-First light-

Pulling the chain opened the floodgates

Inhaling wastewater from the bowl.

Then the evening incandescence
Was orange-tinctured as the skin
Of the white girls

At Horseneck Beach in early August.

This was the place

Where the 78s turned 33,
Turned 45 and the doors blew open.

In this house the sweet
Scent of leaded

Gasoline from the ESSO station

Folded layer on layer into the simmering
Pot on the gas-stove burner
Attended to like an infant.

In the dark early morning

Under deep snow-cover

We wake-up to the news of the school
Cancellations.

It's a different kind of dark
Than the darkness of night;
The window's blue at the bed's wrinkled foot

And the light of the lamps is filtering through.

Now the early morning rooms glow orange-
Tinctured from the incandescent lamps;
Different than nightlight;— opening not closing

And I hear the cornerstones of family speaking
Softy in the kitchen.

                                        Quequechan

-another side of the interiors-

There was something exotic

In crawling under the bed

As deeply into the corner
As the wall permitted

During those rare times when

It wasn't necessary;—

Something otherworldly

To the explorations, crouch-walking,
Enclosed by spider-webbed lattice

Under the porch which smelled like
A primordial muck where the first

Forbidden discoveries were made.

There was something in realizing
For the first time that I had the ability

To purchase the things reserved for adults
Over the counter inside the corner variety store

Without being questioned about permission;—

An enormity of consequence
When the first night fell

And my younger brother

Was told to go to bed

As my older sister sat stunned
On the rug at the television anxiously

Staring in my direction

As they passed me by to get to him

As they once passed her

To get to me, ignoring my pleas

As they now ignored his;—

There's something in the covert invasion;

The first exploration through the drawers
Of her crowded dresser, finger-tipping layers
With unanswered questions. Everything,—

Every thing adding its piece, connecting
The puzzle, navigating distance;
The destination through uncharted,

Silken waters.

                                 Quequechan

-the Bride-

Loring Studio.

    The place in town
        For the best in bridal portraiture.

There, she'll sit as still
As a knick-knack in porcelain ––

The fold of a gown drapes

To barely touch the floor.

Her hair is tightly fixed with decoration
And she sits quietly, unaccustomed to the rigidness
Of portrait studio photography.

She knows only the captured
Activities of the snapshot

Documenting the vitality of life on the run,

Life on the fly,
    Life for laughs,
       Good-times at the beach,

A life for running
Fast with the boys
Behind the tailgates of the drenched
Summer trucks for a chunk of ice.

Loring Studio paints
    An air-brushed rose
        To her cheeks;

Moves her natural beauty back
For the sake of tincture.

The day will come
When her eldest son Will come to speak of this image

Posting it to an over-populated
Social space of his own time.

-the first one from long, long ago- 

read it again
the way you used to

quick and young on a bench of wood, the sunlit

window warming the goldilocks

at "Mark's Coffeehouse" twixt State & Maynard, the blood-
colored sleeve at the palms of your hands. who was it said
"porcelain"? certainly not me,–– pious 
hipsters unravelling hair and attitudes all around you.

read it again
the way you did

inside the barroom on West Liberty

those early Saturday mornings
before we opened the door to madness.

read it again
from the back of its sleeve blood-colored

nearing the banks of the Huron, the quiet

end of its winter; "within you without you"

beginning from your mouth warm-blooded.

'69, '70? (1997)

-League-

It’s beautiful when it’s right

And it happens at the beginning.

That’s when you whack the dirt

At the circle from your spikes
With the cup of the bat

And draw the Cross in the dust
With the knob, lingering so Jesus won’t miss it.

So what if you’re small of stature?

So what if you can’t hit a liner over the infield?

Coach sets himself off the third base line,
Drops a glove on the right side of his box;

Pinches the brim of his cap with his fingers;

Touches his nose with a graceful fingertip,
His chin, both sides of his cheeks;

Sweeps the Holy Rosary name across his jersey

From left to right with the palm of his hand,
Rubs both his sleeved arms down,
Flashing signs like the Big Leaguers do

And through it all, through the lightning

Subterfuge of the active signs,

His right foot stands like a stone behind the glove

Directly at your line of sight from the plate.
Glove, then foot.

That’s bunt.

It’s what you do best.

Nothing else matters. Glove, then foot behind it.

Gino Dinucci, coach of the Holy Rosary
Baseball team of the CYO League of Fall River
Cuts a beautiful figure at the box on third

As he flashes his signs.

So what if the skin of his face
Looks like sandpaper?
So what if his belly drapes over his belt?

So what if you're small of stature?

So what if you can’t hit a liner over the infield?

It's you and coach in the poem of baseball
Where the sign says bunt.

And maybe if Jesus sees the sign in the dust
From the on deck circle, you'll beat it out.

                                               Quequechan

-first the hamper-

in the morning

in the middle of Healy

in the middle of Bowl-a-Wicket,

a street game played with pinkies,

broomsticks, empty cans

of every description, but

about the same size,
10 per team, stacked in pyramids,

3 guys on a side
and with chalk-drawn circles of the same
diameter around the cans. but,
stay with me,

the open window at the first floor

of my house, facing the backyard street

whose line was empty of cloth, distracted

so as to make me lose my concentration

to the  immediate detail of the game

that had me standing at the home-end
of the cans, broomstick ready,

at the west-end fence of old-man

Rachlin’s Junkyard, facing,
about 60 feet away, the same array
of stacked cans on Healy toward Quarry

at Rachlin’s open gate to the east,
and 3 opposing players.

simply, the pitcher throws the pinky to the hitter.

the hitter hits the pinky.

now here’s the thing:

once the pinky is hit,
the hitter runs to the opposing

stack of cans as the other team
shags the pinky.
stay with me.

as they shag, the hitter-turned-runner
tags-up at the chalked-circle of the opposing
stack of cans,
he can't knock them down,

and runs back toward the stacked
cans of home.

a good hit means a run back
to the opposing stack,
tag-up in the chalked circle
and run to the cans of home again,

repeating as often as the runner has the chance.

each tag-up to each circle chalked around
the stack of cans, is one point.

It’s the job of the opposition
to retrieve the pinky

and as the hitter-turned-runner runs,
relay the pinky

to his mates, one of them throwing the pinky,

breaking the pyramid of cans stacked at home
before the runner
can tag the circle of chalk, thus
ending his run of points.

here’s the thing.

earlier in the morning
I was told to take my dungarees

off an put them in the hamper because
she said: “They’re filthy.”

they were.

but they were also broken-in, light in weight
and playable

because they’re runnable.

the new dungarees she had me wearing
were stiff,

unyielding and blue as a waxy Crayola.

now I’m up.
across the street,

the window’s open to the line.

half my eyes see emptiness.

half my brain is at the open window of the line.
half my desire is dying with me in the hamper.

a good hit has me running
to the cans at Rachlin's gate.
I'm fast. but not this morning.
this morning I'm running
like fatso Freddie Dagada
in dungarees more suitable to standing tents
than to running legs.
half-way back, the cans of home are hit
and spilled on the craggy-tar face of Healy Street
with force by the pinky, thrown fast
by the ear, and then

through the first floor open window,—
the screech of the pulley;
the push of the line at the hands of my mother,
the wave in the wet, the pinned soft material,—
stay with me,— and the longing
for tomorrow waiting on the ropes.


                                     quequechan 

-Couplet for Angela and the Egg-man -

Tenement living.

First floor tenement living.

The benefits are transcendent 

And the benefits are transparent.

The stairs are there for visiting upstairs.

The upstairs neighbors visit
By descending them and knocking at our door.

The kids are always screaming for their way.

Their mothers are reluctant to give way to them.

The water’s heating on the stove for something.

Then something is prepared with the water.

The pots of water are poured in the tub

Or else, the stiff spaghetti is dropped in the water.

She stirs the spaghetti

As she stirs the heavy soups
And thickening polenta.

Nothing is needed to stir the bath.

But the same pots are used to heat the water.

Outside, next door, Angela has hung
Her wash to dry in the sun

And she feels them

By walking along the line

Grasping the material, releasing, grasping,
Along the line as it catches its breath
From the weight of the water.

She walks the line of material from window to pole

Testing material hanging on the line
Drying in the sun.

This is something that can only be done
When testing the wash of the first floor.

Inside, the egg-man delivers two dozen
Then climbs the stairs to the second floor.

                                                        Quequchan

-after the rain-

the rain came fast and

the heavy winds from the northeast

had it angled sharply to the southwest.

it was a downpour

and everything was drenched.

it lasted only a minute or two

but that was enough to ruin

anything outside that belonged inside. 
then the floodwaters rolled

into the swallowing sewers

and the rush of crap passed in a line

pushed by the river of the gutter,

trapped like flotsam at the transom.

the natural shingles

of the street-side wall

of the house across the street

was blotched

in large areas of wetness.

I looked long and hard at this house

inventing pictures in the contrasts

the way lovers do with cumulous clouds

laying on their blankets at the picnics
so I mapped-out the face of Jesus.

first the long matted hair, then

the closely-placed eyes, the long nose
and then the narrow mouth,

then the scraggly beard, a crown of thorns

and lastly, the little drops of blood.

maybe the pilgrims will follow

walking on their knees

to the wall where jesus showed-up.

but I saw it first,

just after the rain.

-history in short bursts-

He grew-up with specific information at hand
Prescribed by parental prerogatives,

Local geography and the geography of the interiors.

He processed this information through the years
Of his early life, endeavoring to one day define it.

The procedure was unlike his formal schooling

With its constant crankiness and aloofness;

With its threats and prescriptions for neutrality.

The ancient mariner he had an affinity to

Was his Uncle Frank who took him to his smack

And they slow-motored across the muddy-

Bedded still-waters of Fog Land, then back to the banks

Where they dug for clams through the muck, ankle deep

With their bare feet.

But he liked the nonsense running through the corridors.

But he liked the interesting nuisance in the back row.

But he liked the stars at night,

The openness of the parks;

Hopping the fences for inspired reasons;

The immediate feel of the ball on the bat.

He liked the soft-

Brimmed fedora of his father on its evening hook,—

The keys and pocket ledger on the evening table and the closing

Exhaustion of them.

His school was not prepared for these elements.

He grew-up with the scent of gasoline all around him.

Gasoline from the overpowering nozzles

Of Whitey’s Esso across the street;

From the drag strip's wide-open carburetors of route 24;

Gasoline in the atmosphere from the greasy

Uniforms of the attendants sitting at the crazy lunchtime counters

Of the stainless diner at the base of the Avenue;

From the Junkyard when old man Rachlin

Emptied its useless tanks;

Gasoline from the old, tear-dropped Evinrude

Cradled at the stern of the smack on the dark
Standing waters of Fog Land.

Gasoline before it was sissified.

Inside his house, the sweet-

Acid scent of tomato sauces all but nullify it.

He should have paid more attention in school.

He should have been less easily distracted.

                                                    Quequechan