-1017 Requiem.
 For the hot-ticket with a quick nod to Pablo's "Autumn Testament"
 and to the York Clan of the Valley of the Seven Forks, Kentucky. (inverted.)

They’ll never publish

My regional observations

Let alone my socks.

But then another morning

And I’m busy at something

Which might amount to nothing.

It’s in the setting of the scene;

The rapid activity of the tenements,

What the entries, the connectors to everything

Have in store for us while moving in or out.

The Schwinn bicycles leaned on the pea-

Green paint where the plaster

Split at its ribs through the still of the night.

Inside, the immediate space-heater,

The brown-metal Sun of our planet

Warmed and waited,— expanding, contracting

Measuring the pulse of the population through
Season's and weather.

It’s nearly impossible to tell of it

Without exuberance warping the realities. 

It’s been lived-through without peer review.
Nobody's left to leaf through the pages.

And the choice has been to liquidate

Much of the assets of the here and now.

There’s a time limit on moving forward.

But the same mantel clock shows up,

The worn armrests of the living room
Holding the stale ashtrays,

The slap-happy wallpaper, running water
In the two rooms reserved for faucets, the frantic
Sounds of living in that place and the lingering aromas.

The first floor was the bedrock.

The Carocelli family looked to my father

From their perch on the second floor;

The nightly inquiries drifting downward

From the narrow stairway to knock at his door.

("strange how those on top look up
  to those on the bottom")

Not that he had all the answers at hand.—

But then again, the egg-man delivered
First to us and to that extent

The eggs were fresher,— the shells

Dotted with straw and chicken-shit

Still warm from the morning’s coops.

So, sure.—
For him, I’ll at least leave 'em laughing.

-the potatoes of Bedford Street-

she chose

the potatoes they wanted

with care from the open bins
of Maretti's neighborhood market,

placed them into brown paper bags
supplied to her

by the market’s proprietor

and by the time she arrived home
from the three-quarter block walk
along the first base line
and crossed the street at the ESSO station,

the bags appeared to be aged, worn out,

lost of their property to crease,

dusted by earth's properties—   in short,
taking on the outer elements of the sacked
potatoes within them.

potatoes are cloaked in the scent of earth

and when peeled, of water.

quartered, potatoes are cupped
in the palms of her hands and slipped

into waiting pots of water heating atop
the fierce-burning gas stoves. 

the miraculous, un-broked curl of the skins
are placed into the brown paper bags
from whence they came and disposed of.

the water is not yet boiling when

my mother moved around the crowded

kitchen counters continuing the process
of preparing the things yet to be completed.

this is the process followed

by her ancestors and will be followed
by her grandchildren.


                                Quequechan

-Bless me Father for I have, I assume, sinned-

Like my friends on the corner,
at the ballpark, opponents among us,

in the schoolyard with others of our kind,
same tenements in the same houses of the same city,
I’d lie about the prior week’s list in venial sins committed
in an effort to assuage my liability as I knelt inside the dank

confessional on Saturday mornings.

We were hellbent to lie, as we saw it as our duty
not to spill-the-beans to Priest and because we honestly
didn’t know what it was we did to offend God so grievously

that Heaven itself was placed in the balance.

"I abused myself three times".

It might have been twenty times during a slow week.

the admission of a three-time self abuser seemed to be
a more reasonable approach to an aggrieved God.

Besides, Priest seemed genuinely fulfilled with repeat engagements.

––– Was this self abuse confined to your own bed at night?

Yes, Father.

––– You know, you want to save yourself for marriage, don't you?

Yes, Father.

––– And this self abuse, did it come by your own hand?

Huh?

––– I mean,..this masturbation. Was it always your hand?

Umm..Yes, Father.

––– And how many times was this abomination perpetrated?

Three times, Father.  I also disobeyed my..

––– Let’s focus on this self abuse issue, shall we?

Yes, Father.

––– Now, confess to God in detail what it was that led you

to abuse yourself, William.

and I said unto them:
"Listen. He’s gonna ask how many times you did it.

We all gotta say Three times, okay"?

                                                                       Quequechan

                                                                       1951 / 1954

-The Busybody-

He's guilty of consumption.

The pages hold more than a few old stories,

And wanderings pause long enough

To be explored between periods of vacancy.––

Call him diarist on the days when

Occasional offerings insure safe passage.

But who can argue against smooth running?––

As to interiors beforehand, gaudy wallpapers told of love and death,

Of worry and great happiness —of bad taste, and great sorrow.

––The houseflies, belly-up at the windowsills

Are dead of natural causes:

Heatstroke, incoherent slamming and

The inability to exit the premises.–– 

He would argue: the swatter’s as natural a cause as any.––

Open the door, pick a window, any entry,
Any set of stairs, mantle, hallway, any bedroom.

Some say he's simply sleight-of-hand.––

Now you see him, now you think you've seen him.

A meddler into the affairs of others, the busybody's adrift

And snooping around.

Even the dead have surrendered their space of peace.

Living, some say he'd best be served by leaving everyone to their own interests.
He would argue: better to live among them than die along with them;

That it's best for all concerned when he's made up his mind at the table, but

(Kerouac,–– of eight, the third child of God, said:

"He is your friend, let him dream;

 He's not your brother, he's not yr. father,

 He's not St. Michael he's a guy".)

Inevitability points the way like a chromed ornament at the nub of a hood.

All there is to do is con the thing on a heading to a destination.––

He would argue:

One hand for the journey.
One hand for the poem.

                                    

-developments-

so my father was a salesman on the road.

It could be said it was his calling.

he could sell a bill of goods with one glad hand

while the other held tight to his ledger.

"You'll need 40 cases, Ron".
 (Ron went through 38 cases
 with an hour to go 'till closing.)

at the supper table

he was usually quiet and cool-headed.

at Sunday Mass he’d spend

his requisite hour seemingly unimpressed.

driving family to the beach,

to the amusement park or

standing at the fence near the backstop

with his old buddies watching

the little league games,

his attitude was smooth, unassuming and alluring.

they told me
I'm a chip off the old block.
just like the ol'man, they'd say.

from his hospital bed
long after visitors
walked away
to attend to their lives,

with whatever his thoughts,

in the cold-

blue of fluorescence,
with the sounds that rubber

wheels make on linoleum in the quiet night,

with the sounds of the implements in metal

and with the muted

voices of young women
nursing the third shift
wafting in from the corridor

he’d lie in wait for daylight,— waiting

for the angel cloaked in black to show-up,

readying himself to make the sale of his life.
it could be said
it was his calling.