-the one and only-

1.

when his '53 Buick had troubles, he'd get out from behind the wheel

lifting its heavy hood (hood like a continent) in order to check things out.

the apparatus within the compartment displayed its functions like the postmortem

guts of a very large man. veins, arteries, pumps and valves covered in grease.

he leans in; the tip of his necktie glancing the radiator cap.

he remembers: a screeching sound from under the hood on the drive home...

now, in front of his house he's checking things out, pulling the fan-belt upward

for assurance that it's nestled in the groove of the pulley, pressing down on the

crowded timing belt with his fingertips, testing its tension.

my father is checking things out, shaking a few wires and knocking on the 4 barrel carburetor's massive air filter with his knuckles, as if announcing himself at the Roadmaster's door. he's spreading the long-sleeved arms of his dress-shirt,

worn through a tedious day on the road, like the wings of a gliding hawk

surveying for rodents in the landscape of a tangled meadow, the palms of his slender salesman’s hands, resting fender to fender.

he's giving the engine the once-over; its bulk, its graces, its frantic impossibilities.

2.

across the street, the ESSO station is hammering away with mechanical activity
servicing the cold machinery of those who can not fend for themselves.

but here, on his side of Bedford, the man who brings home the bacon knows

what to do. he knows how to check things out.

Quequechan in '53

-Double Violin Concerto in D moll-

to start the engine of my new car

I simply press a button.

It starts quickly, without

the agonizing, albeit beautiful

sound of extensive turn-over,
a characteristic of the old machinery’s

ignition, crankshaft and pistons and

a lot of other mechanical goings on.

I strap myself in.

the pre-ride obligations

are accomplished with the speed

and adroitness of a pro at Daytona.

classify me as the driver of a fast car.

father, brother, son, friend,
lover of women, erstwhile classroom nuisance
and driver of the quick and nimble automobile;

fast and powerful, it turns on a dime

and stops on a dime, but it cost me plenty.

I tune-in Bach from paradise.

at my command, Bach drops from the exosphere;

drops from the arcing, glittering apparatus

wired to the hilt to track me down.

It's Bach riding shotgun this morning,

a passenger on this side of his life, the digital
side of the Double Violin Concerto in D moll,

barreling down route 6 eastward, the fast-
lane to Westport,–– bound for "Grundy's Plumbing & Hardware"

in search of a toilet-tank flapper assembly kit
and Johann Sebastian Bach is tagging along for the ride.

-April in the morning-

the young jogger who vanished

below the southernmost dip

of Gardners Neck Road where

Mount Hope Bay lies radiantly
after an early morning fog evaporated

in its calming attitude, hasn't jogged her way back.

there is no passage northward

as the short branching roads to the east,
end at the waterline and to the west are landlocked

in their sleepy dead-ends and culs-de-sac

which means she has to return this way,
passing the westside windows of the house.

maybe she stopped at the head of the meadow

laying low at the banks of the Taunton where it flows

into the mouth of the Bay, to rest and hydrate.

as to the lay of the land, in the short

distance southward, the Mount Hope Bay Bridge

is softly brushed, its steel-grey span in pantomime

against the horizon linking Portsmouth to Bristol.

further south, the Newport bridge
spans the narrows over Rhode Island Sound
too distant to be seen, but one can indulge

in the imagery of its great suspension, linking

Newport to Jamestown.

as of now, I anticipate her return; ––the digital
mechanism strapped to her wrist
recording the agitated pulse of her blood, the strung
auburn ponytail swinging eastward and westward

across her back keeping time between the river and Providence,

her tank-top wet with sweat, the skin glistened,

the sound of her running soles slapping the pavement

upon an otherwise silent, save the outer movement in birdsong,

Gardners Neck Road.


 Swansea

                                                          

-Violenza!-

Nick Fazzaro

knows how the game is played.

He stands ready at the head of the lane,
bending forward at the belt-line.
the side rails are crowded with active bettors 

as Nick cradles the bocce in the palm of his right hand,

studying the lone pallina in the distance.

These are the eyes and hands of a shuttle-loom mechanic.

Bert Bertoncini,

unemployed meat-cutter

now broken in spirit and into the game

by more than he can muster,

waits at the rail of the court

drunk and nasty as hell.

I'm standing as witness,

too young to compete or wager

at the Bocce Lanes of Club Marconi,

same side of the street as the ballpark,

half a block east from my house, just beyond the billboards.

One sure thing:

Nick and Bert will end this day with violence.

Maybe the bad blood started inside the Club
the night before with a drunkard's glance,

or a bloodshot, half-eyed stare then a swig

of Bohemian beer, tough from the bottle's neck,

or a younger sister in the backseat recently exposed,

or the newly elected "Miss Rheingold" on somebody's

losing end of the bet.

It's all on the table.

Nick’s a tough customer.

Bert’s just plain crazy.

When he’s drunk, one agrees whole-

heartedly with whatever his position

on whichever subject is proposed.

This time around, Nick's heard enough

and his bocce, flying fast through the air

strikes Bert in the head, and he drops at the rail

like a tuna decked before the hold.

At the hectic wake,

the attendees representing

Club Marconi console the grieving family.

"Sorry for your troubles"

"Sorry for your troubles."

"Sorry for your troubles..."

They tread lightly along the line.

Even in death, Bert's imposing body

is a threatening exhibition.

Under the houselights of "Parlor C,"
the big parlor upstairs, the violet shadow of violence

bleeds through the rouge which paints Bert's face.

Nick Fazzaro,

shuttle-loom mechanic, father of two,

released on his own recognizance,  

stands ready at the head
of the bocce lane at Club Marconi;

cradles the pallino

elegantly in the palm of his right hand,

knowing how the game is played.

Quequechan, c.1953

  

-from Wednesday 3:15 PM to 10:38 PM-

Tim's requiem

when it rains its effects are felt inside the house.

there’s nothing enlightening on television during the mid-
afternoon slots and the weightless parakeet’s
belly-up among the droppings of Tuesday’s equally
weightless news.

now the twelve year olds across the street
consider a last cigarette while approaching
their homes from a day at school.

It's a close call.
they say "yes" and share another one
in the common bond of childhood rebellion.

let's take an uneventful drive in the rain.

returning to darkness we engage the lights.

we’re motived by rainfall,—

how it taps upon the pavement
how it beads upon the metal
how the work-

weary men and women drop their heads,
contorting their expressions confronting the water
as if in a proof that its earthborn acids burn their skin.

when the rain stops, the night's disposition
is a three-for-one chore.

the articles of Tuesday are neatly rolled
over the parakeet, like the fixings of a dry cigar,
where a short walk through the backdoor to the trash bins
lay "Tim",  this day and yesterday's news to final rest.

                                          

-Antoine’s early morning predicament -

The faucet in the kitchen

Is dripping.
Rather, it seems to be permanently
About to drip.

A suspended drop of water attached
To the nozzle of the hardware
Shows no indication

Of movement but none-the-less

Tensely expands in volume.

Antoine’s yet to see one break free

And fall into the sink,
Although he has the time to wait it out.
Antoine has an old refrigerator in the basement

Same model as his parents had 

With that sweeping dome of a top

And the wonderfully tactile handle

Which was in fact a latch to be pulled on.

He remembers slowly inching its way inward

Toward his body to the fascinating
Point of no return.

Come to think of it,

Antoine should head to the basement

Right now and run a chain around it

With a secure padlock or remove the door

Entirely,— because of the kids.

Christ, now he’s afraid to open the damn thing.

By his count, that’s four kids in their beds this morning.

Wait-a-minute.

That’s one too many. — oh, yeah.

Audrey Fenstablaugh from across the street

Is a sleepover.
Antoine pours a cup.

Maybe she’ll get up before the others.

At the kitchen table,
Antoine exhales with a sense of anxiety

As he knows that this is but
The beginning of his day.

Old man walking / the 1st poem

This morning I'm looking at a neatly

Scrubbed old man, older than me
At the age I am now,
Dressed in casual summer-wear

Mass-marketed to be indexed as
Conventionally suitable for his age group

Walking by the window east on Bedford.

He’s got white, white hair surrounding a large,
Saint Francis of Assisi bald-plate, a scalp 

Scrubbed so clean it looks to be lacquered.

Little islands of darker skin pigmentations

Are convincing as they dab, almost by design,
Atop his glistening head.

When he gets to the corner of Bedford at Eddy

He pivots on the ball of his right foot 

Like a conscript at bootcamp,— a sharp

Column-left maneuver

And adhering to the strict geometry,

Becomes one with the corner's architecture.

The old-timer's walking briskly, with short,
Crisply measured strides, swinging 
His skinny arms to and fro which are curiously

Bent upward at the elbows, a disturbing physical

Characteristic I've seen before with old men walking.

As he passes through the frame of observation,
I move quickly through the house

To the north facing window to watch him go;

A jaunty gait, a destination purposeful, 

Deep into Eddy, north on Eddy,— down north,

Down north on Eddy and into the black
Hole of his life he knows is waiting there.

 Fall River / 1980s

                                       

-Training on the straits of Healy-

Years before "Pinky" Imbriglio drowned

After diving from the granite ledge

Into the dark shallows of its water,
The bike's training wheels were detached

And the strong grip of my father's hand

To the saddle's back stabilized

The rolling hand-me-down bike as the handlebars

Swiveled frantically in the trainee's grip.

The best place for this training

Was on the straight and level

Portion of Healy Street

Running behind the backyard

Where old man Rachlin

Piled-up the rusted hulks of automobiles
Laid-waste by time or collision

Into tantalizing pyramids,

His junkyard fence as barb-wired

As any military installation.

Two years later, my younger brother
Was training on the straits of Healy
Likewise guided by our father's hand.

Because of an exemplary sales record

And tenacious affability, my father

Will earn his company-paid Buick Roadmaster

Affording him a rite of passage and substance

As he travelled route 6 and points east,

Selling booze for the Sterling Beverage Company

To the Cape's seasonal bars and restaurants.

Eleven years before Pinky

Pushed his feet

From the precipice of the ledge,

My mother would begin her work

As an inner hatband stitcher

At the Sagamore Mill No 3,

Signing her pledge of support

To the I.L.G.W.U.,

And for a short time labored there

Alongside her sisters and friends

In the making of hats for men.

Daily, and for years to come,
My father will navigate the narrow
Two-lane highway of route 6 toward Buzzard's Bay,

Charting east and north into an expanding territory.

My brother and I will ride our bikes confidently
Disregarding his early concerns for our safety.

The inner hatband stitches
Sewn by my mother will hold

And the drowned will one day

Be pulled from the water.

  

                                           Quequechan  

  

  

-Left behind-

I held back for a moment

Allowing the mourners to shuffle out;

Soft-talking, respectful,

Handshakes all around as if congratulating

One another on their ability to survive. 

We’d decided on a closed casket

With a framed 8x10 glossy standing

On the lid at the head.

I think it’s the head.

The twenty year old image

Has him posing in a sharp grey herringbone,
His healthy frame tilting at an impossible angle,
Typical of studio portrait photography,
The red-rouged air-brushed complexion
Close to what I imagined painted his face
Inside the permanent enclosure.

He travelled the distance necessary

Selling the company’s booze everyday

Miles from home to where the ocean is,

Where the restaurants and barrooms
Thrived in summer

Then shuttered his sales in winter.

Returning home through the seasons
And the tedium,

He'd drop his heavy keys in the milk-

Glass saucer reserved for them at the kitchen door.

He bequeathed to me

His space on the corner across the active

Street where we lived;

The platitudes of his relations;

The unrealistic assertions of linking

Almost everything I did

For years to come, with him.

He bequeathed to me his half-

Measure of my birth and half my youth.

I said: "We'll take this one".

It’s not the most expensive.

It's the least expensive.

It's bronze-colored.

Others were tantalizing,

Promoted as built of exotic woods.

I held back for a moment.

But in the end, I didn’t think

We should waste the insurance money.

                                           Fall River

-Joe & Rosie-

1.

uncle Joe’s

advice to me was:

concentrate on the fenders,

the sculpted

sheetmetal where

the focus of the beauty lay ––

the translucent glazing of the black,

the deep

black-lacquered paint of his Cadillac.

"the broads don’t see themselves
reflected from the lid of the trunk", he'd say.

Joe said:

"concentrate on the fenders".

Joe was the youngest

of my father’s two brothers,

the youngest

and most intriguing of the three.

he was active in the goings on at the downtown barrooms, 
wasn’t married, had no children, no house to speak of,
and smoked kingsize menthol cigarettes at such a pace

it led one to believe he looked forward to the diagnosis.

he cursed fluently in four languages,
two of which had to be inventions, but

Joe had a snazzy late model Cadillac

and a sidekick named "Rosie"— his fabulous girlfriend.

2.
Rosie had long, red

(toward the tincture of orange) hair

ending loosely in curls which on the run bobbed
like springs of filament barely clinging to a mechanism.

on this early afternoon at the start of the "Season"–– the windy
material of her dress seemed sewn by the labor of two
personal silkworms.

I finished the buffing with one last swipe
as Rosie smiled on the approach from the stairs of the porch,

and submitting a proof, she leaned deeply

into the passenger-side fender's glossy reflection,

pushing her sprung-red curls over her shoulder

with a flick of the back of her hand and said: "okay, Joe. let's go".

3.
I settled into the overpowering
backseat of the Cadillac as Joe conned the mighty beauty
into the hesitance of respectful traffic.

on the way, he and Rosie spoke quietly of matters which
had nothing to do with me or my basic understanding of such things.

but in less than ten minutes

the great Cadillac, the buffed black

jewel of the "spindle-city" streets, pulled-up to the curbstone
in front of my father's house alongside the sewer which ate foul balls,

and I crossed the street to the ballgame at Columbus Park,
Clippers v. Bombers, with the score at the top of the 6th
knotted at two-a-side.

                                                      Quequechan, c.1953



  

-A short ride for Manuel-

Manuel’s getting old.

It was first noticed at the joints of his bones
Then everywhere else soon after.

Today he boards the city bus at the corner of Sixth & Main.

It’s only three steps up to where the driver sits,

but the first step tires his knees for the rest of the climb.

Manuel pays his fare in pocket change and enjoys the metallic

Sounds as the free-standing contraption pings and clicks

Sorting the dropped coins into progressive denominations.

Manuel walks the narrow aisle weaving laterally as the bus departs,

Deciding on a window seat facing the river.

This is the seat where his father dies. "Spare the rod spoil the child"

His mother dies in this seat, too. "A saint" the mourners told him.

Manuel's three kids are born in this seat facing the river.

The first, a constant victim; two others follow who one day

"Won't amount to nothin' ".
Half-way through the journey he again meets his young bride

Who spends her final years in the presence of his cruel silence.

Manuel steps-off at Twelfth & Main, bending the kinks of his knees

As the bus departs with Manuel crossing Main into the pungent exhaust,

Anticipating another life-affirming haircut.