Al Ortolani

January 12, 2018

“The Taco Boat” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

THE TACO BOAT

Last night, I bought a 12-pack of tacos
at Taco Bell, not because I was 
especially hungry, but because I could. 
My ship had come in, you see, 
and for once, I was rolling in it.
I ate six of them in front of the television
while bingeing on episodes
of some Netflix series, not because
it was particularly engaging, but simply
because I could. My ship, if you recall,
had come in. I packed up the other six tacos
and brought them to work for lunch
where my fellow employees marveled,
or laughed, I couldn’t tell which, at
my ability to eat six soggy tortillas,
microwaved in their wrappers, and spread
like dollar bills on the table. I gave
one to a friend, and she was happy,
happy for the taco, happy for me,
happy for everyone who waited
for a boat, any boat, to come in.

—from Rattle #57, Fall 2017

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Al Ortolani: “I became interested in Emmett Kelly recently, and as I was ‘surfing’ his life, I ran into a picture of him in full Weary Willie costume trying to put out flames at the Hartford Circus Fire in 1944. I had already started the poem from a sort of Everyman position, but I worked into an Emmett Kelly as archetype poem, one that was not about the fire in particular, but about the ‘funny man’ decompressing at the end of a day. I think it relates to most of us as we leave behind our ‘public face.’ In general I find poems in little moments. Small moments, maybe profound, but probably as ubiquitous as dogs behind a chain-link fence. I like the idea of opening the gate, so I can step in closer to see if they lick my hand, or bite my ass. Mostly, they’re good guys, but not too keen on playing dead or begging for treats.” (web)

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June 29, 2016

“Paper Birds Don’t Fly” by Al OrtolaniPosted by

Al Ortolani

PAPER BIRDS DON’T FLY

Last night I had a dream
that my father, six years
dead now, left me a message
folded into some kind of origami bird.
There was a girl in the dream,
maybe a younger sister, maybe
a little dead girl sent as a messenger.
I don’t know how these things worked.
Sitting at the table with the paper birds,
she unfolded mine and began to read.
I couldn’t make out a word
she was saying.
I woke in frustration, trying to will
myself back into sleep
into the dream of my father
where I was sure he’d tried
to cross over
like he had so many times
when he was living.

—from Rattle #51, Spring 2016

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Al Ortolani: “I started writing poetry after I’d quit football in high school. I’d lock myself in the bathroom and write on the floor where I wouldn’t be interrupted by my younger siblings. Usually, I wrote about unrequited love because somebody important said we should write about what we know. I didn’t know how typical I was.” (web)

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