-the pumps, the bread, and all all and all.

Pianissimo:

there's an absence of traffic
this early Sunday morning
but U.S. 6 runs west to the river
and east to Buzzard’s Bay nonetheless.

across the street
the ballpark takes on its recurring
face of anticipation.

the ESSO station's

"CLOSED"––  and the stained-

glass windows beyond the left field fence

are hung matte-finished

too early for congregants or incandescence.

a catechism:

It's told by Priest at Saturday
morning catechism:— God said:

"Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy".

But the great bakeries street-side of the baselines,
Marzilli's off the third, Marcucci's off the first,

have fired their ovens notwithstanding scripture
offering the faithful, for a price, this day their daily bread.

Quequechan, the early years

("all all and all.."  is nabbed from: "The Poems of Dylan Thomas")

   

-Tell all the gang at the corner of Bedford and Stinziano..—

I thought I’d take the Metro

Then realized there was no such thing

So I boarded the Bedford and County

To the stop at Columbus Park, home-field advantage,
Where I disembarked and walked into the house at 1017.

This poem is commissioned by the consortium

Chaired by Ray Parese, vice-chaired by Joe Cinquini,

Rose Sasso and her husband Vincianto Sasso

Commemorating the death of their friend, my father,

Assassinated by Liggett & Myers on June 1, 1982.

In appreciation for their support of poetry,
Although each of them ignorant of doing so,

I’ve incorporated their names into this exposition.

All had labelled me
At one time or another, "A chip off the old block"

And they called him

A “Hot-shit” during much of his lifetime.

But I’m not always the chip off the old block as reported

And my father wasn’t the "live-wire" as defined by them
When at home or on the tedious, recurring weekday road.

It took another half century for the last of them
To strike-out at the plate of life.

In remembrance, herein are their names in print:

Ray Parese,
Who rejected me out-of-hand from playing
In the Columbus Park Little League,
Ignoring the impassioned pleas of my grandfather
As I stood-by, my right hand slipped into the leather
Of my new oversized glove, paid for by the hard-earned money
Shelled-out my father; the five-finger, olive-oiled and ready to play.

Joe Cinquini,
Who got stink-faced drunk one afternoon
At the "Club Marconi," then "bumped" a kid on a bike
With his heavy DeSoto near the church
But wasn't charged because the official police report
Proclaimed it to be an "unfortunate accident death resulting".

Crazy Rose Sasso,

Who had "a million bucks stashed away someplace"
And suffered from

A mouthful of hideous false teeth
Which slipped from her gums on occasion

And her husband,

Vincianto Sasso,
Who in his twenties

Reluctantly enlisted in the Army
In lieu of serving hard-time on a "morals" charge

When the judge offered him the option.

An early photograph of the gang
(Including my sharp-dressed, "double-breasted" father, sans Rose Sasso)

In striking visual imagery indicating their individual physical characteristics,
Is hereon attached to the publication of this poem which was commissioned by them.

 Quequechan

-Edna, the aunt from Down North-

Aunt Edna had a full head of hair 

So-to-speak,— spray-fixed high
Like a cone-load in bleached-blonde cotton candy.

Edna was remote and mysterious with

Rasputin-like eyes curtained in sticky,
Black fans of eyelash.

She was mildly plump of body

And the top of her nylon stockings

Could be seen as she crossed

Her powerful legs while sitting on the couch

Whenever she came over for coffee, anisette cookies
And a quick visual violation.

From my preferred position on the rug

The view of her was whatever
My wandering eyes could get to.

Sometimes I’d inch my way in her direction
By free-wheeling my poisonous, lead-bodied hook n' ladder

Closer to the couch and her open-toe heels
Then slithering along the rug to ground zero
And Edna's good parts.

Some said she seemed more French than Italian.

Eventually, Edna would leave for home but not before
Bending toward the rug in order to plant
A drenched, red-lipped kiss upon my forehead as I patted her ass

With an affectionate-looking goodbye hug.


                          

                                   

-Afterlife-

I find myself adjudicated,

Suspended in a space of time

Reserved for disposition.

My arms are loosely folded

Across what's left of my torso;

An index finger taps at my mouth

As I consider the Crab’s expanse.

“It’s a real good place.”

So sayeth the impatient voice of Peter.

I’m assuming

Without commitment that

There's room for expansion
And even as it is,

It looks big enough for the kids.

Back in the world I sailed freely;

Shipshape and weatherly.

I saw things as clearly as time allowed.

I thought that would be enough —

The one true life,

The nucleus from where

Everything moved outward.

Now at the portal to eternity

I hesitate before the brilliant

Veil of the Crab.

I quip to the great Saint:

"You know, if you squint, it sort-of resembles Nantucket."

"Nantucket?!–––  For chrissake, William!
This isn't paradise”!

So yelleth the impatient voice of Peter.

-miracle on the Fenway-

the new poem came to me

late last night through an explosive light.

it was startling, but

I returned to sleep without difficulty, and because

I'm not required to do much of anything,

I concentrated on the poem within the dream and

wrote-down as many names as I could recall.

my early neighborhood friends were well represented,

some of whom are still among living, as well as many

of my childhood sweethearts,–– alas,

also a few of the dead ones,–– all of whom were gathered

in the left field stands of an American League ballpark, while

the game is being played without a designated hitter.

sounds of exhilaration drive outward from the stands

toward the diamond running counterclockwise.

(Williams plays the carom off the wall to perfection,

although there is no account of this phenomenon in the dream)

it's the early evening side of a twi-night.
the lights are slowly inhaling, bluing the Fenway,

and Teddy Ballgame, on deck with his obsession,
calculating the ball's flight to the plate and how it displays its stuff
with each changing count, is the sole custodian of his head.

and then, sunrise

-The lost peace of living without paranoia-

“Gardners Neck Variety” turned “Leo’s Variety”,

Turned “Swansea Mart” has changed hands again.

“Joan's Li'l Country Store” it says in rented backlit signage.
Nobody bothers with declarations of “Under New Management”.

The new signs are enough to keep the neighborhood informed.

Milk at the “Stop & Shop” a quarter mile down 103

Was 60 cents cheaper than at the failed "Swansea Mart"––

Bread, more than that. Eggs, too.
Same is probably true at "Joan's".
Nonetheless, I’ll look into “Joan’s Li'l Country Store”––
More of an informational investigation than anything else,
A quick look-see without prolonged eye contact should do.

I'm going in.

Damn it! I know her. Shit!

(Truth is I don’t actually know her, but)  I've seen her
Putzing around her front yard snipping flowers at their stems,
Plucking weeds and bagging the dog's earlier business.

Whenever I drive by I sound the horn with a short “beep”,

Waving to extend the greeting and she waves back.
How neighborly.
How charmingly suburban.

Shit! Damn it!

The heavy glass door
Closes slowly behind me with a shock-absorber's hiss,
Like the Pope's hermetically sealed see-through lid
Before the first viewing, and Joan, about 45 and heavy-set
Recognizes me and greets me with
A nicely-tuned: “Well, hello there”! –– Shit!

Damn it! Now I’ve got to buy something and not just
A pack of designer chewing gum.
(which is probably 12 bucks at "Joan's Li'l Country Store")

I’m going through a rapid-fire short list of items in my head while
Joan stands behind the counter at the register, waiting there
To cash me out and bag the items she knows I need
In order to enjoy a more convenient experience in life.  

It’s not important that I confess here the useless jar of Jelly,
Can of Tuna, and Tube of Paste purchased, but

This is my new reality, my little piece of Hell on the road.

On the road northward from the southend of Gardners Neck Road,
(Further southward, and you're over-the-roof deep into Narragansett Bay)
And there's no access to Route 103 without passing the agonizing pleas of:
"Play Lotta Bucks HERE!" and "Free Coffee All Day!" signs
Which Joan tapes to the door in bold red marker, scribbled in her own hand
In order to entice the trapped motoring population to stop and enter.
I'm about to call for a taxi, ducking down from the backseat as Joan's passes.

Damn it! Shit! I’m unfortunately possessed by a new madness,

Tormented by the newest bane of my existence, the Black Hole designated
By the "Swansea Geophysical Society" as: “Joan's Li'l Country Store”. SHIT!
DAMN IT!
                                                      

-Freddy Requiem-

Across the street from

Ruggles Park —

Across the street where

Trees go to die —

The Ruggles School stands solidly

Like a brick shit-house,

A sort-of Damocles sword
Positioned over the heads
Of adjudicated public school classroom nuisances.

Fatso Freddy DeGata,

Guilty of a rule-breaking vendetta,

Did time at Ruggles School

Under the harsh thumb of his father,

The principal and chief enforcer there.

You have to hand it to Freddy,

Guts enough for the rest of us

When threatened

With hard-time at Ruggles.

His old-man took him in,

Slapped the fear of god into his head

And with the lobotomy in place

Freddy came back to us in a month or so,

Plump and docile as a tomato hornworm.

Freddy’s remembered for his swift

Retributions to school tattletales,—

For the straight-line flatness

Of the back of his head, vertically plumbed
To the plane of his neck and because he breathed heavily

From his nose and his mouth at the same time.

the Fall River Public Schools, 1953, 1956(?)

-Pride and banishment-

I wouldn’t go so far as to say

that I was incorrigible as a schoolboy.

I can name more than a few who were,

but I wasn’t one of them.

none-the-less, I often travelled

from detention hall on Tuesday,

to detention hall on Wednesday with the best of them.

the girl who wore the oversized
black leather hot-rod jacket to school,

the kind worn by older guys
who drove fast machines,
was unique that day among the field
of starched dresses
and pressed chino slacks,
forced upon the rest of us,
the children of mothers
who sent us neatly on our way
into the visual doldrums of daily attendance. 

the jacket, I was later to learn, belonged

to her big brother who was away on sabbatical

learning the gas-pumping trade in Rhode Island.

the girl was promptly suspended

for refusing to take the jacket off and refusing to promise 
never to wear it to school again.

but she came back that very afternoon
wearing the same jacket,
this time with her mother in tow.

how dare they dictate what her daughter

wear or not wear! the mother screamed

at old Miss Stanton, the heavy-handed,
heavy-set principal, the terrible matron
of the Hugo A. Dubuque School,
for the first time on the receiving end
of a sharp tongue.

"you freakin' think you freakin' shit ice-cream or somethin’"?!!

four doors toward the back staircase,
the mild-mannered Miss Pollard was mortified.

she closed the door to our classroom.

she locked the windows down and drew the blinds.
she told the class of giggling kids to sit still,

but the girl was soon traded

to the Incorrigible-Wing of the Ruggles School,
as close to penitentiary a 14 year old girl could get,
short a finding of murder in the first degree.

as for me, looking through the clouded
window of personal history I find her,

walking the long florescent corridor,—

the lonely last mile to the ominous Ruggles School,

wearing her older brother's oversized black-leather hot-rod jacket
belligerently emblazoned across its back:

                Spark Plugs
                Fall River

                                              

                     

  

-when she’s rich-

the girl who sat at her desk

two desks in front of his own
and one row to his right,

the one he knew as a friend

didn’t know she was rich
but she'd know soon enough.

then, her smile would be different.

It would move backward.

he'd thought to let it go,

but who could have known

how to do such a thing?

do you know what heartache is?

do you think you know?

when he saw her house

and he saw his house

for the first time in the same

cold-frame in his brain

on the day when he pedaled

fast above the saddle to the Avenue

and stopped from a distance

to look from a distance to figure it out

and all he could see

was the stone of her house

at the face of her house

its wrought-iron gate

her friends walking through

no more than strangers a short time ago

embraced with laughter and hugs

in a dress he'd not seen—

her dress white as chalk

at the front of her house

from the stone of her house

on the day when happiness

fell through the hole

in the midst of his world

when she knew she was rich.

                         up the highlands,

                         quequechan / c.1953

  

-At "Joe’s Slo-Burger"-

Ordering from the diner's menu
I'll choose the Number 1,—

The "Burger n' Fries Combo Plate."

Biding my time at the counter,

It's Neptune on my mind as the late-night's

Planet of choice.

A wet, heavy snow is falling

In mid December

But the diner's a pressure-cooker,
Sweltering and crowded.

The late-night compliment
Of besieged waitresses
Negotiate the din of madness
Weaving between the density
Of the barroom's recently evacuated,

The recovering stumblebums,
The elder regulars
Ordering their "usuals" as if presenting
A badge of distinction, the tightly-packed
Waiting-line of the hopeful at the entrance
With nowhere to go, unceremoniously ignored
And the gloating, self-absorbed occupiers of rare booths,–– the scent
Of burning meat coalescing with the stench of slush dissolving
On human hair...

Neptune's an ice-giant

And nobody lives there.

But what a beauty it is!

Say the name Neptune

As you romance the sight of it.

Joe knows how I like ‘em —

Burned-up, outside and inside,

But not my planets.

I want my planets cold, distant and mysterious.

Tonight I'll drop into Neptune,

Poke around its frozen breath of methane,

Laced with ammonia, its strike of atmosphere

Formed of more toxicities than mere hydrogen;

Scary sounding names written in cloaks of code

From the  university's laboratory. 

But the slab-of-a-puck Joe’s flipping at the grill

Sizzles like Mercury.

Neptune’s hard-hearted;

Masked in seduction, it’ll stick
Its tongue of acids into your throat

Soon as look at you.

Drop a coin to hear the juke drone Waits:

"Burgers n’ fries and what kind of pies?"

It’s Powder-blue.

Better stay away.

Burn that baby down, Joe!—  "Myrtle! You're up"!

                    

                       

-Untimely observer-

Due in large part to atmospherics
Assisted by human romanticism
And low-lying carbon emissions,
Mars appeared particularly red, its pinprick
Piercing the deep northeastern sky, glinting

As if backlighted upon the stage of God.

I watched for a few minutes
From the yard nearing the tree-line,
Calculating the distance with naked eyes,

When a fast moving overcast swept between

Mars and me.

My attention turned to the direction

Of where I deduced Venus and Jupiter hung,

But both were blocked by the tumbling,

Impenetrable wave of heavy weather.

With time running fast against me, I lingered blindly

For a spot of sky,— a tear in the fabric's architecture

And whatever treasures such a breach might yield.

Basta! This pall is a steely weave, unyielding,

Barbed and clinging like a nettle

To the underbelly of the firmament!

And so, as it goes for this night, its planets and stars,

Its revolving attitudes in warm romance and fierce detonations,
I could wait no longer.––– Basta!

                                                    Swansea

                                               

-Requiem for Celia Pieroni, second cousin, ten years my elder,

a young, indelible beauty...-

the Volkswagen's air-cooled engine labors

pulling its weight ascending the steepest of hills

then drops from the precipice where it hits the river.

water streams into the cabin

from the seams of everything

once thought to be sealed, churning

as if to a boil, upward from the floorboard

but Celia is smiling comfortably

from the passenger seat, unafraid.

I'm screaming like an infant from behind the wheel
as the bubble-headed Volkswagen

sinks on its chassis like a granite-bottomed skiff.

but the dream jumps to another location where

I’m dancing with Celia in the kitchen.

here, the table and countertops are bloated

with leftover food, plated, scattered and uncovered

indicating an end to the family’s holiday feast.

Celia wears the shimmering

silver ’55 shift whose hem splits

like a translucent spike far enough above the knee

to be conspicuous, muting the surroundings,

and we dance across the linoleum to the aroma

wafting from the table's lingering clutter.

but the dream falters here.

there should be women at work in the kitchen

causing a racket, making decisions,
shouting instructions to the recently wed, washing,
wiping and stacking through the instinctive ballet

of the holiday's clean-up procedures.

(with our women, in the time reserved for man,

there was always an immediate sense of disposition.)

but we leap to the dream's conclusion where

I find myself standing on the banks of the river

as Celia disappears beneath the water.