Time is a Toy: The Selected Poems of Michael Benedikt

Folonari Red Wine

193 f o l o n a r i r e d w i n e 1. There’s one thing at least, I think I can count on in life, which is that: In this, our ever-changing, uncertain, & highly wayward world My talented 20-year-old next-door rock-performer neighbor in NYC whose lovely, often poignantly yearning but sometimes wildly soaring voice I cannot help but hear as she rehearses Echoing across our mutual hallway, every weekday morning from Monday thru Friday— & Who to make ends meet, tells me she has to hold down two jobs— One job (which she hates), working Mondays thru Fridays as a waitress at a downtown Manhattan cocktail-lounge at suppertime; & The other job (which she loves), performing on weekends at rock-clubs in the Village as lead singer in a rock-&-roll band— Will, every Friday night, at the end of her week’s waitressing work, regularly set out beside the door of her apartment for recycling A large white empty carton marked with great big red white & blue letters, spelling out always “Folonari” —That is, a full case weekly of a dozen empty bottles Containing lately, lots of red, red wine... 2. & Each Friday night when I see one of those cartons—as I cannot help but do when taking out things to our mutual hallway to recycle, too— What I find myself imagining first thing, is that for reasons I think I can understand My next-door neighbor has been celebrating. Celebrating first of all, finishing up yet another all-too-tedious waitressing week at what she terms her “Regular, Straight-world-gig”—a job 194 which she insists (like so many other young artists who perform such secondary work to make a living) is “Only a Temporary, Back-up-type Job” —Temporary since, as she told me once in passing, in a voice wrenched with bitterness & pain, she can’t yet find full-time work as a musician; & Celebrating second of all, the immediate prospect of finally getting away (hooray!) from the things in her regular weekday routine which bore her, in order to perform the more fulfilling work on weekends Which according to my ears at least, she sounds born for. 3. & what I also imagine from some of the songs I’ve heard my talented young neighbor sing, which echo through our mutual hallway & thru my doorway weekday mornings, With lyrics declaring that “Rock-&-Roll Will Live Forever” & that rock can “Change the World” & maybe even “Revolutionize” it Is that young as she is, my gifted neighbor already realizes full well That some of the things which can happen to talented people in this world Are unfair & sometimes seem almost intolerable. 4. I realize of course that my description of my young neighbor’s lifestyle, replete with speculations on her mostly unspoken hopes & dreams & aspirations May involve all kinds of fantasy on my part, replete with lots of guesswork & wild & rash assumptions; & that I may be saying all this at the risk of crediting my young neighbor perhaps just a bit too much By presenting her here—what with her apparent disappointment in “The Real” & her apparent yearning for “The Ideal”—as some kind of profound Greek or Roman thinker Or maybe American-style, rough-hewn Transcendentalist philosopher —Someone who goes into action sort of like a soldier, making raids on the boring status quo to earn an uninspiring if modestly sustaining living, week-nights Mondays thru Fridays 195 Between temporary cease-fires when she performs her music & practices her art & when the world seems relatively right to her —On weekends, at her rock-&-roll club-dates, nightly on Saturday & Sunday —Yes, I realize full well that some of my ideas about my talented, struggling young neighbor’s life in NYC & its related Folonari-carton mystery May just be pure fantasy on my part & maybe even just plain baloney & That what’s really going on across that hallway is that my talented young neighbor just may (albeit perhaps somewhat inordinately) Simply like the taste of “Folonari” 5. Anyway, whether or not I’m projecting, speaking for myself I must confess that sometimes I feel the same way about life—an artist’s life especially—that I think my neighbor does & Sometimes wish on virtually any terms & however temporarily That I too could find some easy escape or egress or exit by some sidecorridor from the injustices & the tedium & the indifference & the sheer disorder Which dominate this world as it now stands —Especially when it calls for...