I’m Not Bothering Anybody with My Blues
poems by
R. Nikolas Macioci
~96 pages, $16 (+ shipping)
Projected Release Date: April 2027
The Advance Sale Discount price on this books is $9.50. For those who prefer to pay by check, the discount price is $14/book (which includes shipping & sales tax) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, 12180 Skyview Drive, Edinboro, PA 16412. Both advance sale prices will expire once the book is sent to press.
PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.
R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University. Nik is the author of twenty-three books. He was twice nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and twice for a Best of the Net award. His poems have appeared in such magazines as The Hong Kong Review, The Bombay Review, The Raven’s Perch, The Main Street Rag, Xavier Review, Taj Mahal Review, and Bellevue Literary Review. He won First Place in the 1987 National Writer’s Union Poetry Competition, judged by Denise Levertov, Second Place in Zone 3’s Rainmaker Awards, judged by Howard Nemerov (1989), Second Place in the Writer’s Digest competition, judged by Diane Wakoski (1991).
In I’m Not Bothering Anybody With My Blues, R. Nikolas Macioci gathers poems of memory, mortality, desire, humor, and hard-won tenderness. With unflinching candor and startling imagery— “Maybe the only closeness I’ll ever get / is to see someone’s taillights pull away.”—these poems move through childhood wounds, aging, loss, longing, and the ordinary miracles of daily life. Macioci’s voice is intimate, wry, and deeply human, an invitation to face sorrow and still reach for light. ~James Borders, author of Resurrecting Onions
R. Nikolas Macioci’s I’m Not Bothering Anybody with My Blues marks a feat of depth and dissonance. “…Everyone has/ been down this road, I think, hoping/ to find at the end a destination thick/with eager arms” concludes “Cruel Happiness.” Much of Macioci’s collection employs oxymoron. We experience longing, joy, humor and remorse in poem after poem, causing a craving for more of his words that speak universally. ~Sandra Feen, There’s a Rock on Martin Avenue (2025 collaboration with Cliff Treyens)
I’M NOT BOTHERING ANYBODY WITH MY BLUES
I wonder if I, like William Stafford,
will write a poem on the last day of my life,
or will I grab a handful of sun and try to hang on?
Will death be a surprise to the onlookers
of my existence, shocked that such an event
can happen unannounced? It must have, no doubt,
been passion that drove Stafford to pen
those last lines. Today, I feel a tick in my chest,
the squeezing pressure of angina, a warning
about the brief distance between now and demise.
At first, I think to call someone to tell them
that I might be about to face the great calling,
but I don’t want to clutter other peoples’ day
with something that could turn out to be
a non-emergency. I decide to keep the weak
whimper of fear to myself. Moreover,
just in case I might be facing an ending, I, too,
want to write something on my last day.
I turn toward my study, find a pen and
a scrap of paper on my desk, write about
the yellow light of winter, how it clusters
on the window like a snowdrop,
an imminent hint of spring.
SKEETER SERENADE
I’m receiving nocturnal kisses from a swarm
of mosquitoes. They’ve appropriated both
my arms as landing fields. Another bite and
I’m scramming into the house. Why can’t they
let me alone? I’m not biting them. I hear the
bug light snap with defeated bug-bodies, but
I’m still as bothered as the people of New
Orleans in William Faulkner’s “Mosquitoes.”
They buzz in my ears as if hungry for earwax
instead of blood. The vital fluid in my veins
has probably been diminished by at least a
gallon. I really don’t know what to do.
Going inside feels anticlimactic after being
chaperoned by a corn-colored moon.
The September night is an irresistible gift
of a light breeze and an unclouded sky.
If I were drunk, I wouldn’t notice that these
critters are munching on me, but I’m sober
as the final line of a poem. Though it’s
impossible to hold them at arm’s length,
I won’t give up! I’ll bat them away until
my arms become worn-out propellers or
until the pests find another landing strip
as enticing as my beleaguered skin.
INTO THE FIELD AND ABSORBED BY THE WHITE OF THE MOON
Brad’s kept the secret to himself too long.
A forty-three-year-old traveling salesman
who sells cybersecurity solutions, he’s begun
to gag on guilt, his ulcer growing bigger
every day. His wife, Celia, assumes his
boost in pay results from promotions. The lie,
large as self-corruptìon, is a boil waiting
to be lanced. He’s been diverting small
amounts of money from his route’s cash
deposits to cover mounting gambling debts.
It’s 3:30 AM when he pulls into a remote
motel off interstate 80 in rural Nevada.
The Desert Bloom’s neon sign buzzes
louder than the air conditioner. He sits there,
feels his life being torn apart, knows
he must confess either to his wife or the company.
The words are heavy in his head, too real
to utter in daylight.
He lingers for a while longer, then gets out
of his rental car, walks away from the motel’s
sickly yellow security light. He looks around,
spots a gap in a broken, chain-link fence,
steps through, finds himself in a vast pasture
where the only sound is wind through scrub.
He looks up. The moon, high and full,
has rendered the field in a wash of stark white.
Brad feels utterly insignificant under
the monochrome light that seems to drain
the significance from his secret, reduces it
to a handful of words. He takes a shuddering
breath, whispers into the night, not an apology
or confession, just the raw truth. “I took the money.
I have a problem.” His words float away
into the great openness. The secret, the weight
he carried, is suddenly external. It’s as if
the moon’s light has made the secret weightless,
harmless, not because the consequences are gone,
but because he has lifted the burden of concealing it.
He has released the lie to a force far greater than himself.
He stands there another five minutes, his body lighter,
mind clearer. The lie is gone. All that remains is outcome.
He walks back to the motel. For the first time,
knows he can face the morning, the only thing
on his shoulders now is a sheath of redemptive moonlight.
