Joe D’Elia was my father’s younger brother

a nighthawk barroom hopper.

fast walker. smooth talker. had his big toe

in the murky pool of Fall River politics at the entry level,

practitioner in hunting down street-wise women

who’d hunt him down right back.

had a steady girl. red-haired Rosie, cocktail waitress.

had a sleek automobile.

Cadillac de Ville which allowed him a roam-around attitude.

smoked Viceroy king size filter-tipped cigarettes

three packs a day.

let's remember Roseanne Marcucci.

well,–– Joe D'Elia was the guy who gave us a ride

to her junior prom in his Cadillac and never came back.

the place closed down after “good night sweetheart”.

a downpour. I was soaked through my tux.

Roseanne's skin was glazed like a strand of limp linguini

dipped in extra virgin olive oil.

the Route 6 motel was lit-up and flashing red across the highway.

  

 

I saw an image of the virgin Mary

(she was said to have been about 12 years old

when God planked her in his very special way)

under my bed in a clump of dust bunnies.

It looked just like her when she was tucked into

the half bathtub sunk into the soil in the backyard

near the grapevine’s succulent concords purple and plump

on the vines overhead near the fence to the junkyard.

there, chromed hood ornaments were the treasures

of the neighborhood gang. 

1954 was a good year for car wrecks.

surviving chrome-plated hood ornaments of scantily clad women

winging their way forward from the hood's nub were a sacred find.

but the junkyard dog was a very cranky animal.

a good junkyard dog is always barking and growling like a lunatic.

I wouldn’t want to pet him.

after a time the dust bunnies under the bed changed their shape

to resemble auntie Alma, older sister to my father.

Alma, thick-legged with nylon stockings and spun-blonde

beehive hairdo, spray-fixed and perfumed like RAID crawling insect spray.

truth be told, I'd daydream of Alma and under the late night sheets 

I'd forget all about the virtues of the "mother of God".

I know. I know. I'm going to Hell in a hand-basket.

but considering day to day analytics, it all lies within the perceived

value of certain elements in one's life. wouldn't you agree?

                    made from lemons

"when God gives you lemons…"

that’s precisely how it should read.

check-out the children’s wing.

cancer as lemons:

wake-up and smell the lemons.

listen,.. deodorant with aluminum

works better than sissy deodorants.

about the environment:

I once walked across a field

hand-in-hand asking my early young love:

“what is this? is that mud”?

"no" she replied:

"it’s cow dung”.

how romantic is that?

the sorrow and the pity:

her name was Claudette

straight from the incubators

of Dominican Academy,

as french as they come and real pretty, too.

"lemon-headed":

sometimes I feel as though I am.

so I write poems to deflect my hidebound inclinations

and yes, she said: “cow dung”.

a love poem

                   vignette 101

I’ve been thinking about sleep.

strolling the floor toward the toilet

in the morning I think about sleep.

refreshed at breakfast, sleep shows-up

at the table like a friend, nodding

and smiling and intoxicating.

in my mind sleep takes me to the place

where nothing motivates, nothing adjudicates

and there’s no disposition, no boss, no antagonist,

no time clock, no deodorant with aluminum,

no yearning to be someplace else, no yelling

and no pressure to get the machine fixed

whatever the machine might be and where

I'm young and pretty.

ahh.. sleep.

                    goings on in the neighborhood

holy Mary mother of god,

known by her nickname: blessed virgin Mary,

was seen flying her kite

near the left field fence yesterday.

she seemed to be really good at it

tugging the main-string, pulling

her kite southward toward Marzilli’s bakery

then northward toward the billboards.

the kite’s tail looked to be a raccoon's tail

plucked from her only son’s Davy Crockett hat.

(I had one, too. tail attached)

she gets away with murder, that one.

nothing’s happening today, except

Joe the cop forgot his service revolver

and had to skedaddle home to fetch it before

some busybody noticed and squealed.

well, I noticed. but I learned through certain

innocent bystander situations on how to keep my mouth shut.

phase one: how I came to be a poem-writer.

 

           

I recently wrote a poem about Katsushika Hokusai’s great wave:

"off Kanagawa" a woodblock print nicely colored and wonderful to look at. 

In the poem I mention the waves of my childhood beach

called “Horseneck” beach and how the waves were

"wetter" than Hokusai’s wave which is understandable.

but within the poem, the Horseneck waves were as dry as Hokusai's wave.

I also mentioned Horesneck surfers as a fill-in to the poem where

they really didn’t belong.

but their presence within the poem got me thinking about motion,

about what moves us from one place to another.

Hokusai’s tremendous wave holds a couple of long boats

paddling into it. these are “Oshiokuri-Bune” boats,

fishing barges, each holding a dozen or so oarsmen.

the boats are intended to move forward as the sea moves below them

and against them as the rowers struggle to move against the wave.

this is unlike the movement of an escalator going up with multiple

riders as the escalator moves them, but on the escalator nobody paddles.

inside the busy Buick Roadmaster, the mechanisms of the machine

move it forward but the road lays motionless and flat beneath it

just like the paper holding Hokusai’s wood-block wave print.

when I'm gone the ash will be motionless but it will turn with the Earth.

                     -The Seasons-

––David Britto's family had money.

He was the best artist in 6th grade class specializing in crayon drawings

of Santa Claus and other religious notables.

In the parlor of his family's tenement sat a snazzy space-heater,—

one with a glowing mouth at the bottom displaying its orange fire.

It was bigger than the one we had and sounded like a gust of wind

when it started-up in winter. Ours clanked like an old jalopy.

––The Britto's space-heater seemed otherworldly.

Ours came from the planet it sat in.

A crooked aluminum pipe stuck out of its back, listing upward

and angled into the wall where a little flower-painted tin plate dressed

the wall's rough-cut hole of the intruding pipe.

In winter, a twin-handled kettle of water serving as humidifier, sat on top

for a practical, but unintended purpose.

––In the summer, my mother would alter the space-heater’s identity.

The big pot would be removed to be used for cooking spaghetti or heating the bathwater.

A fancy cloth with ends of fringe dressed its top and knick-knacks were placed there 

to jewel its crown along with a few chosen members of the family, who had their framed portrait photos displayed.

––Cousin Patricia, "Call me Patsy" who left the Convent as Novitiate

breaking the hearts of her mother and father in the face of their God

before the final vows, photographed in pre-convent civvies, made the cut.

––So did my sister at nine years, frozen in a graceful tapping pose

at the “Eugenia School of Dance”— an attitude that would follow her through life,

––And there was a colorized photo of John “Sonny” Cinquini, a second cousin, smiling broadly, young, good looking, air-brushed smooth and posing bravely in his sailor suit.

“Sonny,” assigned to a minesweeper in the South Pacific, tumbled down a flight of metal grate stairs heading to the ship's galley for a quick cup,— who smacked his head on the final flight, drifted deeply into coma for over two years then died when his brain drew its flatline

on the screen by his hospital bed close to home.

––David Britto's family had money.

But the summertime studio portrait photos sitting on top of his family's snazzy space-heater

looked like they didn’t have any stories to tell.

––Quequechan

                   

                    

 

                    -The Seasons-

––David Britto's family had money.

He was the best artist in 6th grade class

Specializing in crayon drawings of Santa Claus

And other religious notables.

In the parlor of his family's tenement

Sat a snazzy space-heater,—

One with a glowing mouth at the bottom

Displaying its orange fire.

It was bigger than the one we had

And sounded like a gust of wind

When it started-up in winter. 

Ours clanked like an old jalopy.

––The Britto's space-heater

Seemed otherworldly.

Ours came from the planet it sat in.

A crooked aluminum pipe

Stuck out of its back, listing upward

And angled into the wall where

A little flower-painted tin plate dressed

The wall's rough-cut hole of the intruding pipe.

In winter, a twin-handled kettle of water
Serving as humidifier, sat on top for a practical,

But unintended purpose.

––In the summer, my mother would alter

The space-heater’s identity.

The big pot would be removed to be used for

Cooking spaghetti or heating the bathwater.

A fancy cloth with ends of fringe dressed its top,

And knick-knacks were placed there to jewel its crown

Along with a few chosen members of the family, who

Had their framed portrait photos displayed.

––Cousin Patricia, "Call me Patsy"—

Who left the Convent as Novitiate

Breaking the hearts of her mother and father

And in the face of their God before the final vows,

Photographed in pre-convent civvies, made the cut.

––So did my sister at nine years,

Frozen in a graceful tapping pose

At the “Eugenia School of Dance”— an attitude

That would follow her through life,

––And there was a colorized photo of John “Sonny” Cinquini,

A second cousin, smiling broadly, young, good looking,

Air-brushed smooth and posing bravely in his sailor suit.

“Sonny,” assigned to a minesweeper in the South Pacific,

Tumbled down a flight of metal grate stairs

Heading to the ship's galley for a quick cup,—

Who smacked his head on the final flight,

Drifted deeply into coma for over two years

Then died when his brain drew its flatline

On the screen by his hospital bed close to home.

––David Britto's family had money.

But the summertime studio portrait photos

Sitting on top of his family's snazzy space-heater

Looked like they didn’t have any stories to tell.

––Quequechan