-just me-

Hanging half-way down the sewer

As I'm the one called upon to retrieve the ball,

Less that I was willing to summon such courage
Than it was that I'm the one

Small enough to fit through the narrow opening

And light enough to be pulled back to the street

As my friends held fast to my sneakered feet

And the leather-like belt of my stiff

Dungarees.

It was always about the ball.

Scooped-up in time, dried-off fast, we’re ready to go.

The Columbus Park gang had little interest

And less to say about such moments

As we lunched at White’s Restaurant
Just over the City line

At the bi-monthly gathering
Of the “Over The Hill Gang,”—
Feasting on platters of meatballs and spaghetti
Topped-off with sickeningly sweet

Desserts dressed-up like twenty-bucks-a-blowjob
Hookers.

The presiding officer, elected by ballot
For a one-year term, began each luncheon

At the lectern reciting the Pledge of Allegiance,
A saccharine prayer, then listing the names
Of the recently departed members.

No mention of baseball, Ox and Pitch, Buck-Buck,—

Nothing about the Parks, the activity of the streets,

The schoolyards, the tenements or the treacherous
Sewers each of them knew so well.

The Columbus Park gang sitting at the big,
Food-filled circular table spoke of vacations,
Of retirement golfing and what

The grandchildren were up to
That made everybody in the holiday-
Filled houses beam with pride.

And the strength of their hands
Is pulling me back from the sewers
And the drenched
Baseball is in my grasp
And I think to myself as I listen
To the echo of ourselves:—
"Goodbye." 

                                        Quequechan

   

-three outs-

two a side.

the curbstone's edge is a blunt force

meant to rip a hollow, rubber "Pinky" in half at its seam.

sponge pinky's are never allowed.

the name of it should be changed to "Spongey"

in order to protect the integrity of the Pinky.

when hit, no one can predict where the Pinky will go;

one can only predict where one would like it to go.

Niles Bohr theorized: one can only predict where it might go.

the lifespan of the Pinky can not be accurately measured.

some live for a week. some for a day.

when fatso Freddy DeGata plays, one hit might be the end.

 

the curbstone's granite is roughly cut, home made,

but worn by time and weather.

the play is at the angles of the granite's protrusions.

when the Pinky hits the edge of stone like that,

you feel the hit, sense it nearly as the feel of the bat

in your hands when it meets the baseball.

this is the beauty of the Pinky.

its skin is sensitive to the touch.

its scent is inviting.

its pink hue sings of "stickball" and "three outs",

but strangely, like the ball in pick-up baseball,

only one Pinky will be brought to the game.

Samph's Variety on Covel Street just beyond

the Son's of Italy Hall has them hanging

high enough in a wire basket behind the crowded

counter where only he could reach them.

Quequechan

-Michele and the Arena Girls. A dream in one act-

the girls remained
unimpressed.

they seemed curious, but

involved with themselves

more-so than a desire

for an involvement with us;

unaffected and autonomous. 

we fought one another
courting their attention.

this noontime they gather
at the schoolyard fence
near the woods,—
their starched dresses reflecting

their attitude toward
the recess-scheduled fistfight
between two
fourth-grade combatants.

soon the vanquished

is dragged away at their feet
by his attendants.
the victor continues to be dismissed.


It's old Mr. Coyte who's left to hose

the tarmac of the bloody arena down.

Michele Sperling

is standing alone by the stream

of water,

its spent blood flowing

to the narrow strip of grass

at the chain-

linked fence where it

submerges into the soft ground.

then Michele is seen running

to join her friends

on the other side of the schoolyard.

                                  Hugo A. Dubuque School
                                  Quequechan

  

the minimalist's sanctuary                                              

It occurred to me this morning while listening

to Morton Feldman's "Rothko Chapel"

that the opportunity had again been offered me to embrace

the slightest measure of information and do something with it

(for the benefit of mankind, for fulfillment to come

to the vacant side of the nation, for the sake of the early kid

shanghaied by Priest into the bowels of the lightless sacristy,

to the benefit of those who consider the space between objects

as integral parts of the whole,––  for blondies Dick and Jane

to abandon their creators, and run toward a higher calling,––

for the saints of the needle trade, my young mother among them

to be honored for their service) and, well–– in other words,

this morning, Morton Feldman has come to enlighten me, as I

maintain a residence in the realm of my own spacial interests.

   

                  

-when the apparatus works-

As we continue toward the dust

and rubble left to them by the quake,
Part’s “Spiegel im Spiegel”

for Violin and Piano is heard

over the silent hubbub of turn-

of-the-century City life,

filmed while moving slowly forward on the trolly-

tracks of San Francisco, long before Google

and its composition: “Street View for Clicks

Cursor and Mechanisms” takes us into the here and now,— 

and 2:34 into the grey, diminishing images, off to the right,

a gentleman is nearly run-over by an automobile.

As we listen to this music, and look at the bustling

men, women and kids actively going about

their daytime routines, the grey

men in slim-fitting suits and hatted,
the women clothed with an armor's weight
draped on their backs and hatted,
the kids, hatted and gawking into
the approaching lens, hawking newspapers
just like the movies said they would,—

and the metal clunks of machines, and the greyness 

of the exposition,— the greyness in the exposure
of life which has no life but within the borders
of this introduction,—

the gentleman, 2:34 into the scratching

production, moistened by the saturating Part,

realizing the chugging car approaching,

decides to make a dash across the street,

has second thoughts,

and retreats as the car rumbles into the frame

from the right, and the gentleman

is back-stepping quickly from its bumper

because he has the time to step back,—

because he is living in the time where he has the time.
We imagine the chugging automobiles
blaring their warnings: "Ahooga! Ahooga"!—


In the distance, the dust of ruin has clung to the atmosphere,
and what we hear is the living invitation of the Part.

                                                   

-the girl down south main-

Before the foothills of Ohio,

Before the knuckles of West Virginia,

Before the apprehensions of approaching
The borderline of Kentucky,—
But close to the Plaza Movie Theater

Where the kids went nuts on Saturday afternoons,
And southward on Main to the

Globe Four Corners and the floodgates.

I’d have travelled by horse,

By piggyback or sweeping

Spiked satellite to see her.

Northward in the backyard, at the fence of the dead

Vegetable garden, cracked with arrogant
Weeds that just won't bend, where the hungry

Praying mantis and lurking black-

Widow filled their bellies,—
The faded cherry-colored Schwinn
Stands on its last legs,

Drive-chain in a lump of grease piled beside it.

The Downtown Bus reached my stop,
Dropped me on South Main at the busy
Walko Bowling Alley, and my stomach

Followed two steps behind. Across the street,

Virginia Fox, wearing a dress and leather flats

Is sitting on a bench at Father Kelly Park

Where the city has erected a vintage Lockheed
Shooting Star

As memorial to the American dead

Of the Korean conflict. 

I'm dressed in date-ready chino slacks,

A do-nothing buckle sewn into the material

Just above the ass,—

Loafers, striped button-down shirt,

Hanging an unlit cigarette from my mouth.

Virginia smiles as I show up.

Her legs, drifting to the grass, move
Back and forth like porcelain pendulums,
One after the other,—
Leather flats barely grazing and her hands
Are clasped to the edge of the bench,—
A vision foreign, northward to the corner of

Bedford and Stinzinao Streets.

But here on South Main,
At the Globe Four Corners, realizing
The unnecessary, the cigarette is tossed
With a finger's flip on my way to the bench
Where Virginia belongs;— at the Shooting Star

In the little park across the street
From the clamor
Of the Walko Bowling Alley.


          Quequechan,
         In the neighborhood of Peter Brogi, barely born.




       
              

-Jenny and the sand-star-

the sand-star

scooped from the inch of its planet

is the size of a thumbnail.
finger-tipping

the grains of sand all around it

she readies the living creature
at the palm of her hand
sleeved in a winter's glove
the sand-star's new, microfiber universe
to be photographed and then

the sand-star's released
to the crest of the beach and for a moment
she goes along for the ride.

                     Nauset, Massachusetts: 12 /11

-driving-

Driving

South on Main,
Cruising the drag, 

Stopping for
Root-beer floats

And to look at the Carhops
Rolling at A&W.


Driving
North on Main,
Cruising the drag,
To the intersection of Pleasant,
And a turn-
Around at Sambo's Diner.


Driving

South again,
Cruising the drag,
Into the night
Like beating hearts,
Revving the engines,
Hunting the girls,
Revving the imaginations.


South was better than North,
Save for the Boogie
Girls of Border City,—
As East was better than West,
Save for the Sunset
Hill Housing Project
Where Elaine
San Marcos would be waiting.




                                 City

-on the lighter side-

Kneeling at my side on the third

Step to the alter,

I noticed the hem of the cassock

Draped across the heels of his sneakers.
Standing before us, draped in white garment,

Monsignor Pannoni is opening the tabernacle

Pulling the chalice out of it as a matter of course.

He takes the veil from its cup and drapes it

Across his forearm.

He will use this veil to wipe his fingers

Of water and wine.

My friend is to my right and as such

Is required to ring the sanctus bells

Opening the communion.

Sitting in the pew at his funeral,

Thoughts of that moment come to me;

Of when we were kids, friends and Alter Boys

Of our neighborhood church.

I smile recalling him twisting his wrist

Like a fast mechanic with a socket-wrench,

Ringing the array

Of cast-iron bells at his hand, bursting sound

Into the silent atmosphere of the consecration.

When Bobby Petrillo rose to gather

The cruets of wine and water,

Sitting on the little table at his side of the alter,

So that Pannoni could drink the wine

Which Bobby would pour into the chalice,—

So that Pannoni could wash his fingers

With the water Bobby would pour over them

Into the chalice,—

The hem of his cassock didn’t give way

At the heels of his sneakers, and he tumbled

Backward in a rollicking summersault.

At the alter, I knew this would happen.

In the pew, I remember that moment.

                                     Quequechan

  

   

-a tale of two men-

My grandfather wore suspenders
In order to hold his pants up.

My father wore a belt
In order to accomplish the same mission.

My father’s trousers were steam-iron pressed.

The pants of my grandfather were soiled
With dried drops of Port he'd press in the cellar.

My father sold the stuff.

Not the Port of my grandfather,

Fermented in a cask of musty wood

Standing in a lump-walled plastered cell

Away from the dirigible-like

Furnace always threatening to blow

Three families to smithereens.

My grandfather drank the Port he made.

My father dropped his pocket sales-ledger

At the end of a long day’s tediousness
Into a small re-located ashtray on top the out-of-place
End table next to the kitchen door

At the entryway on the side of the house

Along with his car keys and a fresh, unopened

Pack of Chesterfield.

He’d need these things in the morning.

The front door received special guests of the family 

And solicitors of insurance companies, who were scooted
To the side door where the little end table sat.
My parents listened to the insurance salesmen.

“We’re betting on you living.”

Under the grapevine,
My grandfather and his friends

Would gather at the table to drink its yield.

My father drove a Buick to the ocean and back everyday
Selling booze to the bars and restaurants on the Cape.
My grandfather died from complications of diabetes.

My father would later die of nearly everything else.

                                                        Quequechan