Half a Heroic Crown for Vin
by Michael Cirelli
I.
My cousin Vinny looks up
to me like I’m a gold-plated
statue on the top of a State
House made of books.
Like a comet dragging a fiery
tassel. Like a seagull filled
with ink. He doesn’t know, I look
up to him too: His hard smirk
that’s taken a punch. His realness
I long for. I’m a wannabe Vinny--
When I’m brave enough for a fight,
I wear a helmet, and ice skates.
When I feel like talking shit, I stay
inside the car, with the windows up.
II.
With the windows up, we drove
in silence to The Hill to get my dying
father jumbo shrimp cocktail.
Vin was always on call for Uncle Guido.
On our way back to the car, two guidos
ran up on us. Vin went down
the alley with one, while the other held
my arm, Jesus on his ripped right tricep.
Wait, he said. I did, we watched, they circled:
the Tale of the Tape being worked out like
fast math in their heads. I wanted to charge
the alley, but I didn’t want to charge
the alley, and I didn’t. Vin drew a knife
and before I knew it, we were back in the car.
III.
We were back in the car heading
to the hospital with a half-dozen shrimp.
Vin was cool as cocktail sauce, cooler
than don’t-give-a-fuck. Vin was all
live by the streets, die by the streets
as his mother followed above
in the shape of a crow. Little cousin:
growing into my father’s fading shadow,
eating the poison from his failing organs.
Rubbernecking every girl we passed,
Vin sped down Atwells Ave in a Honda Accord
that reeked of the ocean. Just like dad would,
he parked right in front of the Emergency Room
not giving a fuck.
IV.
Not giving a fuck is a symptom
of tough, depending on who holds it
between their fingers. It burns cigarette
holes into the moon’s pillowcase.
It doesn’t care who you are or what
you do or who you know. My hero
once punched a guy, who was on
the other side of a window. Left hyphens
all over his face from the glass. But that was in ‘74,
when only cops had guns. Kids these days
are scared as hell, and gunning for a Vin
to earn a stripe. One night, when the club
floor musta been slanted, a champagne glass
perforated Vincent’s neck.
V.
Vincent’s neck had a gauze patch
blotted with a red Rorschach
that traced a silhouette of Uncle Guido,
and he told me it was: “nothin,” some goof
threw a glass in tha club. I remember
“nothin” as a kid: waiting in the backseat
of a Lincoln Town Car in a project parking lot.
Stopping to get Pixie Sticks and watching
my father pour the blue sugar onto the street.
Vin was Uncle Guido’s apprentice.
When I hear him say “nothin,” I remember
my father pulling a fork from his stomach
at the beach house. On his deathbed,
I remember him crying out for his mother.
VI.
Crying for his mother, Vin still looked
tough as hell. I’d never seen him cry
until that day in front of her polished casket.
Vin’s mom was my mom’s best friend.
They grew up together dodging Italian boys.
Used to smoke Salem’s on the highway overpass
and spit on the cars below singing “I will survive”
because of our fathers. My mom married
in first and his mom soon followed, except
his mom left a different way, slid out one night
in a dream. Vin carved her into his arm.
Vin preserved his mother’s son under a mural
of religious tattoos. Grandma complained, you got Jesus
all over ya, and you don’t even go to church.
VII.
You don’t even go to church
but you pray, a request engraved
around your neck: God forgive me.
When I tell him I ask that too, he looks
surprised, because he looks up to me.
Like perpendicular pencils on the top
of a cathedral. Like a flag made of paper.
I can do no wrong. When he drapes an archangel
across his back, of course it’s Michael,
with a sword puncturing the devil.
I tell Vinny that the spider web on his elbow
is not a spider web but a dream catcher.
That the anchor tattooed on mine is not
an anchor, but an arrow chasing Hope.
MICHAEL CIRELLI is the author of Vacations on the Black Star Line (Hanging Loose, 2010) and
Lobster with Ol' Dirty Bastard (Hanging Loose, 2008), which was a NY Times poetry bestseller from
an independent press and was featured in the "Debut Poets" issue of Poets & Writers Magazine.
I.
My cousin Vinny looks up
to me like I’m a gold-plated
statue on the top of a State
House made of books.
Like a comet dragging a fiery
tassel. Like a seagull filled
with ink. He doesn’t know, I look
up to him too: His hard smirk
that’s taken a punch. His realness
I long for. I’m a wannabe Vinny--
When I’m brave enough for a fight,
I wear a helmet, and ice skates.
When I feel like talking shit, I stay
inside the car, with the windows up.
II.
With the windows up, we drove
in silence to The Hill to get my dying
father jumbo shrimp cocktail.
Vin was always on call for Uncle Guido.
On our way back to the car, two guidos
ran up on us. Vin went down
the alley with one, while the other held
my arm, Jesus on his ripped right tricep.
Wait, he said. I did, we watched, they circled:
the Tale of the Tape being worked out like
fast math in their heads. I wanted to charge
the alley, but I didn’t want to charge
the alley, and I didn’t. Vin drew a knife
and before I knew it, we were back in the car.
III.
We were back in the car heading
to the hospital with a half-dozen shrimp.
Vin was cool as cocktail sauce, cooler
than don’t-give-a-fuck. Vin was all
live by the streets, die by the streets
as his mother followed above
in the shape of a crow. Little cousin:
growing into my father’s fading shadow,
eating the poison from his failing organs.
Rubbernecking every girl we passed,
Vin sped down Atwells Ave in a Honda Accord
that reeked of the ocean. Just like dad would,
he parked right in front of the Emergency Room
not giving a fuck.
IV.
Not giving a fuck is a symptom
of tough, depending on who holds it
between their fingers. It burns cigarette
holes into the moon’s pillowcase.
It doesn’t care who you are or what
you do or who you know. My hero
once punched a guy, who was on
the other side of a window. Left hyphens
all over his face from the glass. But that was in ‘74,
when only cops had guns. Kids these days
are scared as hell, and gunning for a Vin
to earn a stripe. One night, when the club
floor musta been slanted, a champagne glass
perforated Vincent’s neck.
V.
Vincent’s neck had a gauze patch
blotted with a red Rorschach
that traced a silhouette of Uncle Guido,
and he told me it was: “nothin,” some goof
threw a glass in tha club. I remember
“nothin” as a kid: waiting in the backseat
of a Lincoln Town Car in a project parking lot.
Stopping to get Pixie Sticks and watching
my father pour the blue sugar onto the street.
Vin was Uncle Guido’s apprentice.
When I hear him say “nothin,” I remember
my father pulling a fork from his stomach
at the beach house. On his deathbed,
I remember him crying out for his mother.
VI.
Crying for his mother, Vin still looked
tough as hell. I’d never seen him cry
until that day in front of her polished casket.
Vin’s mom was my mom’s best friend.
They grew up together dodging Italian boys.
Used to smoke Salem’s on the highway overpass
and spit on the cars below singing “I will survive”
because of our fathers. My mom married
in first and his mom soon followed, except
his mom left a different way, slid out one night
in a dream. Vin carved her into his arm.
Vin preserved his mother’s son under a mural
of religious tattoos. Grandma complained, you got Jesus
all over ya, and you don’t even go to church.
VII.
You don’t even go to church
but you pray, a request engraved
around your neck: God forgive me.
When I tell him I ask that too, he looks
surprised, because he looks up to me.
Like perpendicular pencils on the top
of a cathedral. Like a flag made of paper.
I can do no wrong. When he drapes an archangel
across his back, of course it’s Michael,
with a sword puncturing the devil.
I tell Vinny that the spider web on his elbow
is not a spider web but a dream catcher.
That the anchor tattooed on mine is not
an anchor, but an arrow chasing Hope.
MICHAEL CIRELLI is the author of Vacations on the Black Star Line (Hanging Loose, 2010) and
Lobster with Ol' Dirty Bastard (Hanging Loose, 2008), which was a NY Times poetry bestseller from
an independent press and was featured in the "Debut Poets" issue of Poets & Writers Magazine.