-the owl's tale-

at 12 years old,

an altar boy by parental selection,

a pick-up ballplayer
by neighborhood communion,
a left fielder
by disposition of the hand dealt to me at birth,

a school nuisance, not by peer-
pressure alone

and a bike-rider by love and necessity,

I saw an owl in the backyard of my house

perched on an outer rim

of my grandfather’s shady, tangled,

productive, succulent grapevine.

It peered down on me

with its big, round goo-goo eyes, set deeply
into its wide, flat, feathery face.

It had the look of the stuffed ornaments
handed out by amusement park venders
when the last tin squirrel running along its track
is bullseye'd with a ping. 

the ow's head moved in quick, short jerks,

same as my head moved
whenever I was guilty of something.

It was my first living owl sighting,

more living than the pictures
I'd seen of owls
taped over the blackboard.

I tried to make peace

with this visitor to my yard

and offered to it the friendly smooching sound

usually reserved for the calling
of house cats at feeding time.

kiss, kiss, kiss...kiss, kiss, kiss..

It might have been something
I was wearing on my head, or
the usually wacky way I wore it, or

the owl’s reaction to
the unnatural sounds of cat-calling
in its natural habitat.

It crouched, extended its neck,
spread its wings and with a last
curious twist of its head toward my frozen position,
lifted from the grapevine's armature,
clearing the backyard fence where I lost sight of it.

I kept returning to the grapevine

throughout the day with offerings
of bread, shallow-panned water

and a small plate of seed, unceremoniously
donated from my blue-frocked parakeet. 

recalling information gleaned from the classroom
on the feeding habits of owls, I checked the mousetraps
under the sink.

into the night I waited there,—

even after the streetlights on Healy

glowed orange-colored over the junkyard

until, from the kitchen window

my young mother, tested to the final strike of her day

called out to me: “Billy! Get in here right now and take a bath"!

and thus ends the owl's tale.

Quequechan

-Toolbox-

It’s not much bigger than a lunchbox.

Inside a small hammer missing its righthand claw,

and a larger hammer for the big jobs.

A rusted pipe-wrench, a hex-head screwdriver,

two phillips-head screwdrivers, both the same size,

and an old set of pliers with electrical tape wrapped

around its handles ready for action. — A staple gun,

a blade-less linoleum cutter, four yellowing Band-Aid

plastic Strips, and a broken wall switch for the ceiling light

which never worked. the house-tools of my father.

––The tools of the liquor salesman on the road

are not less utilitarian, not less tactile, yet more skillfully

utilized through an everyday necessity.

––An engaging attitude. The ease of entry.

Handshakes all around. A trench coat whose collar

lifts gently at the back of the neck.

A soft fedora whose brim waves downward, gracefully

at the forehead just before the break.

Presentation. Presentation.

A trunk-load of cardboard displays with young women

cut-out to shape in one-piece bathing suits peddling the beer

brands real men should  drink.

A #2 pencil with head-worn eraser.

A paperback pocket ledger riven through the miles

of each closing week tracking the sales.

Weariness. Weariness. 

A '56 Buick older than its years.

The same day's route traveled eastward, route 6

toward the bars and restaurants of the Cape, the same

night's route traveled westward, route 6 toward home.

Quequechan

"who killed cock robin"?

I wouldn’t refer to my father

as a man of the sea
although substantial evidence
of his sales-route from Fall River
to Buzzards Bay and points east
has been routinely introduced,

nor a man of the cloth
notwithstanding the road-weary
ensemble of trench-coat and fedora.

he wasn't one who possessed
the sleight-of-hand necessary to change

the properties of water to wine
although an opportunity once presented itself
during the testimonial's pasta course.

but he dealt adroitly

with glad-handed money-changers

who gave him cash after signing his name
across the bottom line on the form of their choosing

until such time as in the past-due note,

whereupon they sucked for his blood

on the first of every month.

the guy behind the cluttered counter at the corner store

didn’t have to learn the curriculum of the hard-sell,
nor did my father, 

nor did his eldest son who’d fetch
packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes
when the oder came down from on high at the kitchen table.

-the Striptease Artist-

Route 6 east toward a strip-joint

Called the "Hangars"

With a carload of older neighborhood guys
who play "Buck-Buck" in the park
Across the street from my house.

Soon, we’re sitting at a sticky, rolled

And pleated leather-like booth

Anticipating an adult woman
Who will take her clothes off for us
To the sounds of a swishing snare,
Pizzicato bass and muted trumpet.

She’ll be wonderful
With sequined pasties,

Tassels swinging

Clockwise and counterclockwise
Propelling her tits into the heavy
Atmosphere burning into our eyes.

We’re too young to drink.

We were ushered inside because
Hank Lozon's uncle

Runs the joint on weekends.

This is where it’s dark,
Sweltering and red all over.

It’s like being inside an inflated
Parade balloon

And I don’t think we should eat anything

But our waitress looks good
And the M.C.'s cracking a few jokes
Into his mic whose volume

Is set to Amphitheater.

He introduces the next stripper
As “Trixie Dixon” who flew in from the coast,

Which we later learned was Buzzard's Bay.

After the intro, he slithers backstage to tepid applause

From the scattered in attendance.

Then, like a sign from God, the red-lead atmosphere

Is spotted with a crack of white light,

And there’s Trixie, sitting at the edge of a stool

Confiscated from the near-vacant bar,

Costumed in trench-coat and soft fedora

Whose brim folds softly to cover one eye, sexy,

The standard cigarette prop is tucked between her lips,

Redder and wetter than a Bloody Mary.

Trixie's routine is billed to be that of a Private Eye.

But I'm the only one in the house who sees

An otherworldly impression of the on the road liquor salesman. 

The downbeat to jazzy music cues her performance.

Trixie leads with a leg slipped into

A black nylon stocking pushed out

Across the floor

Down to the toe of her pump

Allowing the trench-coat to peel back

Like the skin of an over-ripened banana.

Our young waitress ignores her, dealing

Out carbonated soft-drinks realizing the booth's

Occupation of potential deadbeats.

She's not too far removed from my age.

I want to get closer to Trixie,

But beginning the routine, the stool

Slides from under her

And she falls on her ass to a thud upon the hard stage,

The embers of ash from the burning cigarette

Drifting like sparklers
In soft landing fall between her legs.

Closer, the striptease artist's face
Is seen to be puckered like the skin of a citrus fruit,

And she rises awkwardly to continue the routine

As the trio picks-up where Trixie left-off.

I’ve seen this before— when the drunks

Tumble out of the Marconi Club on Bedford Street

Behind the billboards in the sharp spotlight of morning,

Mumbling for something better.
The applause is dampened

Soon after, as the Houselights slap a harsh "Last-Call"

And bewildered more than fulfilled, we pay our tab

In cash, leaving the weak, "everybody's-in" tip on the table.

It's a fast ride west on 6 toward home

Far too late at night, and there'll be hell to pay.

But it'll be okay because

I'm probably old enough now.

c.1959


                             

-catastrophic-

in images broadcast from weather reports,

the snowfall in Atlanta

appears to be a pleasant dusting.

but in crippled Atlanta, three inches

and children are held captive within

their classrooms.

teachers are made into heroes.

tepid milk is delivered by shaken lunch-

room staffers who then disappear

into the basements for an icy smoke.

It's two days and counting in Atlanta.

business is shuttered

and employees are cloistered

in cubicles behind their desks.

power flickers and fails.

a solitary death is reported as "possibly storm related".

paralytic automobiles and cracked
tractor-trailer rigs are scattered bumper to bumper,

bulldog ornament to mudflap pinup along the morbid,
arthritic strain of Atlanta's highways in stasis under three,
I say three, inches of snow, and city officials are reporting

there simply isn't enough salt.

January, 2014

-in this photograph-

prologue / the exteriors

the narrow, dirt-filled roadway they stand on
is designated as Way Street.

Way Street sits perpendicular to

and abutting tar-patched Healy Street.

to the immediate left of the plane

sits a small meadow of stiff, barren
overgrowth, no more of yellow than creased khaki
and to its left,  just out of frame, is Rachlin’s Junkyard.

running parallel to Healy, eastward, (looking into the document)

beyond the backyards and tenement houses 

lies traffic-filled Bedford Street.
between these streets, the salt of life, the arcing
clotheslines of the tenements air-dry the sheets and the heavy,
durable cloth of the working-class.

In this photograph, you’re looking at the back-

side of my burgeoning world.

four of the grade-school kids standing

side-by-side in a crooked row, saluting patriotically, are my cousins.

my sister, nearly three years my elder, barely in kindergarten,
is standing with them to the right of the line.

the world war is at its end and love of Country

is evident,— albeit a love screened by Hollywood

and the morning grammar school's droning recital 
of its pledge of allegiance.

the wooden rifle perched on cousin Johnny’s shoulder
has been fashioned in found wood by his Uncle Frank,

the great shoe-cobbler by trade to the textile laborers,
the utility and municipal service workers of the southend of town.

the rifle is jackknife cut, hand-planed  

and sanded smooth to the touch

without the addition of detailed functions.
"they won't work anyway".

I’m barely born.

everything is waiting for me.
the viewer is encouraged to walk into
and through the document, eastward from Way Street,
(feel free to toss a fast meadow stone into the junkyard's windshields)
cross Healy, hop the fence to the craggy backyards

teeming with productive grapevines

tangled beneath the airing of the lines,
pass the vegetable gardens where
the hornworms pant for tomatoes,

slither between the raw-weathered wood

of the shingled tenement houses, pass into and through

the atmosphere of sauces, of olive-

oils, onion, garlic and the baker's sweet, oven-crusted breads

to the open activeness of Bedford Street and the face

of what will become the enchantment of my early life.

                                                Quequechan

                              

the two-wheeled rag

to lubricate the chain

turn the bike upside down
to rest upon its handlebars.

remove the guard.

lubricate the bearings at the wheel hubs

then lightly oil the chain's links

while spinning the back wheel fast by the pedal.

this spinning was unnecessary,

but fun to do,–– a tactile experience

impressing the girls as a clever procedure.

we didn't react to their interest

but we knew about bikes.
the girls knew about attitude and striking distance.

it's those two natural instincts 

which would come to serve them well.
soon, the bike-riders will grow out of date
and the girls will seize the opportunity

closing the distance to introduce themselves.

that’s what's happened, boys.

that’s what's happened, young men.

that’s what’s happened, old-timer.

                                     

Hi, neighbor !

1.

The white,

Plastic injection-

Molded lawn and patio chairs

Are on sale at the Big-Box

Store in South Dartmouth

So Antoine takes a drive

On route 6 East to see ‘em.

And real beauties they are,

Stacked high on the floor

Press-fit into themselves

For optimum display.

If Antoine wants 4 of them

He’ll have to pull them

Out from the top of the pile

But he can’t reach the top, and blue-
Vested employees: "How May I Help You Today?"
Are nowhere to be found.

Antoine decides to count them from the floor up.

Maybe he can use 20 around the house;

Scatter some across the yard with plenty

To spare in the event that Harold the neighbor

Asks to borrow a few for his daughter’s

College graduation congratulations cookout get-together.

Take whatever you need, Harold.

Antoine’s glad to help out.

2.

Antoine remembers her

At the cusp of transition,

Cute as a button

Showing-up at the door

In the middle of the 8th knotted at 3,

Curious as to why only Antoine

Would talk to her about what goes on

Behind the shuttered scenes of her life.

Could be she doesn’t remember.

Could be she does.

Maybe Antoine shouldn't chance it.

Got the chairs on the lawn.

Got the ballgame tonight.

Got the urges down there.

Got the wife inside.

-Marilyn Monroe in Fall River-

leaving the first-floor tenement for our day at the beach,

Marilyn Monroe said she wanted to drive, but I told her "no!

I've seen you drive".

––It was raining lightly but the TV weatherman said:

"don't worry about it".
––Marilyn Monroe looked radiant in the rayon robe covering

her one-piece, and at the break above the hem, it fluttered

slightly in the warmth of the morning wind stopping just below the cruel

knot of its sash, then folded in on itself like an unanswered question.

––she slipped across then settled into the leathery passenger seat

of the '59 MGA roadster with a sweet swoosh, intensifying 
the imagery of her attitude.

––the ragtop was fastened securely to the windscreen, where 

mid-June's standing atmosphere filled the narrow cockpit

with a musty dampness, dabbed with the jasmine scent of No. 5. 

––once inside, Marilyn Monroe opened the sliding side-

curtain wherethrough rain droplets entered, beading upon her skin.

then she fucked-up the rear-view mirror as usual,

but this time to examine the underside of her chin and who knows why.

––but when the iPhone's early alarm chimed-in with Bach's 395th

whatchamacallit, ––I got out of bed, scratched the necessaries,

and took a moment to consider the dream, then

looked out the window toward the run of the slow, steely river.

-The late winter bride-

Loring Studio;

The best place in town

For the wedding portrait.

She's directed to pose as stiff

As a porcelain knick-knack,

The hand-assisted drape

Of her heavy wedding gown

Angled to the floor in closed-form precision.

Thin, flowing young woman,

Hair tightly fixed and decorated

Sits unaccustomed to the rigidness

Of portrait photography.

She knows only the living

Activities of the snapshot

Documenting her vitality.

Pictures on the fly.

For laughs.

For good-times at the beach.

For holding hands with friends

On a downtown window shopping spree.

Her young husband remembers her

Running fast with the boys

Behind the drenched summer ice-trucks.

"Loring Studio" will paint a false,

Brushed-red to her cheeks;

Move her beauty back

For the sake of artificial accomplishment.

One day her eldest son

Will write of this image,

Posting it for public consumption,

The bloated populous hovering in cyberspace.