-the art of setting the scene-

there was a quiet, or better said,
reserved tenacity to my mother
in the ways of setting the interior scene,
the diligent arrangement of physical space, 

the adroitness in the art of layering,

the calm technique of folding cloth
and the urgency displayed 
when making-up beds in the morning
while they still retained a lingering warmth
from the long night's sleep.

when detailing, the figurative knick-knack

was held within her graceful palm while deciding
where the piece would best be placed for optimum viewing
and when the destination was determined, as upon the mantle,

a doily was set in place,

then a small teacup-type saucer was placed
atop the doily, then the glossy figurine
was set in place upon the saucer

resting on the doily laid upon the mantle.

reflecting, and I'm not certain, but I believe
she once started making-up my bed
beginning at the foot while I was still asleep.

schoolday or not, "wake up"
meant "wake up right now" at our house.

then the recurring story of laundered socks
was told whenever the dresser drawers were opened
and the socks were seen laid-out, folded like crêpes,

never the pairs tucked into themselves forming
piles in textile bladders which she perceived as vulgar
and an insult to her common labors.

here’s another thing:

I was told early in life that after the flies
were snuffed-out beneath the wire mesh of the swatter,
I should clean-up the residue on the counter with toilet paper
and NOT the dishrag neatly folded over the faucet at the kitchen sink

and if some such procedures were followed at your house, I'd say
your mother was as tenacious in the art of setting the scene as my mother.

                                                                                    Quequechan

-the citizen-

last night I wrote Neruda’s

“The citizen”.

the dream didn’t

portray me in the process of

writing it down, rather, simply implying

my ownership of it.

at one point people came to me

asking about “The citizen”— of how

I came to write such a poem.

one aggressive young man

pulled-up a chair and sat
at my table with his sharp

elbows indenting the oilcloth

and his little polished fists

with their scrubbed-red knuckles

pushing into the sides of his face

waiting to hear me speak about

“The citizen”.

this happened as we sat
inside a small beatnik-type cafe
beneath a large

wall poster of Nina Simone,—

her full face half-covered

in shadow and at the base

in bold caps the name: “NINA”.

it was as if she was being introduced
and the vision of this poster hanging

inside the small cafe
is the only element of the dream

that I can say presented a measure of truth.

-17 November past-

the Leonid meteor shower was anticipated

but fell behind an overcast sky last night.

I went outside anyway.

maybe one will break the flint of atmosphere,

crackle like sulfur, piercing the low-lying cover.

It'll scratch the eyeballs of Earth if it does.

It's a cold, relentless drizzle of rain which calls
my passion into question.

I consider the latest weather application

but I don’t want my phone to get wet

so it stays in my pocket.
besides, nobody calls at 2:15 in the morning.

well, not the way they used to.

I'll retreat to the house, towel-swipe my thinning hair

then drift to sleep imaging the Leonid meteors
streaking behind the denseness of the pall above me
comforted in the knowledge that

the falling tree in the forest makes a sound

when nobody’s there because, damn it, it just does.

-morning, November 19-

By the time I've washed-up and dried-up

the coffee’s perked and I drink it.

To take a look outside

I'll open the heavy drapery
from the large double-doors
overlooking the deck, which
from the east railing faces the river.
Nothing's going on to the north or to the west,
well, not within my line of sight.

Southward, Narraganset Bay seems drifting
like a blue-grey ream of steel rolled into Rhode Island Sound. 
The season confronts me without quarrel, and winter closes in.

Inventory is taken
of the stores in three-day old

to be ripped and scattered across
a patch of backyard to the benefit of the birds.

I’ll get to them eventually.

A Les Murray poem

I read last night comes to mind
from the volume:
"Subhuman Redneck Poems"––
one which I’ve read a number of times

and although I can't say the goings on in New South Wales
hold residence in my daily activities, the poem  
seems to stimulate the senses, particularly relevant
given the hard history of cotton processed in my own community.
It opens thusly below its unassuming title:

"The Family Farmers' Victory"

"White grist that turned people black,
  it was the white cane sugar
  fixed humans as black or white. Sugar,
  first luxury of the modernizing poor.

  It turned slavery black to repeat it.
  Black to grow sugar, white to eat it
  shuffled all the tropic world. Cane sugar
  would only grow in sweat of the transported".

I set my sites on the keyboard

without a plan or diagram or page to pounce on the screen.

The story develops as clarity develops,
an image which might expose itself in a little while
and if that happens, the birds will have to wait for their bread,
maybe 'till tomorrow.
those feedings will be referred to as rips and scatterings in four-day old.

Swansea

-after the holiday meal

I was drawn to the parlor where

the fraternity of work-a-day men

sat bullshitting over the outer-

movements of their labors.

particularly interesting was the way

in which they'd pay attention

to each "bellyacher's" annoyance,

a kinship formed by a fundamental

acknowledgment of the brotherhood,

each participant nodding like bobble-

headed Mussolini impersonators

employing the requisite facial expressions

with every topic under discussion

bobbing and nodding in compliance

of having been there,

the muscles of their faces

slowly contracting, dropping at the jaw-lines,

the lower lips pulling the wrinkling

chins along for the ride.

"damn kids today"...

       "that stroonce at the gas station"...

              "that son-of-a-bitch nephew of mine"...

"y' know Tony at the A & P?

wife dropped dead.

just like that.

ya never know".

ya never know.

ya never know...

and with their hands intruding

into the beltways

stopping at the heavier row of knuckles

I’d walk back to the kitchen

to look at the women

as they washed and wiped, swiped

and scraped, wrapped and stacked,

criss-crossing

one another over the linoleum

in the ensemble’s after-the-meal

kitchen ballet.

that’s where the action was.

the older women, the pros,

know what to do

as the youngest among them

timidly await instruction.

the novice able to reach the shelf at the top

is given the opportunity to do so.

through the narrow hallway,

the newlywed gone missing

from the kitchen's activity

is soon found in the parlor,

sitting on the armrest

of her husband's easy-chair,

one leg tucked behind the other,

her forearm draping his shoulder

listening intently

to the masters-of-complaint.

she listens through the smoke,

through the sounds of heavy digestion,

occasionally adding a smile, frown,

a shake of her head or sigh

of sympathetic understanding

anxious for her husband,

the parlor's "complainer-in-training"

to offer the strength of his unique contribution,

neither yet realizing

her proper place in the system of things.

                                                   c.1951

-movietime erotica-

I was thirteen years old,

when with a mouthful of jellied "Dots"

the palm of my hand slipped slowly beneath

the hem of Cynthia Lasagna’s blue-checkered dress

just above the knee when she shifted fast in her seat

pivoting her legs toward the aisle and my hand fell

dumbly to the side of emptiness.

this happened on Pleasant Street, the southend section of town

drenched in the blue-grey flashing light of the Strand Theater

east-side of "Zeke's Coney Island" west-side of "Pleasant Drugs"—

front row of the balcony where the pages of enlightenment were turned.

––the groping boys introducing themselves

to the girls of their dreams from the back rows

on the rising slope high above us were the first to be nabbed

by the pimple-headed ushers pushing their way through

the swinging doors like skinny brownshirts in training

on the goose-step with flashlights ablaze, dancing spots of light

over the clumsy embraces of the clueless back-benchers and believe me,

it's in the front row of the balcony where the explorations of young love continued

without the impediment of authorities doing their jobs at one dollar an hour.

when you shake

a box of "Dots"

nothing happens.

there’s no sound.

they cling together

like pigs squeezing

into the farthest

corner of the sty

because they know

something’s up.

but your hand’s gotta show-up in the balcony

where the rite-of-passage is handed down from cousin to cousin.

–– It's not that I understood the natural order of things

just because the jellied "Dots" stuck together.

–– but Cynthia Lasagna’s blue-checkered dress was better

for me than Betty Spaghetti’s hand-me-down slacks

or Lori Gnocci's impossible petticoated poodle skirt.

later, as the Strand played-out, the "Dots" began to tumble

into the palm of my hand as did the knee beneath the hem of the blue-

checkered dress of the ever-young Cynthia Lasagna.

Quequechan

          

-the invaluable associate-

outside, a vertical rain settles the barbed

pollen, the dogs have shut their snouts, and

lawn-mowers sit gasoline-scented, ensconced 

within the spacious two-stalls, anticipating dryness.

when the coffee’s perked

and ready to pour, the screen

of the high-speed connector seduces,

ready to perform its play in the round

across the plane of the universe.

the navigation proceeds across 

Its operating system opening pathways

into everything from bacterial

populations to quasars,— all within

the distance of my planetary fingertips, ––and

sometimes it's crowded when one is alone in a room.

                                                      

                                                 

                                                     

-The “fool me once fool me twice” Eulogy-

It was the 4th of April

And I still wouldn’t open the closet door

In the bedroom I shared with my younger brother.

He didn’t define “April Fools’ Day”

The same way most others did with innocuous
(although immediately thrilling) fool’s-hooks of:

“Hey! We’re getting out early today”!

Or the kid with a fresh-cut “Beezer” telling me:

“Pamela Mello said she likes you”.––

My little brother was not so fundamental.

Rather, he was inventive at engineering the fool's caper
Like a mad magician with his hand in the top hat

And he wants me to open the closet door.

He’s been asking me to it for 3 days running.

He must think I’m an idiot.

Look at him, sitting at the edge of his bed,

Same pajama pattern as my pajama pattern,

Penguins, of all things— and staring me down

Like a Slasher in a B-movie just before the kill.

I’m finding myself growing weary of the hunt,
Falling into his trap by thinking:
Maybe it’s okay.

Maybe he’s afraid to open the door

And I’m his big brother

So he wants me to reassure him

That there aren’t any monsters in the closet.

After-all, it’s April 4th, not April 1st.

But that face,— those goo-goo eyes,— the little sneer of the mouth,

The underlying anticipation tingling throughout

His central nervous system...

And yet, as always, I opened the closet door,

Inch-by-inch until the last fraction of resistance gave way 

And bundles under pressure, the soft-packed
Stuff of his cunning, tenacious campaign came falling
Down upon my head.

He waited 3 days for me to surrender to his diabolical scheme. 

But time was irrelevant to my little brother and I was doomed
From the moment the plan was hatched in his brain.
He would have waited 'till Hell froze over for me to open that door.

                                                                                    c. 1952

                                                                                

-Annie's rationalization-

I listened-in

from the hallway

as she told her guest

over coffee and cookies

at the kitchen table

that the flies

come in from the junkyard.

I assumed they made

their home

inside that snazzy powder-

blue Henry J

I had my eyes on

for a couple of days

sitting on four flat tires

its body near rust-free

behind the fence near the gate.

that’s the one I’d live in if I was a fly.

maybe the flies enter the kitchen

on holiday outings

in groups of three or four,

their kids zig-zagging the air

having fun playing tag.

the big ones, having earned

the "housefly" moniker

could be found sunning themselves

at the windowpane over the sink

or snacking at the base of the breadbox lid.

the lucky ones will return

to the junkyard's Henry J

at the opening of the screen door

when the guest departs

after the last close encounter

with Annie's mad-headed swatter.

nowadays, there are times when

writing of certain moments recalled

in living the life inside my earliest house

it's as if the troubadour is singing to my ear:

“not much is really sacred”.

 Quequechan

“It’s from the south! Naples!”

A true story from yesteryear tapped-out in the form of a column: 

I yearned to know the ways in which Jews eat spaghetti.

So I’m invited to the Meckelberg’s house

for dinner and some early evening television.

Mrs. Meckleberg served-up spaghetti for dinner

probably in honor of my visit.

After some weak-assed soup,

she cleared the deeper dishes from the table,

and below these deeper dishes were

shallower, flatter, wider plates where

the strands of spaghetti would lie.

Two small gravy boats

were placed on the table for those wanting

extra tomato sauce.

Mrs. Meckelberg then laid out sparkling forks and tablespoons

side by side next to the plates.

I understood the fork addition, but we already had soup.

So why the tablespoon?

Vienna bread (cut with a knife), grated cheese,

iced water, cloth napkins, (who knew about linen?)

and that deep-bowl of a tablespoon, all laid-out for the feast.

What’s that tablespoon for?

My friend Edward Meckelberg, their only child,

was seated on the other side of table,

too far away to ask, and I couldn’t ask anyone else

without sounding dull-witted.

Edward dug into the spaghetti like a fierce

animal at the butt-end of the slowest impala,

using his frantic fork to twirl the strands,

resting the tines of the fork in the bowl

of the tablespoon provided by his mother

which seemed to function like an assistant

to the magic act of swirling spaghetti.

It was awkward, but I followed his lead, forking,

spooning and twirling the drenched strands of spaghetti

whose sauce was rather bland in relation to my standards.

Back home, I asked my young mother why

the Meckelbergs used tablespoons while eating spaghetti,

but she didn’t know,— neither did my father.

My mother, however, took it seriously enough to ask

my maternal grandmother who replied in agitated italian:

“E’ da sud! Napoli"!

And that's how I learned the ways in which Jews eat spaghetti.