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  Praise for Pagan Heaven . . .

  “The first part of this literary collection is devoted to narrative poems, which are notably contemporary, clear, and concise. Rouff’s voice is easily heard, for her style seldom wavers; that is, each poem consists of short lines, and is rarely more than a page long. Although her deep feelings for those who inhabit her works are obvious, she never sentimentalizes. Her consistency of style, paucity of words, and culmination of each narrative, be it poetry or prose, with a twist (not unlike that tart and tasty lemon slice, with rind, that adds zest to a dish or drink) are attributes that place Ruth Rouff’s work on the highest level.”—Rosemary Cappello, Poet, Writer, and Editor of Philadelphia Poets

  Pagan Heaven

  Ruth Rouff

  © 2016 Ruth Rouff

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any means,

  electronic or mechanical, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  978-1-943837-44-1 paperback

  978-1-943837-45-8 epub

  978-1-943837-91-5 mobi

  Cover Design

  by

  GusGus Press

  a division of

  Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

  Fairfield, California

  http://www.bedazzledink.com

  Where is Pagan Heaven? It’s all around us. In our unceasing fascination with a movie star who died over half a century ago. In an inner-city youth who muses over the meaning of the word philosophy. In a statue of the Virgin Mary sitting atop a Coke machine. On a street where Walt Whitman once lived. On a lesbian-only cruise ship off the coast of Alaska. In an unusual melding of narrative poetry and spot-on prose, Pagan Heaven offers a wry take on the absurdities of modern American life, all the while celebrating human uniqueness whenever, wherever, and however it’s found.

  In memory of my grandparents

  Rouff and Fleishaker.

  They embarked.

  Contents

  Poems

  Majors

  Narcotic

  Madonna della Cucina

  Stonehenge

  Fade to Gray

  Aquaria

  Pagan Heaven

  Benediction

  Let Mike Do It

  Minor Ideas

  Mona

  Visionary

  Ball Game

  Ode to a Parking Garage

  The Bronze God

  Subdivision

  The Thirteenth Sign

  The Good Woman

  Chaos

  Transient

  Schuylkill

  Alma Mater

  Pool Party

  Romanov Bones

  Grand Tour

  Close

  On Mickle Street

  Jersey Girl

  Renaissance

  Penance

  Extremes

  Balancing Act

  Spoken Word

  Stories

  Hermitage

  Replacing Phil

  At the Circus

  The Elusive Mr. Clay

  Spook Show

  Zip

  Great Depression

  When I Liked Country

  Romance

  Cute

  The Phillies, Dick Allen, and Me

  Mess with Texas

  Ten White Russians

  Immaculate

  Acknowledgements

  Majors

  I didn’t want to be a writer

  in my youth. I wanted to

  be a shortstop, or, at the

  very least, if my arm

  proved not strong

  enough for short, a

  second baseman, base-

  woman, person?

  Ranging deep

  to my left, snaring the

  ball on its projected

  path to right, wheeling

  and throwing the

  runner out by a

  fraction at first.

  A “bang-bang”

  play, as the umpires

  call it, for the

  slap of ball

  in glove followed

  rapidly by the

  slap of foot

  on base. A

  bang-bang

  play. Needless to

  say, I never made it

  to the Majors.

  Except on paper.

  Narcotic

  It was even better than

  Mister Softee, when the

  mosquito fogging truck

  came ‘round. We

  would all run

  into the street

  and chase it,

  spinning around

  in a cloud of

  god-knows-what

  chemicals that

  left our tract house

  surroundings as

  momentarily

  mysterious as

  Foggy Bottom or

  Sherlock

  Holmes’s London.

  Few knew at the

  time that we

  shouldn’t be

  breathing that

  stuff. We

  took to it

  like ducks

  to water . . . each

  child in his

  or her individual

  cotton candy

  fantasy.

  Even parents who

  had an inkling

  couldn’t dissuade

  us from the

  blurring of

  reality, the

  softening of

  contours the

  clouding of

  judgment.

  Madonna della Cucina

  Leonardo had his

  “Virgin of the Rocks,”

  and I have my

  Virgin of the Coke

  Machine: No lie.

  In Joe’s Pizzeria

  in Mantua, New

  Jersey, a statue

  of the Virgin Mary

  rests atop the

  Coke machine. She’s

  blue and white,

  standard virgin

  colors, and

  she’s standing

  in a miniature

  grotto. She’s

  not as atmospheric

  or mysterious

  as Leonardo’s

  Madonna, who

  seems suffused

  with an other-

  worldly tranquility.

  This virgin seems

  suffused with, if

  anything, the

  aroma of

  cooking grease.

  But it could

  be worse.

  It’s tough times for

  virgins these days.

  It’s difficult to

  preside over a

  pizzeria.

  Difficult, but not

  impossible.

  Stonehenge

  Though we often

  used to go to

  Atlantic City in

  the gory days

  before casino

  gambling, I

  can honestly

  say we never

  had a good

  time.

  It was all my

  father’s doing.

  He got the

  idea from his

  South Philly

  work buddies

  at the Navy

  Yard. They

  must have

  had dim

  visions of

  Frank Sinatra

  playing the

  Steel Pier

  and bathing

  beauties in

  high heels.

  But mostly

  what I

  remember is

  a wall of

  slums and

&nb
sp; a funky

  smelling

  boardwalk,

  presided over

  by a huge

  Mr. Peanut

  in spats,

  top hat,

  monocle and

  cane.

  Mr. Peanut

  was my friend:

  walking with

  my family

  I felt as

  bizarre

  and anachron-

  istic as him.

  Mr. Peanut

  was civil

  and literate,

  I was

  sure.

  He wouldn’t

  particularly

  enjoy the

  ocean, the

  sand or

  the transistor

  radios that

  blared Frankie

  Valli and

  the Four

  Seasons.

  Though he

  might have

  gotten a kick

  out of my

  little brother

  racing out

  of the Men’s

  Room at

  the “Flaming

  Angus” Restaur-

  ant, my

  frazzled mother

  in hot

  pursuit.

  That was when

  the toilet

  overflowed

  and I

  puked on

  the way

  home.

  Casino gambling

  has been good

  for A.C.:

  the slums are

  still there

  but now

  there’s the

  monoliths.

  Fade to Gray

  Gia and Way,

  Way and Gia

  two friends unto

  the end, which

  was sooner than

  either of them

  thought.

  Way used to do Gia’s

  lips, not kiss them,

  paint them, with

  makeup, with lip liner.

  Gia sat in a chair

  while Way worked over

  her, the lips, the

  skin, the flawless

  cheekbones. Often they’d

  talk, chat, gossip about

  who was doing who

  Gia liked girls.

  Way liked boys.

  They had a lot

  in common.

  Gia was from

  Philadelphia, the

  Northeast. Way was

  a gentleman from

  Virginia. He was

  macrobiotic he ate

  miso soup it

  didn’t prevent him

  from getting

  AIDS.

  Gia got AIDS, too,

  from the long cruel

  needle she stuck

  in her arm. Religiously.

  Gia, a good Catholic

  girl from the

  Northeast. Was a

  fan of David Bowie.

  Liked femmes.

  There’s a picture, a

  photo of Way doing

  Gia. Gia is

  smiling, the sun

  on her face. Way is

  smiling too.

  His long thin arm,

  his meticulous hand

  applying the makeup.

  They look thick as

  thieves.

  More than married.

  Aquaria

  I had this idea I would

  write about the

  old aquarium in Camden,

  not the new. The old one

  had indigenous fish

  that live in the slate grey

  waters off New Jersey—

  the kind few deigned

  to see.

  That is why they renovated

  the place. Set aside or killed

  the flounder and bass and

  bluefish you might just

  as soon find on

  a dinner plate as

  in a tank and

  replaced them

  with tropicals:

  floating mosaics from

  a Byzantine ceiling.

  These are the creatures

  people pay to see.

  Now the turnstiles

  are humming and I

  find myself viewing

  delicate beauties,

  as well as sharks

  swimming

  overhead, ram-

  bunctious penguins,

  and one lone

  alligator lying in a

  tiled tank, waiting, as

  we all are, for something

  Good.

  Pagan Heaven

  Marilyn Monroe

  rococo, all

  pink and vanilla

  floating in

  the sky like

  a Tiepolo

  nude. Bountiful

  goddess. Bares

  breasts with-

  out shame.

  Sugary like

  an ice cream

  float.

  I like to

  believe she’s

  having a

  pleasant after-

  life. No one’s

  wife. A

  cerulean sky

  behind her.

  Air is her

  element. She

  dwells in

  pagan heaven.

  Benediction

  I’m sitting here wondering if

  I’ll have to go through all

  the shit my mother went through

  before dying. I say

  “shit” quite intentionally . . .

  My mother spent so

  much time on the can

  it wasn’t even funny.

  And the money we spent

  on undergarments could

  have gone a long way toward

  settling the national

  debt.

  The indignity of old

  age: Ma struggling

  to rise from her

  wheelchair, washing

  her hands at the sink,

  removing her false teeth

  and putting them in

  a cup. Exhausted by the daily

  tasks of living.

  What joy was there in

  Mudville at the tender age of

  95?

  It might be better to

  crap out in one fell

  swoop. Just keel

  over from a heart

  attack—no lingering

  business.

  The last time my mother

  was in the hospital,

  her major

  accomplishment was

  to kiss me before

  I left for the evening.

  She had to muster all

  her strength to do that

  one simple thing.

  But I could see she

  was pleased that

  she did it.

  That kiss was her last

  will and testament.

  After so much effort,

  that gave her

  peace.

  Let Mike Do It

  “What I need,” said my

  G.E.D. student Mike, “is

  a little-ass book of

  poetry. With rhymes.”

  Mike was talking with

  another student. It’s only

  recently he’s begun

  talking with me. When he

  first arrived in class,

  he’d stare into space

  as if frozen in

  ice. When I’d

  instruct the class, he

  wouldn’t react.

  But now I know

  his Achilles’ heel:

  poetry. “What does

  philosophy mean?”

  he asked me

  Friday. He’s

  assembling a store-

  house of words to

  use in raps.

  He keeps his

  internal life underr />
  wraps. Like a

  true poet, he

  exposes himself

  slowly.

  “Philosophy,” I

  said, “is what

  you think about

  life, or some other

  important thing.”

  I don’t want to

  romanticize Mike.

  He certainly has

  his deficits, and

  I’ve lost four

  students already

  this year.

  Not dropped out. Dead.

  My philosophy of

  life is, “there’s only

  so much you can

  do.”

  But I will help Mike

  find his little-ass

  book of poetry.

  With rhymes.

  Minor Ideas

  In Lapland the reindeer

  are mutating due to

  the radiation leakage

  caused by Chernobyl.

  It’s predicted that

  in the course of

  several generations

  an entirely new

  species will evolve . . .

  lighter than air,

  lively and quick,

  but dwarfish,

  miniature as

  a minor idea.

  These reindeer will

  be the kind

  that will fit inside

  a snowflake

  paperweight. When

  you shake it,

  the snow will fly

  and the reindeer

  will be

  covered

  entirely.

  Mona

  Lying in bed

  on my back and

  listening to my

  neighbors bicker

  overhead in the

  most vulgar way,

  I derive consolation

  from the fact

  that somewhere

  in the North Atlantic

  or South Atlantic

  or East Atlantic,

  fathoms deep but

  not far away

  there swims a

  Great White

  Shark—not

  yet extinct and

  certainly not

  gentrified—

  just swimming,

  swimming in

  cold, clean

  waters—its