[181 words]
The birdsong in the soon-naked trees.
The crack-rustle of the rust-brown leaves
under-tush
as I eat my sliders
and finish the bottle on this special occasion.
November 2, 2024.
Go to Green-Wood
not for the graves of my parents
but to my own
where the memorial stone
I myself designed
had just been laid
into the foundation of Cedar Dell
(formerly Druid’s Circle, which is kind of cool)
roughly centered between The Wizard of Oz,
Basquiat, and Bernstein
(oh my… a triangulation of cool)
with a sack of White Castles
and bottle of O. E.
to picnic and pour some out
for this O. G.
who lingers
yet
despite the odds set
by multiple MDs
who had foreseen just one more year.
But I’m still here
snapping selfies
by and with my own stone
while Crayola rubbing my name and birthday
and the tranquility of being
alone
in this new section
knowing it will eventually fill
and also serve as performance space
with music and dancing and laughing
above and around me
when I am still.
But no fucking time soon.
Giancarlo Malchiodi sparked the creativity of many young minds throughout his thirty years as a high school teacher of English, and is now re-igniting his own. A graduate of the MFA program at Brooklyn College/CUNY where he studied with Allen Ginsberg, Giancarlo’s poetry has been featured in A Gathering of The Tribes, The Paterson Literary Review, Streetlight, and The Nimrod International Journal, among other publications. When not travelling, reading/writing, absorbing news and pop culture, or watching the skies for Superman, Giancarlo wanders the streets to discover NYC anew or explores 125+ feet undersea as a DiveMaster.
