Poem - Triumph

So something else I did while I wasn't posting was I finally finished watching The Sopranos.  That is what sort of started the whole thing, really, the writer's block.  I couldn't figure out exactly what to say about it.

The only thing more prodigious than the deli meats was the ample cleavage

It was one of the first things I started watching when I got my Kindle Fire in December 2014.  It took me over a year to get through it, the series running hot and cold with me, but always waiting to be picked up again like one of Tony's needy mistresses or a nice big plate of Gabbagool.

I never really did figure out exactly what to say.  But it, plus reading Mary Beard's SPQR, did inspire a poem.

So in honor of National Poetry Month, which has now worn down to its noble end, here is what I came up with.  First read at Word for Word Open Mic Night, Aroma's, Newport News.  Sometime in March, I think.

Triumph

382 days after having begun and

Nine years after the last episode aired,

I finally close the book on The Sopranos.

I feel like I’ve accomplished something;

86 Episodes, over 4600 minutes of sometimes

Brutal TV, digested like a bad meal from

Nuovo Vesuvio; rich, delicious, upsetting,

Hitting back with bilious acidity,

Leaving one retching with disgust yet

Somehow wanting more all the same.

In ancient days I’d demand a Triumph,

A parade through the streets showing off

Spoils from a long campaign while

Vestal Virgins toss heaps of Gabba-gool into

Throngs of adoring masses.

There stand statues from Jennifer Melfi’s

Office, nudes in German Impressionistic style,

Angular, intimidating, serving as a first warning

That behind the door they guard is a lousy,

Self-centered therapist. 

There is the body of Sal Bonpensiero,

The severed head of Ralph Ciffareto,

The pomade can of Paulie Walnuts Guiltierri,

The ghost of Christopher Moltisanti,

Seeking our sympathy, asking to

Nevermind a life of casual brutality

Cut short in kind. 

And there’s me!  Sitting in my chariot,

Covered in glory, clad in a well tailored suit,

Two of many nameless strippers from the Bada Bing

Standing behind me in topless tableau holding

Wreathes of cigarettes and whisky over my head,

Whispering in my ear over and over again

“You are just a man.

You are just a man.

You are just a man, and you’ve accomplished nothing.”