-my black heaven-

In 1953

a Buick Roadmaster

fell from the sky.

It landed

four wheels down

by the gutter at the sewer

in front of the house.

It rested there in the evenings

across the street from the park
and Whitey's Esso station.

on Saturday mornings, its wide

white-walled tires blocked

the bouncing baseballs

from dropping into the gaping

mouth of the sewer.

the Roadmaster drank heavily

from the hi-test pumps

facing the house from the north

and when called-upon laid

a familiar drunk from Club Marconi

down to nap on its benchseat
before his aproned better-half

could get her hands on him.

The Roadmaster, 4-door sedan
was the crown-jewel
of the neighborhood’s fleet

and two years running was chosen
to roll behind the open flower-cars

in the solemn funeral processions.

It went 70 miles an hour, felt like 30,

on Route 6 east toward the beaches

before the skulking Ford-clad cops knew what hit ‘em.

It guzzled gasoline, lead-spiked,

sparking the plugs driving the pistons

before its leaded muscle was considered
a crime against the planet;

It parted the onrushing wind with the great

nub of its hood;
sneered at on-comers with the heavy

chrome-plated fangs of its grille 

and gave comfort to the weeping nieces

far enough removed by blood from consideration
to the Parlor’s Cadillac Limousine list.
It brings home the bacon.

It delivers the drunks to their sneering wives.
It drinks from the pulse at the fire of lead.
It restoreth my soul and it fell from the sky.

-Arm of the sea-

Daylight shimmers in the green-
Eyed houseflies from their squatting
Positions on the screen-door

Facing the street and the ballpark.

Inside, where the food is prepared,

The swatters, made of the same wire-mesh
Moved like a featherweight's jab.

Water changes everything.

On the early evening banks of the river

We'd walk among the the crumbling
Granite-blocks, remnants of long-lost
Structures, the rusted cables protruding from stone,
Agonizing the atmosphere; The red-

Bricked housing project below the hill
Rising strong at her back where the dark-

Haired beauties of Sao Miguel fabricated
Their surreptitious plans for the night
At the face of the cold inquisitions of their fathers.

Fall River girls 
Skin of the olives
Dropped from the Azores.

The catholic schoolgirl friends of my sister entered,
Readying themselves for dancing that night.

Wind Song, Faberge, and dabs
Of their mother's wicked Tabu,
The scent of oranges and spanish spices,
Blending softly with kitchen aromas of

Tomato, cloves of garlic, onion and olive-oil,
Romantically filtered through the atmosphere.
  
Outside to the west, below the hill
A bike ride away at the banks of the river,

The dark-haired beauty of Harbor View
Number 17 Northwest, would be waiting.

                                                        Quequechan

-The greasy pole-

The purpose of the Greasy-Pole is singular:

to prevent a challenger from reaching its top.

Holiday—

and the Greasy-Pole stands straight-up

at 30 feet or thereabout

and near its peak hang from their anchors

tantalizing meats in bulky form—

a rounded cheese of the provolone strain 

housed neatly in its safety net

and assorted trinkets tacked on the pole

nearly half-way up

defined as "grab-bags" as consolation
to the weak-of-heart, muscle and determination. 

But the Sun and Sky and Dreams align 

at the greasy-pole's tip, for standing thereon

is placed a starchy little American flag

and tightly wrapped around its staff, a crisp 

one hundred dollar bill,—— 

the staff dramatically pierced into a fat, tubular

whole salami.

                                         -Columbus Day Celebration

                                          Columbus Park, Fall River

In 1959, Dominic Petrucci scaled the greasy-pole,

seized the salami with its flag and one hundred
bucks in tow and triumphantly descended the heights
to great celebrations, and quietly moved-on to continue
his only life.

Mr. Petrucci, known locally as "K.O."
resided alone 

in a third-floor tenement across from
the Marconi Club where his father
took near permanent residence,
graduated from high school,
served in the United States Navy,
was medically discharged,
returned to his hometown,
took menial jobs here and there,
hung-out at the neighborhood's
active watering hole which
his father bequeathed to him
and in October, went to the Park,
worked his way through the madding crowd
to center field and there, struggled to hold on
but ascended the Greasy-Pole, then descended it,
arm-locking the great salami and clutching
the little starchy american flag with a 'hundred dollar bill
wrapped tightly around its narrow staff.

Dominic Petrucci briefly drove for the "Vet's Safety Cab" Company 

and died soon after at thirty two of heart failure from chronic
liver disease directly attributed to alcohol abuse

in his bed, no more than half-a-block from where
the Greasy-Pole stood defiantly before him,
where the people there cheered him in great celebration,
and where the whole of his life as in its last breath,
disappeared from the mouth of the city of his birth
along with his singular accomplishment, all save here.


                                                    Fall River, Massachusetts


                                                  

                                         

                                                            

                                                          

                                              

  

-the Schwinn at 24 inches-

It leans against the entry wall
as he sleeps, when he's eating,
or when people are coming over
and he's required to be in the house
in case they ask questions.

the wall's plaster is painted toilet-green,

is cracked-open in places like the x-ray
of a ribcage and the flakes of its slats drift
and settle to dust its seat.

sensational girl rides the rail—
legs from her dress
drape the side outward,

the rail-side to weather,

daring the chain-guard
challenging the onslaught—

hair blown
from her face to his face

her hands
on his hands at the grips

as much as dancing, it was dancing.

coast the hillside down to the red-

bricked house,
the Project's last stand at the banks of the river,—
house outside like all of them
house inside like no other
bicycle breaking toward the water.

thread the glove through,
drape the spikes over, peddle fast
to the ballpark,— his ballpark in waiting
an uphill ride to the east
and a little bit north to his neighborhood.

                                                  from 1017

-bestiary -

on the rug, the new dog

raised its empty head
and squatting hollow-eyed

in the strain of its circumstance

looked like a meditator
of the spiritual world—

like the Pope at the first
crack of pistol fire—

like Benito nodding pompously

cross-armed upon his balcony—

like ditzy Bernadette kneeling
at the foot of her burning bush—

like the passive wildebeest
trapped in the jaws

clamped at its throat
on the great savanna 
a moment before

I whacked it on the head

with a rolled-up National
Geographic.