-into the eyes of Elaine San Marcos-

navigating the drenched corneas 

the pupils of her eyes are black.

there’s a silvered corona circling

these black pools which are deep,

translucent, which are salted,—

whose salt is outwardly transported.

I imagine sailing alone

black pool to black pool,—

uncharted, weatherly, the one star-

gazer left on the water.

-let’s go to the movies. better, the drive-in-

there weren’t many grown men

at the Plaza on South Main

on Saturday afternoons.

but at the low wall
behind the last row

the swinging door read “Men”.

we'd go inside anyway.

the state of the urinals were
what one would expect

in a house such as this.

not a mother in sight to help straighten-up.

whatever could go wrong

had already gone wrong at the Plaza.

the south-end girls

were as frequent there

as the east-side girls were

at the Strand on Pleasant Street.

It’s just that the Strand

was cunningly underhanded,

while the Plaza was an asylum—

a training ground for the absurdities
in extreme juvenilia.

a little later in life while watching

“Psycho” with Bernadette

at the “Westport Drive-In” on Route 6,
the palm of my hand
was where I thought it belonged

when the film split at the fourth
shriek of screams
behind the curtain's waterside
and the towering screen flickered and died.

immediately, the horns began to wail,
demanding a resolution.
first, four or five,
then twenty to thirty or more

and although bernadette was preoccupied

with fending me off, the brake

in the film's momentum caught her off-guard
and the cacophony of the impatient car dwellers
frozen at the precipice of their slopes was enough
to distract her from my advances.

It was only for a moment, before her
defensive fortifications were reestablished.

but it was unlike any moment of frenzy at the Plaza
and certainly unlike any moment at the cunning, sleepy-eyed Strand.

                                               Fall River

                                  

-one in every port-

to thee I sing

the dear departed

to all the living departed

to some among
the old relations

to one
gas station proprietor

three
variety store proprietors

the scowling
school teachers
the young
cousin draped in the silver
holiday shift
split at the hem
high enough above
the knee
to keep the dark
night's interior lit up 
no boss

no politician

no principal
no priest

every pet
Brinkley
more than Huntley
one salesman on the road
one hat-
band stitcher,—

to those who wore the five-

fingered glove

to every girl

through every dance

most every woman

most every friend, —

to all
the incorrigible
boys leaning
the schoolroom chairs
against

the coatroom walls

and to all the young
bike riders
who can still be heard
from beyond the fences

to thee I sing.

-the "no school" post script-

It wasn’t simply

not having to go to school.

It was not having to sit

through arithmetic—

not having to sit

through geography—

not having to be

confronted by Antoine Leo

for my lunch money.

It was not having

to beg Virginia Fox

to keep her mouth shut, —

not having to raise my hand

to simply be allowed to take a piss.

it was not having to humiliate myself

for the sake of social communion 

in volunteering to beat the chalk

out of their damned erasers.

It was about being free
for one sweet day under snowfall
of the requirement to call them

Miss or Mrs. or Mr.

all through their wretched day.

                  under snowfall / Fall River Public Schools

-another one for the one true Joyce-

it might be true

that I walked 

across the street

to the ballpark.

It could have been

that I danced

the crowded floors
at the connector of Franklin

and Anawan.

it may also be true

that I passed

the tangled grapevines

on my way to the fence

and the junkyard's
fascinations.

sure,

I may have

peddled my bike

to the treacherous

cliffs of the granite quarry

crossing the meadow 

growing fiercely
behind the billboards.

but I went to the river.
It’s true

I went to the river.

I travelled

east to west

to get there passing
everything I knew.

I peddled
below the hill
swiftly and westward

so I’m saying

I went to the river.

                       Quequechan

-no school-

awakening to the dead

of winter— then

the side of the green
shade drawn to darkness—

the space-heater's drift

you can hear it clicking
you can smell it
the heat of metal— the scent
of a sweet
kerosine on fire.

when it’s dark at the early-
winter morning's hour

when school closings
are reported over the radio
and the house-lamps are lit—
different than lamplight
through the rooms of evening—
and kitchen voices are muted
and warmth from the space-

heater folds like a finishing wave
and you feel it from your bed
and you hear it and smell it—

when half-asleep is still asleep
and you know
you don’t have to do
anything
or go anywhere


                    in Fall River at 9 years

                                     
              

-two seats at the glass-

three months following

our break-up and here we are

at the supermarket.

are you still holding our Bruins

hockey tickets, seats at the glass, at the blue line.
the Red Wings are in town, those crazy bastards!

you know, it wasn't long ago we walked

head-strong into the clamorous openings of our early days,

same as our friends who'll be going to the Garden tomorrow.

now I see you've stopped

preparing the things I like.

looks as if your shopping cart

belongs to someone else —

some guy who'll be watching the game on television

drinking Bud Light, for christsake!

it's good to see you.
you look wonderful.— but

about those tickets —
you won't be going to the hockey game, will you?

                              



                                     


                                    

                                       

-too early for poem-writing-

the mirror hits the spot

for the young with a quick
last glance on the run —

it serves the aging
morning-groomers

prepping before the fall.

the mirror

confuses the senses

of cats

and last week, the parakeet

flew into it with a dull,

sickening thud as if

he'd had enough.

children often seem

puzzled by the mirror

as they neither appear to like
what they see nor dislike

what they see— and the blankness

of their expressions are instructive

as it goes that way with me sometimes,
either in presenting the articles
of surrender to its hard-hearted reflection
or simply moving on with a last

splash of warm water to my face. 

-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 on Saturday mornings, its wide

white-walled tires blocked

the street-bounding foul balls

from dropping into the gaping

maw of the treacherous sewer.

the Roadmaster drank heavily

from the hi-test pumps

of Whitey’s ESSO

facing the house from the north

and when called-upon laid down

a familiar drunk from "Club Marconi"

(a stale scent to remember)
behind the great billboards,
to sleep-it-off on the breadth
of its overpowering backseat

before the poor guy's better-half
could get her hands on him.

The glistening, black Roadmaster
was documented as a "company car"
loaned to my father in gratitude
for an exemplary on-the-road sales record;––

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 80 miles an hour (felt like 30)

on Route 6 east toward the beaches

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

It guzzled gasoline, lead-spiked,

sparking the plugs driving the pistons

in a time before its leaded muscle was tamed by statute.

It parted the onrushing wind with the massive

nub of its hood, sneering at on-comers
with the heavy chrome-plated fangs of its grille 

and gave comfort to the grieving young nieces

far enough removed by blood from consideration

to the Parlor’s Cadillac Limousine List.

It sheltered the young, grief-sick
on the way to the foreignness of the grave.

It delivers the recently sobered in time for his supper.

It drank from the nozzle for a taste of the fierceness of its lead.
It brings home the bacon, Fridays on end.

It restoreth my soul and It fell from the sky.


                                                     Quequechan

-a moment at the Strand Movie Theater on Pleasant Street-

when the wolf man got hairy under the full moon

he sat quite still so we wouldn't miss the growing.

the grey-brown hair broke-through in slips of undefined time

morphing to length in seconds which could have been hours
or seven days and seven nights, over his face and hands,

but his tortured feet looked frightening as the hair grew long

and the bones appeared to snap into the agonizing anatomy of the wolf.

In the grip of fear in the back row of the Strand's balcony,

Cylindrica Mello grabbed my skinny arm, digging her fingertips into it.

then, when the wolf man jogged into the fog, always the fog, always

the eerie mist of a swampy place, she really dug-in.

she buried her face just under my shoulder turning her head into

my armpit and her nose pressed inward as her other hand

grasped the material of my shirt just above the belt-line in a tight fist.

this happened when the wolf man started his walk on those hairy, long-toed feet

and I noticed that Cylindrica kept one eye open to the screen afraid to look

but longing to know, as the wolf man hobbled into the foggy damp outside

the tall leaded-glass windows of the stone-cold mansion.

Cylindrica Mello was having all of it.

the hem of her dress had traveled a good 5 inches above her knees

and her knees were pressing into my heavy corduroy pants when

she suddenly sat-up, looked into my face and jolted from the balcony.

naturally, when the physiology calmed down I went looking for her
and we walked home together, leaving the birds and the bees to themselves.
––It was later I learned that the pretty young woman who bravely slogged into the fog

of the moor searching for the pre-wolf man, that neatly suited, sleepy-looking young

gentleman of acquired sophistication, got quite the surprise herself that night, too.

Quequechan / early 50s

-inside massachusetts-

the fact is

I don't remember studying 

anything in school

but later on

studying something in Boston

I had this peculiar hankerin’

to meet

a young woman from way

out west.

Mount Holyoke.

she studies at

Mount Holyoke, I could say,—

the sound of it
impressing my friends

but

the closest I came to

Mount Holyoke

is when I

met a young woman
studying something at

Wellesley
way back east.

                       remembering Beth Nobel