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our more literary side



 Peter Scarbo Frawley

The Poetry of Edward Bonetti:

The Poetry of Edward Bonetti:
A Statement of Fact (for Emily Cat)

The Poetry of Edward Bonetti:
She (for Rue)

Jackson Lambert 
with Gus Gutterman

Al was the only Italian we ever met who was allergic to tomatoes. “If women really were tomatoes, Al would be in trouble,” Madge used to say. “Where does he get them all?” “And where does he get all those thousands of little bits and pieces of paper for his collages?” was another question Madge and I used to bat around when conversation ran thin. They looked like slick magazine stock to me. “And with what does he affix the paper to his canvas or whatever?” was another paper stock question we traded back and forth – ‘affix’ was one of our better words. For instance, “he affixes them, I have been told, to a bed of sizing varnish.” So what is a bed of varnish? But Al worked in Ciro’s and would have known about bed of lettuce varnish. “Hey Al, affix me another drink.”

Jackson Lambert
Reprinted by permission of Provincetown Arts magazine, Volume 14, Annual issue (1999) “Al DiLauro: A Collage Portrait” by Lynne Burns

 Lynne Burns
For my mom, Alda  3/21/1915 to 8/29/2011
Aug. 25, 2011

She was 96 years old & winding down.  She was a die-hard Elvis fan.  She often told
the story that she had 3rd row seats for his concert at the Hartford Civic Center. 
The concert was cancelled due to Elvis’ unexpected death.  She didn’t turn in the
ticket for a refund.  It was too precious to her.

I took her to Graceland for her 80th birthday & it really was a dream come true.  I
liked it as much as she did.  We stayed at the Peabody Hotel.  We went down to the
lobby our last  morning & a radio station was broadcasting live.  They interviewed
her & she told them how she had dreamt of Elvis the night before.  But she wouldn’t
give out any of the details.  Too personal, she told them.

As she lay in bed now, I put on an Elvis CD & climbed in bed with her.  I started
singing along with the music.  She said to me: “If I were a man & you were singing
next to me, I’d grab you & love you up”.

Lynne Burns


 Gail Schilke
July 29, 2011

Look, something told me I should just stay in tonight —
But no, I don’t pay attention to myself
I head out on my skates like a lamb to slaughter
And sure enough, as soon as I start my laps around
Washington Square, this boy, this adolescent type
Shimmies up on his bike — and tries to run me off the road!

So I grab his bike and I don’t let go. And now he knows
It’s him & me; we go down together or not at all

And he’s scared & I’m glad & I won’t let go
But when I do, I give him a shove & he takes a dive
And I call him the fucking asshole he is

And his friend says, "You hear what she called you?" 

Then they both start after me
So I duck through the park —
But I can’t call the cops all around me…

Because after all, I may be pissed,
but I still have my principles…

So I cross the park shaking bad
Decide to skip the skate all together
Head for home with a vengeance
Deadbolt the door behind me…

And look down from my window…
At the smooth, dark street below.

Gail Schilke

 Diane Hanna

Sur La Plage
June 22, 2011

I have just bought the most captivating hat: a huge, black-brimmed affair, so wide I swear it grazes the sides of the doorway from the porch. The vast perimeter is threaded with a hem of thin wire so that I can scrunch it whatever way I want…now it’s a pirate’s hat with its brim jauntily turned up, now it’s the reclusive hat of a poetic (albeit dramatic) dowager. You can hide under this hat, or you can be the star of the show.

With such a hat, I need a new bathing suit. Living on Cape Cod, with the silver blue Atlantic just a half mile down Main Street, it’s almost unheard of to have only one bathing suit, let alone a bathing suit that’s nine years old. Mine is a black, basic, one-piece with a high neck…functional but quite ho-hum, perfect for a high school swim meet. Since most bathing suits terrify me, what I’d really like to do is have a chat with someone like Norma Kamali and tell her this: “I would love a simple black maillot with a high neck and a little flouncy polka dot skirt.” That’s it, that’s my dreamy beach attire: black, flirty-skirted bathing suit, dancing polka dots, very very big black hat, and black flip-flops.

As the nine year-old suit indicates, I’m not much of a swimmer; my imagination gets the best of me in a lake (all that nightmarish seaweed) or the ocean (crabs, jellyfish, undertows, rip currents). Pools are best for the faint of heart because we can see to the bottom of that turquoise water, see if there’s anything live or otherwise lurking there.

I’m delighted though to live so close to la mer, happy with the strong clear light, the ions full of bonhomie, the fresh tidal air, the shimmering blue vistas, but wading into those dark, frothing depths teeming with wild things that can nip or bite or sting or squish or pinch or ensnare, well, I’ll leave that to the more intrepid souls.

You’ll find me in my rickety beach chair, in hat and polka dots, turning the pages of a damp and yellowed paperback, now and then regarding the horizon, dreaming of tangled gardens and moss-covered stones, of abandoned Irish castles, or a very late afternoon café au lait on the Rue de ton Choix. 

Diane Hanna


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Video © 2011-2020 by Lynne Burns