Cadillac Battleship
poems by Duane Esposito
brokenTribe Press, Queens, N.Y.
12.00, 65 pp, paperback
ISBN: 0-9763407-0-4
Available at www.brokentribe.com
& www.amazon.com
I only force myself to read when I’m very,
very bored, and even then I keep true to my blood
oath that I will never, under any circumstances, finish
a book. A collection of poetry isn’t considered
to be a book by the Catholic Church so my blood oath
is safe for another night.
I have resented Cadillacs ever since the day my father
was killed by a man driving one. OK, that’s
not true, but he was fired from General Motors for
tardiness/murder/larceny. The word “Battleship”
hasn’t sat well with me since the Navy decided
it was all right to produce bad movies by the truck
load. At this point Duane Esposito’s book Cadillac
Battleship, is fighting an uphill battle that, perhaps,
can’t be won. I dislike the book before I even
open it.
Since I’ve been asked to review this book,
I can’t stop at the cover, so I flip through
the pages, & two lines jump out at me: “I’m
half passed out from booze, / & one guy forces
me to suck his cock.” Now I know that Cadillac
Battleship is not an average Mother Goose Story, which
in my humble opinion is a good thing. If you’re
like me and right handed you’ve learned that
Mother Goose Stories always contain sexual undertones,
but never deliver any true money shot. C’mon,
think about it. Boy puts his thumb in a pie? Ridiculous.
In this book, Esposito doesn’t tiptoe around
what he’s trying to get across. And what he’s
getting across in Cadillac Battleship ranges far and
wide. He does it very well, I think. I’ve only
read that one line for the last three hours, in between
my “bathroom breaks.”
Once I gather courage (and strength), I scan the
book for the page with the shortest poem. “Southwestern
Simile” is the obvious winner: “I love
my wife like Texas / loves the death penalty.”
I’ve never loved a wife, or gone through with
a death penalty, so I’ll just take it that Ole’
Duane likes to kill his wife a minute after midnight
with a hood on. Instantly I feel a connection with
Mr. Esposito.
About this time, I decide to hop on a bus and meet
the author in person. A two-day bus ride will give
me ample time to read more than four sentences. I
can’t wait to meet this man, and actually finish
his “book.” On my trip, sitting next to
two young Jehovah’s Witnesses (actually, I'm
not really sure what their religion is, but they’re
wearing ties), I read a poem titled “Helpless.”
This poem portrays a boy’s shame after being
beaten down and humiliated by forces smaller
than him. His retribution arrives in the form of a
“friend” named Fay. The poem communicates
how drastically different each of our lives are. Not
all of us have the privilege of going to karate lessons;
but settling scores comes in more ways than ninja
chops and body builder women for hire. I felt from
this poem that retribution doesn’t always have
to be external. The two Jehovah’s Witnesses
are now reading over my shoulder, so I quickly flip
back to the line about being forced to suck a man’s
cock. It’s going to be a fun ride. Maybe now
I’ll read aloud. “Therapy Blue”
offers a brutal description of how a human reacts
to abuse. Esposito writes, “I mean to eviscerate
your bowls, & drag / your bloodied corpse / across
the therapy-blue mats. / stained by drool / from palsy-mouthed
girls / & crippled boys.” Reading this I
imagine a broken man’s kung fu daydreams in
a helpless situation. We’ve all been there,
in that beaten position, and the author puts the revenge
into words like no one else can.
I found that this “book” was very easy
to connect with, given its heart and honesty. It contains
verses that speak to people who have found that there
are more things to cry about than not winning the
lottery, or not getting parole, or the age old ‘not
getting that liver transplant. Esposito conveys real
pain with real emotions translated through intelligent
words.
As my bus looms closer to my destination, I loom
closer to finally finishing this “book.”
The poem “Sing” takes me three hours to
read. The author writes, “We are big or just
enough space. / Are these two things the same?”
Oh Duane, you son-of-a-bitch. Not only am I reading
but now I’m thinking about what I’m reading.
My parents will be very disappointed with my actions.
There really is no turning back.
I wonder if Duane will appreciate the fact that I
read and reviewed his work of art. Maybe he can take
me under his wing. Maybe he can teach me about craft,
and we can drive from town to town, fighting crime
and reading our poetry in roadhouses. Maybe we’ll
have a bear travel with us. Maybe Duane will give
me bus money home.
I finally arrive at the address I assume is Esposito’s.
A fragile young man opens the door. We don’t
speak as I walk away and break into tears. When I
say “break” I mean his back window. I
don’t speak as I grab him from behind. His confusion
is only rivaled by my determination for him to explain
where all this passion and talent comes from. He calls
the
cops, and I run back to the Greyhound station. I somehow
feel as complete as a molested Boy Scout.
Cadillac Battleship is a book that illustrates the
story of a man who has suffered through trauma. It’s
an artistic expression that embodies and communicates
pain and loss. This collection of poems is as real
as it gets. Intelligent, witty, and humorous, only
describe the acknowledgments page. Fresh, innovative,
and honest are a few-five dollar words that come to
mind as I try to relay the gut sensations I experienced
from reading Cadillac Battleship. |