Standing in a vat of human urine up to his neck all day long, the future mogul of Massilia had plenty of time to think, stomping the filth out of Roman togas day in and day out, dreaming of owning the very shop that had become his prison, imagining a better mosaic pattern on the floors to compliment the green on the walls, watching his owner conduct business, and soaking it all in. One day, as fate would have it, his owner croaked, leaving the business to be divided up equally amongst all the slaves who were working there, including our future mogul, though with no family of his own, having begun his life as an orphan then a slave. He’d often wondered what his owner’s secret had been, but it was no elaborate mystery; his owner had listened carefully to everyone about everything, remembering and writing down names and birthdays and children’s names until he knew his clientele so well they would forgive his frequent price hikes, his breath sour with wine, his occasionally sloppy work. But not our destined dynast; no, for him, the work from his shop would be immaculate. His former fellow slaves hurried to sell their shares, hoping to flee from the bitter, retching, ubiquitous stench. Our to-be tycoon used his money wisely, wining and dining a young, inexperienced, and eager banker to loan him enough money to buy the others out. After much wine and much convincing, he prevailed, persuading the banker, unwittingly making a lifelong friend of Quintus Sabius. With the generous loan, he bought it, lock, stock, and barrel, where he had spent so much time. While he still used slaves, he saw to it that they, under his tenure as top dog, would be treated more humanely than their owner. His fame and reputation grew from there.

Within three years, he was rich. His knack for listening combined with a formidable memory, a gift from his father’s side of the family; from his mother’s side, an artistic eye. His great-great-great grandfather, a famous sculptor, had survived Alexander’s siege of Tyre, where the mighty Macedonian had murdered the citizens of Tyre, who had held off the impatient king for six months. His talented ancestor had only survived because of his skill, which convinced Alexander to spare him. Having passed on the management of his dry cleaning shop to a trusted and intrepid slave there, our burgeoning bigwig had shrewdly watched his pennies, transforming his business from one shop to two, from two to four, and from there purchasing shares in other businesses and ventures, including the profitable beast trade for the ever-hungry arenas and beast hunts, purchasing it from another ersatz ex-slave. His fortune made, he looked to sow the seeds of a dynasty, interviewing a bevy of beautiful, boring, silk-stocking potential brides to no avail, before finally settling on an aristocratic shrew whose ugliness was only surpassed by her extensive dowry, provided by a zealously eager father who fervently wished to be rid of such a cantankerous creature instead of marrying her off to a proper patrician.

He fathered four children on his vituperative vixen: three daughters and one son. The daughters, resembling their mother in both irksome personality and unfortunate looks, soon realized that they were only pawns to be sacrificed on the altar of their father’s Alexander-esque ambitions, causing them to cleave even more closely to their mother. The son, initially a weak and sickly child, received all the love, education, and benefits as befitted the son of an ancient aristocratic line:  grooming and education from the finest teachers money could buy, lessons in business and war, and an endless stream of suitors, each one wishing in her heart of hearts to marry the handsome, young, and feeble heir apparent. The mogul, who had adopted his master’s name, as per the Roman custom, of Marcus Cassius, managed to persuade the town council to append an additional name of “Victor” after his donation of a dozen lions to a show in Massilia, giving him a much vaunted and prestigious honor to a man who had spent most of his youth in a barrel of piss.

His good fortune, however, did not hold out forever. After marrying off his eldest daughter to his oldest friend, Quintus Sabius, he traveled the length of the Italian peninsula, traversing the Straits of Messina to Sicily where he met a man of marvelous mettle and all the sophistication of a wild boar. Quickly realizing the salty Sicilian’s potential, he gave his second daughter to Aulus Vettius, whose coarse accent and manners from the back end of beyond resulted in a monumentally unhappy union. Perhaps seduced by the lure of another wealthy and well known son-in-law, Cassius Victor traveled to Rome, seeking a husband for his third and youngest daughter, only to be wooed and won by the silver-tongued Lucius Calvinus, a wiry and wily patrician whose name was only his first claim to fame. Before the engagement had ended, though, tragedy intervened in Victor’s life. His prospective son-in-law Calvinus loaned his beloved son an immense amount of money to pay off gambling debts the younger Marcus Cassius had accumulated out of boredom and bad bets on horses, gladiators, and his own father’s wild beasts. Raised in a bubble of privilege and boundless paternal adoration, he steadfastly refused to repay the mounting mountain of debt, snubbing Calvinus at every opportunity, whispering to friends about Calvinus and his illicit business interests in Italy and elsewhere, and slandering his debtor as a viper in the bosom of his father. Calvinus, enraged to extremes, plotted his resentful retribution, beginning with offering an olive branch to his estranged brother-in-law-to-be in the form of a sea voyage up the Rhone to the picturesque town of Arelate, ending with the ship, specifically constructed to fall apart a short time after the launching, sinking into the sea while the entire hapless family watched in helpless horror. Cassius Victor, no fool as to the incident’s prime mover whose guilt he was ultimately unable to prove, watched his son’s head sink beneath the cold, uncaring waves of the Mediterranean. Calvinus realized the jig was up for him in Massilia and moved to Arelate, followed closely by Vettius and Sabius, sent there by their furious father-in-law to keep an observant eye on the machinating Calvinus. Cassius Victor kept control of his wildly profitable animal trade, relinquishing control of his other enterprises to the husbands of his daughters, divvying them up as Alexander had, on his deathbed, distributed his empire to his generals. The third daughter remained unmarried, claiming sorrow for her lost brother as her excuse for staying unwed.

And so our mogul waited for the day he could have his vengeance against the man who had surely murdered his son, his family name, and his family’s future.

Manic Monday

'Til Tuesday

Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting

Day Tripper

Daydream (aka What a Day For a Daydream)

Another Saturday Night

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I gave you a place in my heart

under a starless sky

in fertile fields

my love in full blossom

waiting for the harvest

You came into the rows

whispering a promise of forever

while feeling the earth

under your feet

I asked you to be gentle

with my heart

to tread lightly on the fragile earth

You smiled a cherub's grin

and offered me your word

You tore up the plants

meant for harvest

and threw them on the hungry fire

You ripped them up by the roots

to allow nothing behind

You rooted out every seed

and put them in your pocket

My earth cried out to you

twice

begging for a word

You took my words

and turned your back

just like the dream I had

Now my earth is sterile

empty

and I am the twice deceived

because not only did I trust you with my heart

but I thought I had a place in yours

Love is like a tree

Growing in your heart

You never know

How deeply it goes

Until it's uprooted

3 March 2000

In a better world

I could hold your hand

he said to me

that day on the beach

I smiled

not knowing what to say

I felt my heart

swell with pride at the thought

But in my inner world

your hand was already in mine

as we walked through the sand

our fingers interlocked

like an inextricable puzzle

And in a better world

I would have

pressed your body

so close to mine

and kissed you

deeply

passionately

fearlessly

22 March 1998

The clouds that rest on the tips of the mountains

The young Jewish girls who strut in their plaid skirts

A well-shaven homeless man who rubs elbows with the traffic

An angry man who brays into his cell phone

A smiling mother who leads her children by the hand

I hug myself in your clothes where I smell your hair

I will remember kissing you on the street

in the rain

The droplets sliding down our faces and lips

you in my arms

I pull you so close to my aching body

hearing your heart

Playing with the metal ball

in your tongue

Your soft lips are so warm

on mine

People on the street stop and look

but not us

We are only there for one

another

The world stops around us stops

for us

For that rain that February day would never

parch our thirst

Penis, penis, o penis so fine,

Penis, o penis, I'm so glad that you're mine!

Rock hard and throbbing or limp like a noodle,

You make me slobber and shake like a poodle.

Penis so wonderful in my mouth and tongue,

I look at you and think, "Holy shit, he's hung!"

Just thick enough and not too long

I love you so dearly, you fabulous schlong.

Boner, penis, dick, rod, or cock,

Whatever you call it, my world it does rock.

The thought of losing you brings tears to my eyes,

And I thank God daily that you're circumsized.

So here ends my poem and here I will stop,

With a sigh of relief that you're not a top.

I wander in the cemetery where only memories remain

This city full of history without any future

Cathédrale St. André, o you my ebony woman

You are adorned with blonde tresses

Either your spires caress the firmament

Or they hurt the sky who cries bloody rain

O you who watch over this maritime city

Look at me here on the rue Ste. Cathérine

On the central vein where I walk in tears

To la Victoire where my deceiving heart

Inebriates me with the night, love and alcohol

Let me explode like a horn in B flat

However I spur myself on

To see the Garonne

Because the train station leads me into darkness

And I go there despite my fear

The train station is on her way to ruin

This lady, this ghost, this iron pathway

There, crying, my head in my hands

Surrounded by souvenirs dead by tomorrow

This foreigner who lived abroad said to himself

“In my homeland I shall be as an exile.”

His tears shed and this pitiable cry

Darken this night already full of devils

Thus did he say his adieu to the port of the moon

Without returning home, a wretched fortune!

Ma petite zone du sud

(grâce à Apollinaire)

I did not want to leave you

O you goddess of antiquity

Adorned with Raphael, Michelangelo and Bernini

Adored by poets and artists like Fellini

You stretch majestically and free

Next to your old lover, the Tiber

The doves flew over the wedding cake

The woman at the restaurant locked up in her own cage

The rain at the advent of evening is a million soft kisses

I drank so much of your red wine without being drunk

The balconies frame the sky all blue all pretty

The shining paving stones that sandals have polished

The fresh and pure water flowed into the fountains

Stolen by an aqueduct from faraway sources

The priests and the nuns for whom you are the reliquary

Crown you with their faith, they are of all races

You can see in the faces of the children the heroic pride

Like your statues covered with a stoic beauty

Those statues are white shadows of a mausoleum

And the shadows to come photograph the Colosseum

At every corner they hawk their bric-a-brac

Sold to tourists who run around pell-mell

Piazza Navona, you call me, you call me

I still hear you despite the eternal crowd

The city of Rome perfumes the night

For the heroes of antiquity and of today

I was comfortable with you

I felt as if I was at home

Your pizza your gelato your wine your pasta

All of it made me want to return quickly

Hold me one last time, treasured city

For my future lies in your past