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
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by
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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
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.:
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 under
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