hitting the "nigger pool"

-hitting the "nigger pool"-

the neighborhood was woven tightly
in a tough, italian-guy rhetoric
in attitude and language where
the mouth spoke rapidly and hand-
gestures accentuated
points of importance dynamically,
fast and furiously deliberate,
like an army at your face.
here was the place
where Italian women did for their men,

did for the kids,— where parents

and grandparents lived an arm’s-

length apart, where in our house a hand’s-

width would do.

the gas stove flamed by sulphur-

headed matches

and anthracite was down-chuted

to bins which fed the exagerated plaster-
cased furnace squatting in the cellar.

later, heating oils from contained vessels

fueled the space-heater, saturating

the tenement atmosphere
in the scent of petroleum,
the interior's scent of winter, shingled
in asbestos.

here was a sense of propriety where
one toilet served the crowded populous

and the solitary television standing
in the useable parlor was enough
to set the parameters of the extreme.

street-side, folding money was the lifeline

and the young men took pride in dropping

their hard-earned wages into the hands
of the neighborhood bagman working the small-
time hood's weekly "nigger pool."

in this place, food was a fresh-baked
fundamental bread from the baker's ovens
a stone's-throw away;

it was sugar, salted meats, potatoes and peppers
and LaRosa spaghetti, cracked from the box— 

where tomato sauces were prepared

as Mother Earth prepared for sunlight,

as grapes were prepared on the vines
tangled beneath the durable

cloth of the working-class, air-drying

on lines of rope pulleyed window to pole
and pulleyed back.
street-side, the rain-puddles evaporated
with the scent of metal rising from them
and the ballpark was active with the scent
of gasoline running through it.

later in the week, a lucky corner-dweller
would collect his winnings in cash money
and his name resonated across the neighborhood,
lofting his commonness to an exalted position.

inside, the hand-kneaded, fork-pressed
dough of the ravioli were laid to stiffen
overnight on laundered sheets,
their backsides flour-
sprinkled like pampered, infant italians.

                                                       Quequechan

   

   

-when love dies-

when love dies 

its history is noted, if noted, as a cold

and dry space;— an echo

in the dead of a moonless winter's night.

when love ends

it staggers backward, flat-footed
as if hit by a frozen fist,—

as something to be flushed-out,
ambushed, knocked-down,

where nothing, not an ember
of its early fire is left 
to lay quietly on the heart.

why such a fatal dance?

when love dies it dies with a sharp crack, 

or an awkward carelessness at the tips

of ballpoint pens.
love’s end moves, if it moves, in a punch-

drunk waltz.

love’s death lays upon the altar

bloodied by the sacrifice.

This is the page frozen in love's closing,
when its memory should be worth something,
not simply thrown to the ash heap when the fire is snuffed.

-preparatory: waiting on the second prologue-

1.    morning breaks as notations

from the night before are gathered.

those to reconsider are readied to be considered

as those to be disposed of are disposed of.

look out from the windows.

look out at what's happened.

2.    who am I to populate the space

where my childhood friends once lingered?

by what authority do I intrude?

maybe I'm the one not busy enough.

maybe I'm the one who attends to that

which is best left unattended.

3.    I've run headlong into moments 

they've chosen to leave unresolved in their wakes.

could be they've deliberated

other points of view at their tables.

maybe I'm the one they've chosen

who refuses not to keep us living.

                   

               

-No club, Lone wolf /  Requiem

I'd like to think

I had one more of something worthy left in me.

the goods I stashed
beneath the dank, primordial porch
I leave to those of you who appreciate
the solitary recesses in life.

I wanted to be, but failed to be,
a genuine practitioner of rebellion,
transcending mere disobedience, 

to drive a fast machine at a slow,
rumbling pace, cruising the drag
north to the Ponta Delgada, then south
to the China Royal, then north again,
a naked arm extending a blood-colored elbow
from the open window, a duck's ass oiled in place,
the hot-rodder's plaque swinging beneath
a gleaming bumper proclaiming:

"No Club. Lone Wolf".

the scent of olive-oil
I once rubbed deeply into the pocket
I leave to the sensibilities of the left fielders.

the kickstand's resistance

at the inside arch of my early morning foot
I leave to those among you
who recognize the unique tactility in the procedure.

I leave behind another chance at one more time
and wait. are those my socks?

christ,
they've packed my socks.

-Captain Midnight-

Let's begin.

Tonight I'll walk to the clearing between

The chicken coop and the grapevine.

Stars seem better there.

Nothing clinical,— just to look, to breathe them in.

I'm told it's my birthright, that I was born from such a place.

––Closer to home the Moon is a quick
Scythe's blade turning in on itself.

But me? I'm outbound into the spinning pin-

Wheel’s barb where hydrogen hunts me down,

Where the dense neutrons pulsate and gas giants bob 

Lighter than helium, into the veil’s breathless exposition;

The Dipper pouring from its cup's limitless capacity.

––Outbound, where Pollux is a drop of Cephei,

Where Cephei is a drip of V-Y Canis spit,

Where the weight of density is yet to be calculated.

There's a great romance to the great unknown.

––Homeward, the late-night guy across the street amuses me,

Walking his mutt for one last piss,— the hydrant, tenaciously
Sniffed at its foothold near the gutter.
Tonight I've walked outside to be among the stars, at one

With the deepest unreachable stars, and those unreachable

Nearest to where I stand,–– the cold among the burned,
The born among the dying in the endlessness of my neighborhood.

From beyond the backyard at 1017 / c. 1953

-blizzard-

seems like half the tree

has ripped off from the rest of itself

falling near the stone wall at the street.

It was a late-night landing,

the crack of it joining the cacophony

of shattering, thunderous thumps,

whistles ranging over the stave, straining

at their highest pitch,—

alarms in all directions at last necessitating
some degree of attention. 

the blizzard lost its intensity

toward early morning

and in the sunlight, readings of its ferocity

map-out what there is to do.

the winds were at their peak

just after the midnight hour

the only power available is the wind,

here in the dark howling, deep into night,

bleak as the lost confessionals,—

alone for the first time since the death

a few weeks earlier of my mother,

in her bedroom, in her bed, in her sleep,—

safe, without discomfort, unafraid and at 96,

gave pause for reflection;— to be at one

with the fierceness of the storm,

alone in the midst of the wind, receding.

                                                 2/9/13 

-Volunteer in Service to America-

when the slopped hogs grunt
at five in the morning
and the scent
of atmosphere unsettles
in the thick
fat-cracking bacon

and it’s dark outside

near dark as night

in the state of New Mexico
a square-
shaped dusty planet,
where scorpions roam and cling,

natural here, —

this place where slate-grey
the sun-bleached
skulls of the animals show-up
half-buried in the sand-crags
among the slimwood and soaptree yucca.

and it's commonplace
to see the rattles cut from its snake
resting as a child's toy on the kitchen table

and it won’t make the monthly
mimeographs. 

but in the morning when the flat-
bottomed tub's been prepared,
Trudy from Mack, Colorado steps in,—

two plops from her feet and then

the sound as drenched as falling water.

across the hallway, the kids

are laughing in the early kitchen
in the midst of the stove's fatty crackle
in this place like no other,—
as dry, as drenched, as sleepy and dreadful,
the place like no other
and it's all supposed to be that way.

                                    Jemez Pueblo 1969

                                

-observation in '53-

crinoline. the moon's metal

can't claim to be as stiff.

the ribs form its shape

but at the opening, incandescent

lamplight softens its posture.

and then the knee rises to free itself,

the golden tresses unfurl and the sea lifts.

I'm saying the sea lifts.


 of the blonde bombshell, Beverly Greenwood stepping from her petticoat

           

            

-of the done-for

what life will amount to

lies in the reading of the eulogy.

it can go in many different directions

depending upon who is chosen to read it

and what has been chosen to be read.

the casket may be closed and

the church will be sparsely populated

with family members closing tightly

in the front pew to the right

and a few friends scattered out into

about seven pews moving toward the back,

maybe two or three or as little as one per pew.

a solitary young woman in black

will play a violin standing behind the casket.

she’ll perform a fast song slurring notes slowly,

interpreting “Whole Lotta Shakin’” as if it was drunk.

then, then,.. then I think a child will be yapping

in one the pews toward the back.

its voice is low-keyed but reverberating

in the walled spaciousness of the interior.

the mother is shushing it out of respect.

it’s warm. I believe it’s summertime, and

the doors are open.

traffic can be heard on the streets outside

and an occasional horn is honking for somebody

to come down from the third floor
across the street.

I’m looking at the inclusion of myself

in the poems of the dead.

I’ll have a niche between Healy
and Bedford;

between the Granite Quarry

and the Waterworks of the Narrows,
the great fesh-water Watuppa Ponds
of the ranging Reservation

and the active Housing Projects at the banks

of the river where at twilight, the Sun set.