-Angelo Stavros without pants-

When I saw that he failed me in Algebra

I couldn’t complain, although I’d plea for mercy.

I didn’t know a coefficient from a vanilla coke

As I was too busy daydreaming about Joy Liebman’s legs.

Still, a D would’ve taken me over the hump

Of repeating my Senior year.

I said: “It’s a way to rid yourself of my annoying presence.”

But Angelo said: "The F stands".

They’ll be other legs in another year.

That prick.

I begged like a prisoner of war

At the closing distance of bamboo shards.

"The F stands", he said.

I rationalized like a drowning boy grasping at weeds.

“You were great. It was my fault. I think I need glasses!”

"The F stands", he said.

Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped that heavy book
From my desk to the floor last month in his class at 10:35.

The plan was set.
It wasn't even a plan that I'd drawn up.
I was the only one had the guts to do it.

Those chickenshits.

That prick.

                                              B.M.C.D.

-the mystery ride-






Let's hit the road.

To leave by car

One must enter the car.

Two doors and the front seats

Tilt forward to assist access to the back.
Sometimes, on the driver's side,
The tilting seat will cause the horn to blow.
One slip-up could tipoff the cops.

But four doors and it’s every man

For himself.

Live a two-door life.

Live a life of two doors.

Help thy non-deserving neighbor.
The creep who's got more stuff than you.
Allow the drunken to sleep it off.

Assist thy fat, pain-in-the-ass relative
On the way to visit another one.
Tuck and strap the annoying kids into their seats.

Get the stupid dog in the car

And roll the back window down

So he can stick his head out

At 70 miles per hour rolling over the road.
We're on our way.
See the USA.

Look at that tongue,—
Wind-pushed beyond the far
Edge of the hinge 

Flapping like a moody vulva,

Its salty wetness flying back
Through the air in its sparks of spit.
The hours of my summer days.

The Moon was all it could be 
When you slipped a backside 
Penny into the loafer's slot,—
I'm yours, you're mine.
You'd dial-in a smokey
Platters tune,—
They asked me how I knew—
It was always in the way 
You'd tumble, 
Climbing over to the backseat, 
Laughing about what you'd say
To your friends
At school in the morning,
Giggling to their ears under the starched
Eyes of the Nuns,—
Climbing over
Like you knew how to do it,
Petticoat whistling 
Across the naugehyde under the headliner's
Yellowing dome,
Landing hard on the bench at my side
Bouncing on purpose
Twice or more
Tuned-in to fire 
Closer to the Galaxy's crazy
Cockeyed fins
And another way to make it all work.


To leave by car
One must enter the car.
The mystery ride.
A two-door life.
A life of two doors.
To climb that way
We hit the road, my darling young love,—
You and me when deep purple sang

And moonlight beamed across the window.

               for Madeline Valcourt
              Quequechan

-the science in geography-

The Earth is flat, as in
it has an edge.

Along its line this edge
is sometimes

moved to slowly bow
its headlands to weather,—

then its blade is drawn

to slice a land's end to the quick,
taking to sea. The long 
sphere of the Earth
is found at your back
sloping downward that way.

Stand at the edge of the Earth

and when you do, 

you'll know.






                the Heathlands, December / Wellfleet 

                for Jenny Cefaly and Josh D'Elia

              -The little park-  

             1.

             The young girls skipped singing 
             Across the playground

             And the swings rusted chains sang an agonizing  

             Song behind them. 

             An active intersection linked 
             The chain of neighborhood

             And the scent of warm baked bread and Wind-  

             Song perfumes ran wild through the air.  

             Stone of the city,

             Its infinite dimensions,

             Where bundles of sweltering cloth are sewn

             From the walls of quarried granite

             And the fruit from the vineyards of labor
             Poured
             Like common wine into the vessels of 
             Living.

             2.

             Forward into the snow-blue nights

             We drove our sleds through the treacherous  

             Turns of Snake-Hill Drive—

             Its cold invitation weaving its stimulus 
             Into our breaths.

             And we'd drive the hill down;—   

             The hill branching right from the steepest  

             Of the Avenues.

                                                 Quequechan

-four hours at the Del Rio Bar-

the spinning

in the middle of 

not moving

in the late afternoon

not knowing if its

dark or light

standing in front of something

behind everything else

with handles needed at my sides

knobs nearly at my fingertips

not yet at the wheel

plastics and glass

cheap upholstery

steel wrapped all around me,
air-waltzing key
struggling to find its slot of purpose,—

I'm ensconced in a wretched cocoon

a closed and rusting fly-trap thinking

I could get killed in this thing.

not one friend took the keys.

I almost fell twice.

they were left to the dangerous 
side of the bar

cheering for wolverines,

fucking crazy 

vicious little animals.

I feared not making it home

but falling to burning metal,
gasoline soaking the upholstery,

curious as to the funeral attitudes
as powder masked the purple

bruises on my head

and cement replaced my shattered teeth.

but if I did make it home,
wrecked sack of beer,
tasting the pasted coating of my tongue,

would I realize those like me,

the same as me——

the same—— 
that very afternoon
late of daylight moved to twilight,

who wouldn’t.

                    ann arbor