-Columbus park proverb-

measure the beauty of the maple

from her leather flats
to the top of her head.

what's left is a tree.

-hill and gully riders-

from the steepest hilltop

ready the pedals

then push a few

around their hubs

coasting downward
faster
faster

pedals in line

with their wheels—

faces near touching

the handlebars

close to a kiss—

the spokes of the wheels

stinging the atmosphere

like hornets—

downward
the riser
upward the riser
downward
the riser again and again

the hill and gully riders
hold fast
to the grips— 
eyes to the bars
strong to the wind they make—
ready the pedals break

locking the drive-chains
fast at the rolls of the cuffs—

the tires rubber-striping the tarmac
of Snake-

Hill Drive—  the lancers
vibrating as if in a struggle for breath
the busy

cross-street cutting through at the drop
at the end of the run and we stop.

and then

and then at our sides

we walk the bikes up
for another run down.

-click here for archives-

the archives reported

note-worthy historical events:

the great fires igniting from the rotting oil-

soaked floors of the monumental

granite structures of the textile mills;—

the fires of the hill-topping steepled churches;

the priest’s proclamations and the testament's

prophesy of ashes to dust;—

the overpowering strength in construction

of the through-truss bridge

spanning the heavy water of the river;—

the laying of foundations for the brick

and mortar housing project where the dark-
haired island beauties would find
themselves behind its narrow windows;—
the steam-shoveled soil and stone

filling-in the pit of the slicing granite
ledge whose deep still-water sucked

the life out of some of us;— the hurricane winds

and rising waters

and the Narrows fresh-water ponds receding

to their bed-rocks at the face of the struggling

pumping station.

but no record of the bikes peddling

fast across its locked
iron doors toward the dense and beautiful
Reservation;

no listing of the fierce

spiked line-ups assembled against us;

not one pitch to be found recorded;

nothing of the base hit dribbled

between second and first advancing the base-
runner to third;

the stance on the bag as if routine

and nothing of the mouth of the girl

at the trunk of the tree

at the close of the ninth.

-First hurricane-

Carol’s floodwater moved upward.

Its rainfall was subsiding

But the sewers at the dip on Bedford Street
Between Oak Grove and Quarry 
Were not receiving, belching sewer-stuff

Adding to the slick of stagnating wastewater.

Inside, three kids are sitting in the middle
Of the living-room rug
Protected from shattering glass
Giving them a near uninterrupted

Line of sight to the over-filled candy dishes
Their mother laid-out on every available

Level surface of the house.

In drier times, Bedford was the street to cross
To get to the ballpark, the bakeries
And the always waiting-for-something church
Rising behind left field.

In drier times, Bedford was a rung on the ladder.
It made sense for us to cross it and for the drivers
Of cars to run eastward
And westward making their way to work
Or the unemployment office.

Street games were played on quieter Healy Street
Running parallel to Bedford
Which cut between the backyard fence
And Rachlin’s Junkyard.

But as Carol’s youthful exuberance became full-throated

The elders rounded the kids up to sit on the rug

In the middle of the parlor where crossing strips
Of masking tape covered the windows like lamb’s-
Blood warding off the wrath of God.

Outside, Carol died-down with a last

Lick of her tongue
And her water receded.


Inside, our father, struggling for better reception,
Pressed cocoons of aluminum foil
To the tips of the rabbit-ears as our mother
Contributed to the calming atmosphere
Readying pots of water for the stove and tending
To the near-emptied candy dishes.

                                                     Quequechan

   

-if you went to the little store-

If you went to the little store

the one on the corner

the one red-painted with bigger

windows than you had in your house,

where the sign reading "Cigarettes" with a big,

tubular, filter-tipped beauty

glowing red at its tip, veil of seductive

smoke, pure white, curling upward

intrigued every time;

the store where one day the kid from 1021
crossed the street from the park to ask
old man Marretti if he could use the toilet and was told
to "go piss behind the billboards like everybody else"—

the store where the scent of cold-cut meats
and vinegar permeated the air where the flies last landings

were preserved on the entrails
of a more contemporary application in amber
and compartments gleaming with packs of fresh Lucky Strike

longed to link-up with the fatal passions of your father;
"he said he'll pay you next week"—
but you're far too busy with the goings on
of your daily requirements with no time allotted
to consider such encounters in triviality as in "going to the store"—
well, this poem is not for you.

                                                       Quequechan

-the Port winemaker-

before you were measured for a new

suit of lacquered pine;

when your liver was still moist with medicine

and weighed overhead;

and the tubes were readied to flow

when the valves

opened-up to the stainless-

steel sinks

and the tapes rolled quietly

from the back of the room capturing sounds
of the final business of you—

and the guy in Kansas gets an eye

from someone else,

somebody a lot younger than you, old-timer

and nothing left is stored away in a vat
of smoking nitrogen

awaiting the time to come for you to paint
your masterpiece,— 
but only that which was tagged

with the name we gave to them,
the name you lived with now reserved
for quick disposition.

and the tag's removed from its tie around the toe

of the only foot you had left, Grandfather,

and that’s it.

-early east coast morning-

as to the outside and the inside

of still and running water;—

the movements inward and outbound;

finding stability in the back-step;

It’s what was expected

negotiating the crazy arithmetic.

let’s unfurl the sheets, turnkeys of the sensibilities.

let’s run the machinery.

the saltwater pulls toward itself

rushing from the heels of our feet;

It finds the sand-clenched toes; spits-up

at the ankles and licks the kneecaps

in its eagerness to return to us.

as to the river, it will run tomorrow

flexing its muscle;

choosing a mood for its face.

let's splash the night-skies across our dry eyes,
leaving tidbits of planets behind
for the astrologist to play with.

as to standing water on the inside and the outside,

it continues its relentless anticipation.

as to the west coast; it sleeps while awaiting its turn
to take a stab at it all.