Poetry, Ars Medica, Italian Americana, The American Journal of Poetry, recently in Viewless Wings podcast, Sky Island Journal, Atlanta Review, Slipstream, and I-70 Review.
AT THE LOTUS CLUB
a souvenir photo
AT A CROSSROAD
Somewhere in the Midwest
you don’t know who you are
or where you came from beyond having to hightail out of
Freeport last week after a night
of drinking at Rondo’s farm, who was gracious enough to let you stay
a spell, an all-nighter
after an all-day barbecue, smoked
brisket, Lone Stars, too much Jack
the guy from Angleton with a
Buck knife on his belt all night
trying to goad you into a fight, the roadhouse cabin with dirty sheets
the shower full of spiders the desk clerk with a lazy eye pulling a silver six gun when you
demanded your money back,
backing away, hitching a ride to
the Galveston Ferry, then north
on foot, four, and eighteen wheels
rolling up the highway you recall
the lunch counter at Woolworth’s
orange and grape soda splashing in the square glass reservoirs, in the basement where they sold
painted turtles, fish, and small birds,
a guy who dressed like Elvis
before anyone dressed like Elvis
sitting there all day, every day
when you were young and bouts
of madness and melancholy were dramatic and fierce, like
playing chicken in an old jalopy
barreling down a gravel road
head-on toward some lunatic
you knew would never swerve.
Today you are just thirsty, tired,
and cautious, thumbing a ride
looking for something familiar
asking God for another turn
some hometown, slow town
you long to go back, because now
madness and melancholy are
in slow mo, dream lit or sunlit
you are alone, in a staring contest
with someone you know
has never blinked in their lifetime.
DELTA SLEEP
Last night was not the jagged sleep of broken glass
but the lush green sleep of closed flowers, the ivory sleep of the crescent moon cradled in deep black dream behind the stars. There is a man on fire near the pick-up
he was working on, his head in flames
from burning gasoline the carburetor
spit back dousing him, a volunteer fireman who later said he should have
known better than to pour gas down the carb,
said he wanted to run across the field behind his brother’s farmhouse to the river but stopped, dropped, and rolled in a small puddle,
the fine gravel picked from his melted face, said he knew running would have fanned the flames
yet he wanted to run to the river.
Last night was not the scream sleep of sirens but the morphine sleep of wild windblown grass,
the facedown sleep of fallen headstones, the etched granite sleep of lichen filled names.
He longed to be a painter, fill his canvas with wildflowers, dreamed in stamens and petals
all night running wild, loading his palette with the colors and gusto of a child. He became a printer, keeping some
of his life in color, tending the press
like a pining heart beating perfected sheets layering in stacks like his dreams, recurring dreams where other dreams
collect at the mouth of a river, the delta mud of early mornings, the delta sleep of dreamers run aground.
There is a man smoldering in delta sleep
where journeymen suspend operations,
when the press is stopped between shifts
washed down, and readied for fresh plates.
There is a man on fire where wildflowers
run to the river, blazing orange, yellow, and red,
flailing his arms around his head, his face
wild rose, black-eyed Susan, Queen Anne’s lace
a man on fire in a field
flaming dandelion whirling
under spinning clouds and spiraling sun
surrounded by the riotous noise of blooming,
there is a man on fire in a field
painting flowers and waving his brush
and howling, a pinwheel ignited and twirling
face flying like sparks from its bones,
there is a man on fire in a field
moving his easel back to paint himself in,
thumbnail sketches taped around the edges
each with a detail of daisy or cool river,
a man on fire in a field
daffodil and daisy, cosmos and cornflower,
bee balm, buttercup, periwinkle, and morning glory,
there is a man on fire in a field
stitchwort, groundsel, colt’s foot, and sunflower,
blue bell, primrose, speedwell, and windflower,
there is a man on fire in a field
wolf’s bane, forget-me-not
dazzling and turning, sparkling and consumed,
there is a man on fire in a field
who knows he shouldstop, drop, and roll,
but he is running wild to the river.