Project Mailer - User contributions [en]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Under Hell

2021-03-03T03:58:22Z

APerry: Blanked the page

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Under Hell

2021-03-03T03:54:23Z

APerry: Created page with "nnn"

nnn

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Here, Now

2021-03-03T03:53:27Z

APerry:

'''{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Here, Now'''

Sal Cetrano

For our own grave and shallow reasons,
we occupy each other for a night. Bathed,
your milky body is in season, this house
you carry, to dance the dance and sleep.

I light candles, play an oldies station.
Odd, almost intimate, our tongues lace,
but the motions are mechanical, a muscular
offering, two snails wrestling on the moon.

Yet, you are here, you are with me, now.
For every inch you open up, I’ll drive
a chariot through, sport rose-colored eyes,
swallow whatever drivel dims your pain.

For it’s truth that’s left me like this,
swapping empathy and sweat with a breeze.
Were Death to come, halving this loneliness,
I’d suit up and leave you with the keys.

Instead, smell sickness in sweet familiars,
taste it in riot of piss and bitterroot.
Across your deepest essence, see me stretch
my muddy cloak, the ultimate pollution.

|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Here,Now}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Here, Now

2021-03-03T03:52:50Z

APerry:

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Here, Now

2021-03-03T03:50:33Z

APerry: title changes

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Here, Now

2021-03-03T03:50:05Z

APerry: Created page with "'''{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}} {{MR13}} {{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}} <div class="..."

'''{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Here, Now'''
Sal Cetrano

For our own grave and shallow reasons,
we occupy each other for a night. Bathed,
your milky body is in season, this house
you carry, to dance the dance and sleep.

I light candles, play an oldies station.
Odd, almost intimate, our tongues lace,
but the motions are mechanical, a muscular
offering, two snails wrestling on the moon.

Yet, you are here, you are with me, now.
For every inch you open up, I’ll drive
a chariot through, sport rose-colored eyes,
swallow whatever drivel dims your pain.

For it’s truth that’s left me like this,
swapping empathy and sweat with a breeze.
Were Death to come, halving this loneliness,
I’d suit up and leave you with the keys.

Instead, smell sickness in sweet familiars,
taste it in riot of piss and bitterroot.
Across your deepest essence, see me stretch
my muddy cloak, the ultimate pollution.

|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Now, Here}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:44:32Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano

<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:44:00Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano

<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

|

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:43:41Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano

<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>
|

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:42:43Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano

<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:41:27Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano

A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:41:11Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano

<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:40:41Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:40:26Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

|

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:40:16Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always '''

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:39:06Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always'''

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>

|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:38:14Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always'''

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.
</poem>

<poem>
He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.
</poem>
<poem>
Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,
</poem>
<poem>
''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream
</poem>
<poem>
that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:
</poem>
<poem>
he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:36:04Z

APerry: testing out centering text.

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Always'''

Sal Cetrano
<poem>
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.
</poem>

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:33:58Z

APerry: title changes

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''Always'''

Sal Cetrano

A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Always

2021-03-03T03:33:23Z

APerry: Created page with "{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}} {{MR13}} {{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}} {|cellpadding=5..."

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''Always'''
Sal Cetrano
A fallen priest on a shuttle flight
padding the holes in his resume
looks down and sees Manhattan as Babel
built on bedrock and whistling in the wind.

He’d ingested descriptions of Gomorrah
and vowed not to lie with the swine,
an earnest but dubious intention, like a boy
with webbed hands forswearing masturbation.

Propped in confessional, coin-slot gypsy
working Wakefield’s flock without effect,
his mechanical arm allotted dispensation
for sins that made ''his'' vitals ache,

''his'' collared understanding crave the light.
How to counsel salesmen on fidelity, virgins
on the roots of desire? Other voices
had announced his calling, but the scream

that tore the darkness was his own.
So, in the Oak Room of the Plaza, surrounded
by dowagers waiting opulently on death,
his mind turns elegant perversities:

he is naked, bearer of bread and fishes,
plying a gospel of swift return. Offered
a sanctum with mirrors, he will say,
it is always the living who are saved.
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Always}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:27:17Z

APerry: spacing

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Bedroom Light'''

Sal Centrano

<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.

A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:25:40Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Bedroom Light'''

Sal Centrano

<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:25:30Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

'''Bedroom Light'''
Sal Centrano

<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:24:33Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
=== Bedroom Light ===
</div>
Sal Centrano

<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:23:10Z

APerry: title changes

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
=== Bedroom Light ===

Sal Centrano

<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:22:09Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:21:52Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
<poem>
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:20:21Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
<poem>
the light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:19:59Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
<poem>
the light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
</poem>|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:18:14Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{{center|the light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.}}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:17:57Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{{center|
The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.}}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:16:57Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT: Bedroom Light}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T03:14:34Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''All the Same'''

Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:All the Same}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T03:08:07Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''All the Same'''

Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T03:07:48Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''All the Same'''

Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>
|}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T03:07:14Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''All the Same'''
|}
Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Bedroom Light

2021-03-03T03:05:36Z

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}
{{center|'''Bedroom Light'''}}
{{center|Sal Cetrano}}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|

The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T02:52:29Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''All the Same'''

Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T02:44:57Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
=== '''All the Same''' ===

Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/All the Same

2021-03-03T02:44:21Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet3}}

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<poem>
{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
'''All the Same'''

Sal Cetrano
{{center|—“Political correctness is the most cowardly form<br />
of free speech.” — Frank Zappa}}

Old Berkowitz, distracted,
fights to recollect the names
for things, the windblown kind:
philosophies, programs,
the inveterate skirmishes
that script and score an era,
pack its duffel tight
with forbidden freight.
Would the lady, he extends,
care to be more specific?
Who was it, exactly, who’d held
you down—or was that back?
The wash of her alarums
makes waves in his whiskey,
disturbs icy faces, the cozy
leaden feel of the tumbler,
snug as a hand grenade.
What a gift, to recognize
the enemy in any landscape!
Parties, he aches wistfully,
once offered shelter.

The Lady, for all her rocks
and ten-buck words
just a dyke in taffeta to Berkowitz,
chafes on: equal something
for somebody, level tracks,
affirmative assholes . . .
He is dim on the details.
Life is complicated enough,
he is thinking. Can he even
find his way to the ''john''?
Men now used ju-jitsu—
kiss her ass just right, and
she’ll swear she’s kicking yours.
Refocusing the mute blonde
over by the dip, it is all
the same to him—the hollow
that he may have had her before,
or the notion that she’s had ''him''.
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:44:03Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''
=== Remember the Alamo ===
'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{{center|Sal Centrano}}

<poem>
The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,
</poem>
<poem>
the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—
</poem>
<poem>
and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.
</poem>
<poem>
“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”
</poem>
<poem>
The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.
</poem>
<poem>
Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:42:38Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{{center|Sal Centrano}}

<poem>
The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,
</poem>
<poem>
the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—
</poem>
<poem>
and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.
</poem>
<poem>
“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”
</poem>
<poem>
The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.
</poem>
<poem>
Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:39:54Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano
</div style>

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:39:06Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano
</div>

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:36:17Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano
</div>

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</poem> </div>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:35:11Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano
</div>

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:34:31Z

APerry:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”

</div>
{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:33:41Z

APerry: title changes

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano

The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,

the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—

and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.

“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”

The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.

Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:31:54Z

APerry: title changes

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

{|cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
|<div style="text-align: center;">|
Sal Cetrano

<poem>
The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,
</poem>
<poem>
the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—
</poem>
<poem>
and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.
</poem>
<poem>
“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”
</poem>
<poem>
The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.
</poem>
<poem>
Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Remember the Alamo

2021-03-03T02:31:00Z

APerry: title changes

{{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}

{{center|'''Remember the Alamo'''}}

{{center|—— for David Koresh }}

Sal Cetrano

<poem>
The man who sells the centrifugal lettuce crisper, the woman
with combination mood ring and pregnancy test kit,
the man who seeks damages for his cataloged sufferings,
the woman who warns of morning breath,
</poem>
<poem>
the man whose burning compulsion is to wear a dress,
the woman who gleefully sells him her old ones,
the 90’s girl with self-help tape, who masturbates
before triptych mirrors and gives birth to the sunrise—
</poem>
<poem>
and scores of others—are trampling my fescue,
correct mob demanding to be let in: famished Jacquerie
antsy to hand out all my cake, but I have no cake.
I crawl naked to the doors and set the latches.
</poem>
<poem>
“''Let us in!''” they chant. “''We know you’re in there!''”
“''Who are you people?!''” I ask. “''What do you want?''”
“''None of your business!''” they yell. “''Just let us in.''
''Sooner or later, everybody lets us in. You’ll see!''”
</poem>
<poem>
The walls begin to sag. Screams and gunfire mingle.
The armoire buttressing the bedroom door trembles.
I prop my back against the wall. A window shatters.
I hone my Bowie on the skull of an Amway salesman.
</poem>
<poem>
Then comes my Mexican sweetheart, incongruously
both blond and Jewish for purpose of this reverie,
ample bosom laden with pistols. “''The cities''
''have fallen'',” she cries. “''They want the mission now.''”
</poem>

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Remember the Alamo}}
[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]