We’ve always thought of breakthroughs in writing as offering a kind of handrail to take us deeper into life, but for Pete it was hard to enjoy that feeling. We didn’t offer to publish him because it would be good for him, we offered to publish him because the world needed to see his stuff. When Wellstone Books Publisher Steve Kettmann talked to Casey Coonerty Protti, the owner of Bookshop Santa Cruz, about this remarkable and unique talent, or to Eric Kettunen at PGW, our distributor at the time, it was always with a cautious excitement, because with Pete you never knew. He used to show up at Bookshop and stand there imagining he was giving a reading, the focus of forty sets of adoring eyes, and told us finally that after much practice he was ready for that. Pete’s poems worked best when he read them himself, the music of his pain coming alive with a kind of low key jazz beat, the exasperation underneath the words ebbing and flowing and sometimes exploding into a full-fledged rant, but above all a chord of hope or optimism sounding somewhere in the lines, but in the years after  Pete’s death in 2017, we came to believe the power of the poems does come through, even without Pete here to read them aloud to us.

That conviction was demonstrated on Monday, January 4, 2021, when Bookshop Santa Cruz hosted a virtual event to celebrate Pete’s life and mark the publication of I Wish I Was Billy Collins in hardcover. None of us reading that night had any illusions: Only Pete could truly bring his poems to life, but we’d at least try: Santa Cruz Poet Laureate David Sullivan opened with a reading of the title poem that was hair-raising and pitch perfect; Good Times editor Steve Palopoli followed with a rollicking, lively read of “Angry Prius” (see below) that just erupted out of him (Pete’s ex-wife, often a figure in the poems, later told me that was her favorite of the night), I did my best to do right by “Middle Age,” even (I think) hitting the right Pete note on “Do you take cream?” (Kyle, what do you think? Did I get it right), then novelist and Soho Press Publisher Bronwen Hruska brought alive “The Woman of My Dreams,” and the book’s editor, Kyle VanDrimmelen, and longtime Santa Cruz arts writer Wallace Baine, whose essay on Pete closes the collection, brought us home with “What Happened?” and “Old School Timmy.” At least for the time being, you can watch the whole hour by following this link and registering: https://www.crowdcast.io/e/petethepoet

 

Pete identifies so totally with an electric car in “Angry Prius” that it’s both hilarious and exhilarating to hear him riff.

Angry Prius

God, do I want to go in the fast lane.

Boy oh boy.

Look at them over there,

blithely zooming well over the limit,

75, 80, 85

—just booming down the blacktop

like a rolling stampede of high-octane buffalo.

Why, that arrogant golden Hummer was doing 90 just a minute ago,

shimmering wasteful little droplets

cascading recklessly from his gleaming dual exhaust.

Does this light-footed asshole in the Birkenstocks

know I can do 80,

no problem?

Does he know my radio actually gets stations

other than NPR?

If I have to listen to Noam Chomsky

laconically pontificate in that superior nasally drone

one more goddamn time,

I’ll blow a gasket, literally.

Oh, man,

just to chug down gallon after imperialistic gallon

one profligate time.

A tank like a reservoir.

No guilt, just, “Fill’er up, Daddy-O”

—forty gallons worth and top that baby off—

let some of that juice just splash

right there on the ground.

Oh, to mindlessly drive through the Jack In The Box

blaring Rush Limbaugh or sports talk radio.

To pick up a twelve-pak, a slurpee and a few Lotto tickets at 7-11—

And no, make that a case of Keystone Lite,

a couple tins of Kodiac and a copy of Hustler.

And a nasty hot dog too, for the road.

I wonder what it’s like to sit in the parking-lot of a bar—

not a bistro, a real honky-tonk roadhouse—

a dirt lot, with railroad ties, broken glass,

a stray used condom brazenly lurking on the ground.

Surrounded by battered pick-ups and one-eyed Camaros—

malevolent unregistered Harleys,

your red-eyed, blue collar driver

stumbling a bit as he pats around for his keys,

lighting up yet another filterless Camel

as he unlocks your dusty door.

Cruising the back roads to avoid the Smokeys,

weaving boozily into the oncoming lane.

Now he’s puking out the window,

then pulling over onto the shoulder to sleep off the spins.

Man, that’s what I call living!

But here I am, turtling off to yoga class again—

23 soul-crushing miles an hour.

Go ahead, merge in front of me.

I’m a pussy, it’s obvious.

Don’t worry, I won’t honk.

Everybody knows it. Priuses are freaking mute.

Oh please peel these pewling sanctimonious bumper stickers

off my oh so progressive ass.

Obama, Dalai Lama, celebrate diversity, PBS rainbow bullshit.

I want mudflaps!

Yosemite Sam—Back off motherfucker!

Or maybe even those sexy metallic bombshell silhouettes.

I want to tow twin jet-skis to a lake full of white trash.

I want horny, just-acquainted people to screw vigorously inside me

and in a semi-public place, too.

Buddy, if this little blue Prius is a-rockin’,

don’t come around a-knockin’, y’hear?

Shakespeare festival, men’s group, health food store, farmers’ market,

all the other pious hybrids with their carpool stickers,

some with those smarmy, self-important vanity plates:

sips gas, grn-car, 50 mpg.

Hey, here’s an idea—

let’s just go first the next time we get to the intersection

at the same time as another car.

Always patronizingly waving everybody through—

“You. No, you. No, after you, please, I insist.”

Would somebody just fucking goalready!

Christ, it’s like Mr. Rogers Neighborhood

24-7 when you’re a Prius.

I mean, could there somehow be Prozac

in the gas this bozo’s been feeding me?

I know he gobbles that stuff like it’s fliippin’ candy.

Can you imagine Steve McQueen driving me?

Sean Connery? John Wayne?

The Duke in a Prius.

The ultimate American icon hunched forward,

sipping chai and listening to Terry Gross,

chatting on a Bluetooth. Come on.

But so today it looks like we’re off

to pick up the kid at Montessori,

drop him off at the cello lesson,

then to the tutor’s.

Poor cosseted little sap,

slathered in sunscreen whenever he leaves the house,

kale smoothies, vegan sushi,

kombucha, chldren’s mindfulness group on Saturdays.

Good lord, he even does Sudoku already.

He’ll certainly never drive a Bronco, an F-150, or a 4×4 Jeep

with those awe-inspiring monster-truck tires.

Unmufflered engine gurgling and growling

like an apex predator.

Towering, no, lording above the traffic,

maybe even a roll-bar, fog lights—

the whole works, why not?

And a fine young honey—

in cut-offs and halter of course,

snuggled right up close,

reeking of hairspray and wine-coolers,

deftly making him feel every inch a real man,

if you know what I mean…

Belligerently blasting through the yellow as it turns red,

Old Glory waving unapologetically from the roll-bar.

Mercilessly tailgating all comers,

even senior citizens, the handicapped.

Relentlessly changing lanes without signaling—

swerving provocatively in and out.

You got a problem with that?

Going off-road, 4-wheel drive, baby.

Bouncing and shaking like it’s an earthquake,

the hairspray girl rapturously squealing,

one of those winches with a cable on the front,

in case your bro gets in a jam.

Oh my God—

I just thought of it: a gun rack—

the Holy Grail,

the ultimate phallic vehicular accessory—

A freaking gun rack…

Oh, I need one, I so do.

Listen, I’ll drive in the slow lane forever—

Baby on Board sign if you want.

Carefully shuttle all those dorky Montessori kids

to tai-chi, chess club, kite-flying, whatever.

Re-upholster me with hemp for God’s sake if you want.

Hell, slap a “Feel the Bern” sticker on me.

It’s all good.

Just let me be

the only little bad-ass Prius in the world,

man enough to proudly tote an automatic weapon if need be.

You know, for when the oil does actually dry up,

and it’s every thirsty Mad-Max hybrid for himself.

And please let me taste the fast lane once,

just once,

for like five glorious full-throttle minutes.

Aggressively flashing my high-beams

at some clueless, Lexus-driving realtor yapping on her cellphone,

honking in repetitive denigrating blasts

at a tentative mini-van loaded with three generations of wide-eyed Pakistanis.

C’mon,

let’s maniacally flip off a dawdling astigmatic rabbi

in a shit-brown Yaris.

Oh, let me live a little,

just a little,

before the inevitable day when you trade me in,

like a once-scintillating wife you’ve slowly grown tired of,

on that fully gelded, sexless, lifeless,

smug-as-a-church-lady, no-gas-tank, phone-booth-sized,

ultimate P.C. status symbol,

the electric car.

 

About a Sock

 I was fabricated

in a Karachi sweatshop

by a twelve-year-old boy named Hamid

with the most beautiful eyelashes,

who dreamed of one day playing cricket

for the national side.

Inspected by number 43,

a dowdy widow with halitosis

who loved Hello Kitty

and drank on the job.

They wrapped my partner Lefty and me

in that sticky paper sleeve

along with three other brown couples

fitting shoe sizes six through twelve.

What a con, by the way

what bald-faced crap, six through twelve my ass

a dwarf and big foot wearing the same sock.

I’m a sock, not a condom for Christ’s sake.

We had hoped to land on the feet

of a successful businessman

maybe in Connecticut, a size nine or ten

comfy inside tasseled loafers

riding the train to Manhattan

laundered by a caring domestic

after an easy day sitting at the office

then two weeks off – The Good Life.

But No!

Some chintzy clown in Santa Cruz,

who never cut his toenails

wore us for days on end

occasionally used us

to wipe up unspeakable messes

bought us at Ross

Ross!  What the Fuck?

We’re gold toes

and not irregular.

But I must not speak too loudly

must remain calm

for I escaped just this morning

at the laundromat

clinging statically to the top

of the dryer drum

my every thread aflame

as that gargoyle snatched his searing load.

I felt bad, of course,

abandoning Lefty to whatever

hellish destiny awaited

probably mismatched with that

shrunken gray Indonesian

with a hole at the heel

if he was lucky

or a lonely rag

cleaning cat barf or worse

if he was not.

But I had to get out

gamble on the next dryer patron

maybe a biker, maybe a bum. . .

Who knew?!

Now I ride warmly

in the fragrant hemp hamper

of a Pilates instructor.

A Pilates instructor!!

Oh, Allah be blessed!

surrounded by pastels and lace,

all softened by non-allergenic, sustainable

sweet smelling potions.

I don’t know

if I am fated

to wipe her bicycle chain

or perhaps be married

to a single sock

from her former life

as a dental hygienist

snug in a drawer

freshened by a home-made cache

mingling with jog-bras and leggings

natural fiber yoga tights.

Shit, she can sew buttons on my face

and make me a hand puppet

I really don’t care

so long as I never see or smell

the funky, humid, tattered insides

of that cheapskate’s diseased Nikes

ever again.

 

I Wish I Was Billy Collins

I wish I was Billy Collins.

No, not George Clooney, just good old Billy C.

I bet Billy lives in some

charming upstate hamlet,

probably New York or Vermont.

His house is rustic and inviting

no gate, just a hand-painted peace sign out front

and a box that says “free rhubarb, take some,”

a wrap-around porch and swing,

tasteful unpretentious curtains,

a happy chimney whispering out aromatic smoke,

and there’s always an apple pie

cooling on the window sill.

And so here I come now—

Yes! It’s me, fantasy Billy

smiling the smile of the successful

rolling up in my vintage

(but not gaudy)

’56 Chevrolet pick-up

my dog Thoreau, a rescue of course, riding shotgun

manic chickens scattering crazily as I pull in.

You see,

I was in town, at the diner,

with Clem and Lefty and Cecil

sipping coffee and discussing

the high school football team’s prospects.

It’s fall—everything is beautiful.

My wife, who works with orphans,

has just come in from her pottery studio.

She kisses me and informs me

that my agent called and Harvard

wants to honor me again next month.

“Oh how tiresome,” I say.

“I’d rather play horseshoes with Clem.”

But I go anyway.

Some wealthy hedge-fund alum

Whose literary daughter has all my books

dispatches his pilot to fetch me.

He glides into our cow pasture at the appointed hour.

We don’t have cows any more.

Too much work.

But it’s nice not having to drive to the airport.

I make my speech.

Everyone loves me.

At the reception afterward

as usual

some comely twenty-nine-year-old

grad student

her siren’s hand lightly on my lapel

lets me know just how much

my work has meant to her….

but I’m used to this by now

so it’s no trouble

I’m such a great guy.

Back at my hotel suite

I toss off a quick

poem

for the New Yorker

and sleep soundly as always.

I even wear pajamas.

My children all work for Oxfam

and are expert mountain climbers

I never need Viagra

my eyes are 20/20

my teeth so sound

the dentist has me visit

only once a year.

But sometimes…on quiet evenings

When I’m tinkering with the Chevy

(I call her Sylvia, after Sylvia Plath)

the Red Sox game quietly on the radio

I find myself wishing I lived in Santa Cruz…yes

In a musty studio apartment

with a decrepit cat who barfs violently on the carpet at four a.m.

it’s as though he’s trying to turn himself inside out for Christ’s sake

and neighbors whose high decibel, jack-hammer style love-making

comes and comes again hard through the cheap-ass half-inch sheetrock wall

penetrating even the protective pillow I press to my beleaguered ears

and a voodoo smoke alarm with a freaking mind of its own

and a malevolent marauding murder of crows

who seem to derive particular glee from shitting only on my car…

But that lasts about two seconds, tops

I shake my head, smiling sheepishly,

and I chuckle softly to my silly Billy self

switch off the light

and head upstairs to bed

to my extraordinary wife

and sleep like a fucking baby.