jack mckumby’s evolving soul
i
sometimes even i
his best friend
can't distinguish the rumors
from truth
maybe jack mckumby’s life should just be left to myth
born of muddled minds and small-town jealousy
all i can tell you
is that back in the day
he was the freckled-speckled-teenaged
neighborhood daredevil
son of a fishmonger
who was always
tempted by any challenge we could concoct
on a dare and a flimsy promise of three quarters
he once climbed up to a high limb of the giant oak
at the end of our street
and just for laughs
shimmied out and straddled the precarious end
violently shaking it
alarming even us wagering onlookers forty feet below
as he hooted and yipped like kubrick's a-bomb cowboy
ii
jack mckumby’s soul grew to the size of the moon
inheriting all her weight and envy
floating unfettered by gravity
easing into the great industry of celestial sea
becoming a self-sustaining entity
in an endless formula of cosmic re-birthing
there was a time i looked up to him
but not in the way
one does searching for answers
iii
sure he once leapt from a moving chevy caprice
in jay portia’s alley on another goad
i know
i was there
i was behind the wheel pushing insanity passed 30
as randy and freddie egged him on from the back seat
with my t-shirt wrapped around
his bleeding arm
he still managed to bring
a sweaty bottle of orange crush
up to his thirsty lips
as we waited in the ER for stitches
iv
and if i could tame a wild stallion
and if i could turn a blue sky into marble
and if i could catch the hail mary
and if i could re-name galileo's moons
and if i could wear the vestments of integrity
and if i could believe that it was all wrong
i’d gladly pay the toll for jack mckumby’s soul
v
and then there was the time he lit up a joint
in our lady of the rosary's confessional
defiantly blowing smoke through the screen
into father gentry’s face as he doled penance
i waited in a back pew until the riled priest
quickly appeared from the mysterious curtain
cursing in his own church
as jack all but tripped running out
doob dangling from his bottom lip
both of us giggling in hysterical rain
as dogmatic threats echoed from blocks away
and how many times jack would run through old man
ennio’s vegetable garden grabbing as much fruit
as he could carry
only to drop it all to his shoes
to taunt the old man
making obscene gestures from a safe distance
after ol’ ennio turned beet as his beefsteaks
his barrel chest heaving
wobbly legs unable to catch the boy
breathlessly cursing in a bizarre mixture of
sicilian, english and nasal grunts
of course, now that i'm mulling on it
those weren't dares
there was bad blood
between families
the full story was never revealed to me
but i knew it involved ennio's young wife
and the fish market
and as for the other rumors that have
circulated through the years
well, i refuse to repeat them
because i believe they’re
just exaggerations and mean-spirited lies
vi
now i haven’t heard from jack in over twenty years
but today in the online sunday edition
i’m reading a follow-up about that nautical disaster
that occurred in the gulf recently
you may remember it
anyway at the end of the article
i find myself foraging through
a list of the lost
and then there it is: john j. mckumby
i wave my wife over and show her
we sort of shake of heads
wondering if indeed it is our jack
now there was never any official obituary
at least not one we could find
maybe because he no longer had family here
but later that afternoon
when we were walking along the waterfront
we veered off the walkway and took to the warm sand
as the wind quieted
while coastal waves methodically massaged the narrow beach
a large wayward swell rushed and deposited
a spotted trout at our feet
it’s eyes in an open stare
we studied the freckled body
and thought of old jack
i tried tossing it back
but its body turned sideways
its fate already delivered
a sea unable to hold his congested soul
Dan Sicoli authored two poetry chapbooks from Pudding House Publications, Pagan Supper and the allegories. Bent fenders, second-hand dresses, and three-legged dogs have often made their way into his so-called poetry. Addictions include coffee, fine wine, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Charles Bukowski, Dali, and van Gogh. Weekends you might find him in a Niagara Falls, NY gin mill banging on an old Gibson in a garage rock band.
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