Joining The Mafia In California

 

. . . Alone,/in the clouds, he was humiliated.

—Frank O'Hara, The Hunter

 

A friend of mine went up to the US without credentials,
without bones, or the blood of immortals. All he had,
humility and suffering founded one August night—
amidst the provincial maelstrom accompanying his
haste unto exile. His name is immaterial, his asset
                            his denials.

This friend of mine reached the apex of success at the
ripe age of 36, four years in the making, skillfully
repaying the indirect influences of angst, the very
power of his acumen for everything else equal. That's it.
(So we watch him today from a window, a gun
                            poked at

his car, redundantly sending him off to oblivion.).
It's impossible, his wife said. Anyway, it's done. Result?
He was a friend, so no hard feelings. And we left him
to his wares, building a network, his multi-level
climb to the pork—of Italians he never saw roast
                            before.

 

 

 

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