20150617 (Lake Tahoe)

The ski lift at Heavenly, a posh hotel at Lake Tahoe, where Peter might have worked after getting out of prison had the economy not crashed and had he not have to wear forever the name felon.

Two years on I still don’t know

What to think of Peter’s death

In every instance I have felt

Lesser loss than those about me 

More happiness that torments had ended 

My dad died of recurring colon cancer 

At a hospital unattended in the night

We were assured he was unconscious

And by comparison to others felt no pain

Only in the movies are you there at the last breath

Even if you’re at their side, you could 

Sleep through it as if you’d been at home

Then what, regret you’d come at all

My mom left similarly a stroke another stroke

A final stroke that took her life

Jean died, I really think, when I held her 

In my arms and the clot hit her brain

But I was also there to click the switch

That meant goodbye, this pseudo-life

Will soon end, as it did

As we all stood around. The doctors

Said she felt no pain there was no hope

Too much had died. You’d rather she

Awake to thirty days of suffering

Would that be comfort to your soul

I’d said goodbye all through that week

I stayed the night within her room

And told her the only truth to tell

When she asked Am I dying Yes

The sense of loss came later after 

Those weird times so like Orpheus

And Eurydice that I would think

She is behind me now but if I look

She’ll disappear and one dream

Of her happy in heaven still loving us

I didn’t cry for months then but

Fourteen years later I tear up now

In a sense thank God she didn’t have to handle

Peter’s dying the way he did. 

Not that he didn’t give her grief

Enough when both were alive

When we thought he was in school

And was drunk in a creek

When he was dressing weed for sale 

With a friend the attic bedrooms

Thick with smoke. A stolen gun stashed

In the shed behind the garage. My car destroyed

In a store window crash at Cedar and Lee

The theft of another child’s trumpet

And burnt matches strewn near his bed

Covered with bugs he slept in a wreck parked

At the corner lot of the Christian Science church 

Broke into the house when we were away

Cereal spilled mysteriously and blankets gone

She’d seen him shake from the violent

Wretching of automotive anti-freeze

His mouth stained with the green tint

She’d seen him wrestled to the ER floor 

As we pressed for his psychiatric admission

How had he done in Lake Tahoe

Could I believe the letters he sent 

Of  having a job and doing it well 

Entertaining guests at a hotel

I didn’t visit he didn’t return

Wrote only occasionally we spoke

Even less. His last call my ex said

He was so happy he’d been given

A license for medical marijuana

The best I could cobble together was 

His job was trashed in the crash 

Of 2008. Depressed he wandered again

Burned down the cabin trying to kill himself

Pleaded guilty and spent four years in prison

I wrote him monthly. He wrote back each time

California prisons overstuffed did a lousy job

Of release. Back in the desert again no job

No friends on the night before Father’s Day

Out of meds out of money 

He walked to the wilderness

Fixed his belt to a branch and his neck

And ended his agony

A handsome strong young man

Who though he had come through the thicket

Of life he never overcame being rejected at birth.

Nothing we did healed that cut 

It was in his mirror in his watch on his clothes

Shadowed every thing he did never went away

Every parent knows a million things

Could have been done better

You don’t get to do over

You must face what happened

In sorrow and give it to God

Still for so many days

You will cry for the loss

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20150616 (judging)

Site of the fire the night this house was damaged by the burning mattress. The service box is not mounted on the wood siding this time.

Randy was sitting under 

The tree his usual spot

His months old summer garb  

Ratty from unchanged wear 

His camo blended in the neutrals 

Of grass and brush I wouldn’t 

Have seen him had he not 

Drawn heavily on his 

Everpresent cigarette and 

Made the tip glow red

Like the shock of seeing 

Deer in the forest steps away 

Thinking you’re alone 

Then you’re not the chair 

He stole from the Middle 

Eastern guy three lots east 

Had been stolen from him

He told me after I had 

Several times returned it 

To its brothers at the table

Kan Zaman kept beside 

His renovated house now 

It was gone even from there

Randy said someone else 

Had taken it so now he sat 

On the wet ground on his 

Jacket his nice new one 

Had been stolen also the 

One I returned to the 

Charity on 30th which 

He’d abandoned for several days

To be ruined in wet weather 

On the chair in his spot 

Which I took back to Kan

Did you stay out of the 

Rain last night he answered 

With his customary mix

Of truth and complaint

Oh Jeez you know the 

Shelter’s a terrible place 

All the fights so crowded 

They give me a hard time

He went on I’d heard it 

All before many times

This time his summer beard 

Longer than ever whipped 

The smoke as he talked

Had he been standing rail thin 

He’d be about six but half 

My weight the picture 

Of stage what alcoholism

Surviving on occasional protein

Mostly on alcohol his beer 

Breakfast in a can at his hip

Kan didn’t mind that he littered 

His stairway or stole the chair

I wondered if Kan knew 

The story of how he got 

The house so cheap to renovate

Randy found a mattress 

Three years ago placed it 

For the mild summer beside 

The ramshackle red Italianate 

With the brick storefront built 

Long ago then derelict vacant 

Boarded had he not been drunk

His cigarette might not have 

Fallen onto the mattress

Had it been fireproof 

Would not have sent 

Flames up the siding 

Not melted the covering 

On the wires still bringing 

Two twenty service 

To the empty house

I had by this time awakened 

To sirens of firetrucks 

Their circling red flashers 

Made my windows pulse 

Like smoke alarms for the deaf

I opened my front door

To the loud brisk crackle 

Of huge sparks from the 

Service box on the old red 

Italianate two doors 

To the west firemen on the 

Roof of the small store  

Chopped the siding with 

Axes after a fairly exciting 

Hour the electricity off fire 

Out they repacked their gear 

And were gone Randy likewise 

Was not to be seen for the

Next few months soon demolition

Permits displayed signs 

Of recovery a three-meter 

Service box hung much 

Going in and out foundation 

Repairs a new two car attached 

Garage at the rear with a porch

Above eventual paint meant 

Something good was afoot 

For the old red wreck I’m no 

Francis naked but for a 

Brown robe tied with rope 

For a belt and eager to help

The next wayward soul 

Dropping by Randy's more 

Complicated perhaps a 

Vietnam vet a neighborhood 

Fixture long in the making

Even my most charitable colleagues

Don’t stick their neck out

To get Randy shelter bath 

Or shave his life is his choice 

We together concluded we all 

Talk a lot about homeless how

We’re ready to help but here’s 

Randy and all the doors 

Including mine are closed

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

Review of Old Movie--For Your Consideration

Following on the heels of the very successful Best in Show, Waiting for Guffman, and A Mighty Wind, FYC is a mockumentary of the film industry centering around the production of "Home for Purim," its stars, their aspirations, and quirks. Mostly a scattershot of different aspects of Hollywood after the manner of Christopher Guest's earlier films critics may have grown a bit weary of his ensemble cast, his technique and the writing which flows from brilliantly funny to sophomorically meh. But if your subject is as broad as the film industry it's forgivable to run a tad too long. Fun to watch but don't screen the cut scenes which are indeed too, too much



c. J.S. Manista, 2015

20150615 (tasks)

The house came with a blue plastic tarp, perhaps just for this reason. After some wind and more rain I'll probably have to use more bricks to keep it in place. For now, a bandaid on a hemorrhoid.

I’ve got to drape a tarp

Atop the garage before it 

Pours again the skylight’s 

Leaking worse only in 

Ohio City a garage with 

A skylight like the rest of 

The garage a shoddy job

It held up for how many years

I’ll do it but first breakfast 

And the dog then I can run 

From leak to leak hoping to 

Stop the dreadful wet shiny 

Mold the rust that rots my 

Paltry sum my earthly goods

To naught more it is the season

Of the midges bane of 

Inhalable bugs blown from 

Our neighbor to the north

As they grateful for the 

Loss contend with even 

Larger more vicious plagues

Wilderness a blessing mixed 

The spectrum of green shadows

Sunbeams breaking through 

The leaves how like our houses

Unless they’re branches

Springing fresh they’re falling 

To the forest floor my porch 

Began its downward slide 

As soon as the hammer’s last 

Echo died against the court

Who keeps this field whose 

Farm is it who keeps my 

Gravity on course guides

My foot each step upon 

The ladder when so quickly 

It could slip despite my 

Careful planting on the rung

Or break from age its 

Supple treeness dried away

With age like bones that 

Will not take the strain

They once withstood 

With ease now more each 

Day I’m cognizant purpose 

Remains developing else 

Why keep me around long 

Since I pushed my genes along 

The track that is humanity’s project.

Just one more marble in the bag 

To change the game forever





c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20150613 (adaptation)

No Manistas have ever made it to eighty

That’s why I so comfortably call myself old

When people around me are living longer

Than ever making spry totally inapropos

Running as if they wanted to injure their joints

I ouch as I watch each step God that must hurt

As I was gathering Loki for his morning trek

Two joggers a beautiful young woman I didn’t 

Even see her male escort smiled and said Hi 

Over the gate. Following a tall handsome black

Man I chided You’re not running this morning?

Mind says I could. Body refuses to do it. Same here

The old man in me shuts the teenager down 

She was beautiful smiling her hair in a tie back

A kind of ponytail flounce would probably have

Felt wondrously sleek in my hands as I pressed

My face into her kiss except those days are gone

Sweet torment of memory. Sometimes it’s

Better to do altogether without. The bones have long quit

When will the mind leave off? I left my last job

Because I couldn’t do it anymore. I’d lifted my last

Metal panel for cards. I joked they smelted down

WWII cruisers to make these abominable sheets

Steel folded over three times to make a slotted 

Surface on which nothing heavier than a party 

Bag would ever hang. They could chop off an

Ankle if your grasp slipped. It was time to go

I’d watched a guy ten years older sling these

Around or had I? It was time to go. No more

For me. I could tire myself putzing around my 

House getting things done that needed doing

Now naps come like the pressure of a tide

Upon the shore. I can no more resist than

Turn away from those beautiful faces I never

Will cradle again in my hands. Oh, resign yourself

You romantic old fart. Thank God for handing you

One of the greatest loves ever. Everyone is not 

That blessed. Sleep and rise and get things done

Whatever you can. While you can.

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20150612 (urban renewal)

Walking the dog I noticed this new hole. Eventually I remembered the house which had been here. The wrecker is usually contracted to fill in the basement or crawl spaces and plant grass. This is strange to say the least.. 

Catty-corner from the hole was a house I thought certain for doom. The owner owns three adjacent properties and protected his investments by not letting this go to ruin. Not at all a bad little fix though he no longer lives in Ohio City. 

This is the site of what was among the more dilapidated hovels on my block: probably foreclosed, bereft of utilities, occupied by homeless squatters who every few days ripped plywood nailed over the doors for some place to sleep.

Another view of the same site showing it borders on a parking lot once the parking for a YMCA across 32nd.

Zoning Appeals is hearing a neighborhood protest of building 16 townhouses on the site.

There’s many a lot here and about

Where once a house was but now there’s a hole

Can’t say why when they tear down a dump

The city fills in some and others they don’t

A realtor neighbor explained the lot’s not abandoned

They’re already building new sewer lines show 

And the lot is fenced in watch this space

They’ll be back again

For years of reading Taunton’s

Fine Homebuilding I would have

Thought to start with more excavation 

A footer foundation, and such

Location, location, location

My contractor buddy told me

Late last year when I wanted him 

For work on my house

The dance card for construction

Had rapidly filled. Lots long empty 

Have sold, plans for building are filed

Get in line but don’t hold your breath

Last month I volunteered with Habitat

On a house in the Stockyards neighborhood

Which at my first look wasn’t a hovel

Compared to others around. When we 

Stripped the aluminum siding off 

It took on the face of a wreck. Inside 

Had no water gas or electric

You could tell where the copper

Had been. Around it were vacant lots

A few boarded up houses a not unusual scene

In Cleveland since the crash of 2008

When the banks took the bucks 

And homeowners got butkus

The cash may be rushing to Ohio City

But Stockyards isn’t getting a share

Could be the name reminiscent

Of slaughterhouses once abundant there. 

You didn’t want to be downwind 

Of them even on a wintry day. Summers 

You spent in Florida or sold 

Took your loss and moved far away

It’s pleasanter now. Junk yards flourish

As “metal recycling” may look terrible

But smells nowhere as foul as the rendering plants

The people unable to buy elsewhere stay

Still poor still un- or under-employed

I worked the census in 2010 I know

Once every old place was handsome

Painted and grand. Where people had money

And pride they remained repaired roofs

Porches pavement and windows

As jobs disappeared these poor took the hit

If you had kept your place up

Invested in community and schools

The market marked you a sap

Took your equity and ran to where

Profiteers sit in the sun read the Financial Times

Maybe wondering once why people live that way

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

Reviewof Old Movie-- The Royal Tenenbaums

I finally clicked with Wes Anderson movies at the Grand Budapest 

Hotel and thought to look again at his work starting with whatever 

Cleveland Public Library could quickly scrape up--TRT Not every 

character is totally likable, but every character has a fault with 

which I easily identify. Cast is superb but the film itself takes first 

place--Anderson's characteristic cuts and portraits and points of 

view (polka-dotted mouse crossing a rug), zooming in or out--I 

loved it all as fresh, and the story--well--redeeming. Hackman is 

magnificent--everybody else sufficient.



c. J.S.Manista, 2015