-the published poet, the unpublished poet, and the kid next door-

I’ll read some George Bilgere poems during the early

evening slow-down, the first stroke of darkness when

interior table lamps are reconsidered.
out there, beyond the South Swansea wilderness, the route 6 traffic

is culled by time as workday tensions exhale from their necessities.

tonight seems right for Bilgere. he knows how to stick an ending.

(earlier, I witnessed the kid next door strapped-in with muscular dystrophy

struggling to make it up the ramp to his house, the agonized machinery whining
for the want of its battery's charge, his broken torso slumped head-first,

low and pleading as if confronting a dense atmosphere.)

I left him to his own devices.

I'll start with Bilgere's volume, "The White Museum" and the poem titled: "Trash".

It opens with a quote from Pablo Neruda:

"Each morning I place on my writing table

        a carnation and a hammer".

imagine writing such an introduction to the day ahead.

as for me, there are times when I'll question the work in progress,
"sounds like somebody else" but I'll pass through a measure of time

and exploration before entering the crowded platform with reasonable assurance.

as for this entry, the lines in parenthesis beginning with: “earlier, I witnessed.."

ending with:  “as if confronting a dense atmosphere"— well,

I've assured myself at least for the time being that for the most part, are mine.

                                                                    

-or so now I sing

I was fascinated

by the sound made

when stepping on a slightly

lifted bubble of kitchen linoleum.

It was a tactile experience

whenever an area of linoleum

lost is ability to adhere.

the best was when it stuck

to the floor for a moment

then clicked away, setting

itself up for another run.

I’d spend time

in the corner of a room

pushing plier handles inward

again and again, staring at the space
which wouldn’t close.

when Miss Pollard's chalk first tapped

the blackboard script between each word,

that, was a fascinating sound.

and then the initial morning arrival

of Bernadette Baker

shuffling her starchy dress

across the edge of my desk on the way to her own.

what a sweet breeze she made

when she spun to sit behind me.

she smelled

like ivory soap.

she smelled
better than Norena Ferreira.

she was like

an anticipated popsicle in June,
better than hopping the fence,
cooler than a dive into the red
algae-tinctured water of

"Musical Beach".
she had an irresistible attitude about her

like anything tumbling uncontrollably.
she had a calling.

she had blonde hair and eyes of blue.

or so now I sing.

                  -sing-

I was fascinated

by the sound made

when stepping on a slightly

lifted bubble of kitchen linoleum.

It was a tactile experience

whenever an area of linoleum

lost is ability to adhere.

the best was when it stuck

to the floor for a moment

then clicked away, setting

itself up for another run.

I’d spend time

in the corner of a room

pushing plier handles inward

again and again, staring at the space
which wouldn’t close.

when Miss Pollard's chalk first tapped

the blackboard script between each word,—

that was fascinating sound.

and then the morning arrival

of Bernadette Baker,

shuffling her starchy dress

across my desk on the way to her own.

what a sweet breeze she made

when she spun to sit behind me.

she smelled

like ivory soap.

she smelled
better than Norena Ferreira.

she was like

an anticipated popsicle in June,
better than hopping the fence,
cooler than a dive into the red-
tinctured water of "Musical Beach".
she had this attitude about her.
she had a calling.

she had blonde hair and eyes of blue.

or so I sing.

-then the fish-

to set myself up
in playing this game

I’ll read them blindly.

approaching those recognized

I’ll move to the unknown.

the sites utilized are professional

and regularly visited.

I know the gender of those
who reside on the shelves.

there are those

of whom it can be said,

should seem obvious
to be one
or the other. —

the wind is placed thusly.

the room is heavier here.
here the sunlight is hotter, somehow,

at the hand of woman.
or is it at the hand of man?

immediately the hooked

great fish is recognized.

it is examined
and documented through eyes
of uncommon sensibility,
beauty and strength.

I know this one.
but I don’t move-on to another.

and so ends the game.

                    after one by Elizabeth Bishop

-bury my heart at the sour-apple tree-

there’s a sour-apple tree

standing in the junkyard

inside the rusted wire fence

close to where we nabbed a chrome-

plated hood ornament

from the fat Desoto.

It’s a small tree

and it looks like it barely clings to life.

It’s the only tree standing

inside the junkyard's fence and

it’s bearing fruit,— those small

green apples so sour they’d

make you aware of your tongue

turning it to sandpaper.

we left it in peace.

as for that cancerous Plymouth
sitting behind old man Rachlin's
broken shed, we'll leave it in peace, too.

this didn't make heroes of us.

Plymouths yielded but minor fruits for our labors.

-at Quequechan Pond-

the freshwater pond

blanches the skin,
reddens the eye

and dampens

the granite foot

of the textile mill

at the banks above it.

there, the water takes

on its color of quarried

stone, the rust-tinge of iron

adds to its weight.

the boys and their girls

restrain themselves here —

different here than the active
attitudes covering
the saltwater beaches around them.

It’s quarried stone,
the age of iron

at the water's banks

which lends itself

to the weight of silence
in a place such as this.

there are things to consider
while walking into standing fresh water.

                                  early in Fall River

-nearer to route 6-

deep in standing fresh-water

we navigate the cattail reeds
stiff with base nutrients

absorbed from the silt.

above the banks
the textile mills are fixed in granite
mined from the obstinate
walls of the city's quarry.

plumes of smoke struggle
through the throats of overpowering stacks,
billow with freedom, expand and slowly
break-away into the shimmering overcast.

sometimes our heads break through

the stillness of the surface to the nostrils
breathing outward, agitating water,

our eyes drenched,

bloodshot with irritants —
the skin of our blanched finger-tips
numb as crumpled paper
and with the girls who show-up,

who show-up for a reason, we

come together under the water

pliable as the clay which made us.

sometimes we swallow the water

in our haste to breathe inward

and later we’ll think about polio

asking questions at the supper-tables.

                                      Quequechan