-the first ones to say-

A clear night and the early
crescent Moon is hung
like a winking eye.

Stars increase their numbers

above the incandescent
streetlights glistening in amber.

Once, fishbowls of various candies

would sit uncovered on the counters;

all that me and others of my kind

were immediately drawn to in our passion for sweet stuff.

This is the time when Shopping Malls,

finely penciled in blue, lay unfurled

across the drafting boards of certain offices downtown.

Someone said: “We’re not alone.

                          There are people in Westport”.

Meanwhile, stars strengthened in number and luminosity

far above the waning, winking Moon.

Somebody said: “We’re not alone"

and the simple romance in the stars would need other considerations.

                                                    

-the night of the raccoon-

the facts of the case:

because of my early, albeit intense introduction of the interiors,

(tenement, school, church, 1953 Pontiac Chieftain)

I came to realize that any living thing flying or scurrying around the inside,

which would naturally belong to the realm of the outside, will become a horrifying

event to human inhabitants.

even a fluttering starling in the parlor will cause an immediate panic,

what with visiting uncles, aunts, the kids, a hamster or two...

doors and windows are flung open, there's screaming, brooms and rolled-

up magazines are at the ready, eight people scattering in different directions

and one kid’s holding a can of “RAID”! 

but because of these experiences, or in spite of them, I sleep with the bedroom

door closed and Wednesday night I awakened to a distressful scratching sound

from the other side and I don't have any pets.

striking the croquet field and the sighting:

a week prior to the bedroom door-scratching incident
as I was pulling-up the little wire wickets from the lawn,

an arduous task requiring intense optical scrutiny and a keen
sense of the field-of-play. (miss one and at next summer’s backyard

deck-party-cookout there’ll be hell to pay.)

I looked up from the pulling of the fourth wicket and there’s a raccoon

walking leisurely along the eastern tree line parallel to the river, quickening

its pace before it vanished into the thicket between the intentionally maintained

lawn of the backyard and the neighbor's unsightly stand-alone one car garage.

the return from the flashback:

as the scratching at the door ebbed, I got out of bed as quietly as possible,

listening then inching the door open.

nothing’s there.

looked for droppings.

floor’s clean.

looked for animal piss.

floor’s dry.

looked for a note on the door

and there it was:

“saw you standing on the croquet field on Wednesday  STOP

  you saw me, too, didn't you  STOP
  why don't you answer when I come calling  STOP"

epilog:

the dream is sporadically recurring and sometimes when I wake up,

tucked within that narrow breach between sleep and consciousness,

that space where dead friends begin their retreat and the falling,
the falling,
      falling,
            falling, begins to lessen in its effect,
I find myself puzzled by how I stumbled into
a crazy dream about a raccoon scratching at my bedroom door
and at the same time questioning what in hell I did with that note.

  

-a seasonal poem for Jenny-

I recall visiting people

during the time in my life

as a young adult when

I'd look forward to the visiting of people.

It was an era of communion of

personal interaction, a bonding of sorts

with others of my kind.

when invited, the visits were

for the most part, enjoyable

and the company of others

was almost always warm and

inviting.

then they served the coffee.

looking through the frequently

transparent glassware cups,
the festive glassware reserved for company
during the seasonal celebration,

one could peer beyond the lightly etched glass
of snowflakes and snow-capped hillsides, into
and through the sickly liquid to the other side of the room,

a weak translucence, a see-through liquid of something,

a liquid reminiscent of a watery form of purgatory where
the coffee may be served, but what is served is instead
a high venial sin.

home again and

dishes are piled-high in the sink,

I’m down to seeds and stems and one pair of socks.

but the coffee’s a pure, mud-luscious,

opaque black angel, perked and poured
from the pot to the mug and..ahhhhh, the glowing!

                           “mud-luscious” is respectfully

                             lifted from e.e.Cumings

                             

-An early résumé to a potential employer-

That day:

I had the pick of two astonishingly heavy
hospitality-type chairs, girth-wide, rigidly

upholstered to last into the next decade,

slightly angled toward one another for

no reason whatsoever, squatting before a metal,

utilitarian desk, behind which sat a guy, far younger than me,

rummaging through a short-stack of what may have been

the forms of applicants.
"I'll be with you in a moment."

Everything else laid upon the altar of his desk seemed
disarmingly orderly and senseless.

This résumé:

I enjoy a cold beer on occasion, and I like

listening to the opinions of Robert Pinsky,

Luciano Berio, the participants of dreams, Michele Goldberg,

the old Portuguese guy across the street, and Charles Bukowski.

I like a change of seasons to go along with my geography.

I like rainfall when hearing it from the inside, but especially

from the outside, tucked into small-city doorways.

(That appreciation is carried over from

c.1959–– a Main Street downpour with Gina Prosciutto after the movies.

We'd wait it out, then eat Chinese across the street at the China Royal)

I liked the scent of kerosine-fired heat in the morning,

its pungent scent of fuel, and anyone who tells me they enjoy

the acid stench of wood-burning stoves has a screw loose.

My father was a Teamster,

my mother a card-carrying

member of the I.L.G.W.U.,
but they didn't have to fight for any of it.
They just signed their names,
paid their dues and went to work.

That day:

I accept that nowadays I’m not very adventurous

and that an inherent knowledge of my youthful,

pioneering spirit is enough to get me through the moments

whenever the doldrums appear with their colorless faces.

I’m a white male with below-average upper body strength.
I'm left-handed and played the game that way.

I believe now more than I knew then, that

Lucy Ricardo was a conniving, outrageous

fiction of a woman;–– that

Laura Petri was reduced to a pleading wimp,

begging hubby for a few bucks to get a new hairdo;–– that

Alice Kramden was heroic,

and after all these years, June Cleaver still pisses me off.

Now, about those vacation days...

-Appreciations of winter-

Conversations turn to forecasts more frequently now,

And with a greater sense of urgency.

Gone is the "fried-egg-cooking-on-the-sidewalk" observation

Of last summer's heatwave,

––Bedsheets retreat from their lines, and

The rope makes little sense of itself,–– but

A warm-front in the weather finds the lines

Pinned with bedsheets again as neighborhood
Takes advantage of the breach.

––Heavy socks are given top-drawer priority;

Folded into themselves they rest there

Nestled side-by-side like buntings.

––There exists an interior scent to winter;

The scent of fuel on fire;

The exhaled heat has a dry, sweet breath.

(In winters past, out there, my early friends

Took-on the shape of fierceness.

I suppose to the same extent, I did, too.)

––Treading the hard-packed snow

There is heard a murmur to moving wheels,

(a sound akin to rubbing an inflated child's balloon, barehanded)

And too, beneath the soles of rubber boots on the march.

––The flesh is polished

To a brightness not found in the burn of summer.

––The ocean lifts and falls in its heavier weight.

––The river and the bay stiffen their backs

In the spirit of the mighty glaciers from whence they came.
––The windswept struggle of the high-collared passersby,

––The inner light at sundown, all the mewing gulls on the wing,

Change their attitudes within the drop of winter striking a more

Resilient sense of themselves.

-the good attitude-

consider a light beige

low-pile wall-to-wall carpet.

factor-in a semi-dry red wine,

upper mid range in price,
when considering price ranges
at the "Swansea Liquor Mart".

this bottle, a nice Pinot Noir.

imagine now, that someone’s

been shot in the head from behind at close range.

(here, we don't condone this type of behavior
and send condolences to all who have been
victimized by such aggression) 

let’s say the victim

has been removed from the scene

and forensic evidence has confirmed
the obvious conclusions.
"projectile trauma to the back of the scull".

consider now, an elongated splotch

of penetrating, Pinot Noir splattered outward

on a diagonal pattern across the plain of the beige wall-to-wall,

the wide pattern narrowing in trailings of little dots of red.

lamenting, I recall Neruda's: "The Soldier's Love"––


                    "..Now you can't dance any more
                     with your silk dress in the ballroom.

                     You'll wear out your shoes,
                     but you'll grow on the march.

                     You have to walk on thorns
                     leaving little drops of blood..."

            
It was a full goblet of a nice Pinot Noir.

I'm sorry for my troubles.

It’s a time-worn wall-to-wall.

It’s a nice semi-dry red.
the guy behind the counter said:
"It's a nice dry red".

a day or two hence and a power-loomed,
patterned scatter rug is purchased specifically for the cover-up.

a discontinued item. cost: twenty bucks and change.

                                        Swansea

                                        12/18/16

-the Visit-

we begin approximately 4 years ago:

the chair was purchased

as a bargain, reduced in price,

slapped with a big sticker: “SALE”!

the chair is classified as a “Recliner”

with a handle on the side which

activates by pulling it backward

while pushing the backrest with one’s torso

all the while tightening the muscles of the ass.

It thusly reclines,––

a few elements applied with one

continuous physical motion.

“The Chair”:

It’s very big, seems built for two by width,

upholstered in high-gloss, cobalt green material,

not remotely resembling a finely tanned leather.

but it’s on sale, price reduced, a real bargain.

the Visit, Sunday, December 18, 2016:

my Son and his Girlfriend visit from Los Angeles

where they live, love, and are justly employed by good works.

we watch football games an eat Linguine Fini

in red sauce, parmesan cheese shredded from the block,

with vienna bread and a nice Chianti Classico.

(near thirty bucks it cost me.)

they sit on the new couch, micro-fiber,

their place-settings spread-out on the large glass-top table

and I sit on the chair, that chair which devours me,

now slipcovered in a brown, cloth-like fabric

due to its age and annoying, sharp-edged splits in its material

which could not be avoided with normal body re-positioning,

eating and drinking in front of the “Ölevia” television set,

wide-screen, high definition.

                                                           Swansea

-let’s hear it-

father at the wheel,

the exhaled smoke

caresses the windshield

then parts outward

through the open windows

like the Sea of Reeds,

or death's angels
retreating from his lungs

to return another time.

mother

as close to the bobbin's needle

as eyes dare go

conning the material through —

there, at the tuck of laundered

sheets, then found at the sink, deeper
than the distance to my knees as I remember ––

hovering over the oilcloths,
sweeping the surfaces, ranging

in and out of the narrow pantry

into the kitchen's expanse,

the sole attendant to when
and where the supper dishes,––

washed, drained of water and leaning,
will be wiped and stacked, adding to
the weight and density
of the seemingly limitless cupboards.

father,

at the day's labor ended

sits in the easiest of chairs where
the ashtray's contents
are closing-in on its parameters,

the exhaled smoke is rising now.

mother,

at the day's labor ended

sits at the nucleus

of everything inside now completed.



                          the early goings on at 1017,
                          Quequechan 

-Yearbook-

Let's travel to a little variety store tucked into

The street-side corner of the “Flatiron” building on Plymouth Avenue.

There’s plenty of parking on this side of the avenue in mid-afternoon

And peaceful grassy islands separate the westside from the east-side.

Let's say this adventure begins during a time in life when I appeared

To be somewhat younger than my years, as opposed to a few years later

When my age showed-up, inviting itself to the glassy medicine cabinet

With a cold slap to the face.

––Let’s say I wanted a pack of cigarettes.

Let’s say at the time my brand is the same brand

That seemed to take pleasure in killing my father.

––The small sign hanging over the entrance reads:

“Mackenzie's Variety,” but I don't make a connection.

It’s one of those hot summer months, early August and the door

Is screened, but there aren't any jingling, spring-loaded bells hanging

Above it, so when it's pushed open the silence takes me by surprise.

––It’s not a chain store. It’s not brightly lit.

It’s not manufactured for the hard sell.

Everything seems to be geared toward the purchase of afterthoughts;

The missed items of yesterday's list,––

The forgotten loaf of bread or the dozen eggs

Somebody always seems to need right away

And I'm guessing it's not usually busy with customers.

I wonder how the guy behind the counter pays his bills.

––I realize the moment I close-in on his face;— "Bill Mackenzie."

Interlude:

In the cluttered Office of the Vice Principal we stand;

Young cigarette smokers busted and facing adjudication.

Mackenzie and me.——

“Can I help you, pal?”—

“Umm...yeah. uhh..pack of Luckies.”—

––Mackenzie never did like eye-contact.
His vertical field of view stopped at the neck.
Back in time, nobody seemed to care enough to notice.

Well, except for me which might be the reason I'd come to write poems.

––I remember we shared a long Pall Mall,

Yanked by Mackenzie's fingertips from his oldman's pack
And standing behind a covering tree, passing it from hand to hand,
Let's say a couple of drags each before we were nabbed.
Now, fetching my Luckies, Mackenzie looks older than his years.

––I pay-up in cash money

Laid out on the counter as if I was placing a bet

And pulling the same eerily quiet screen door I pushed to get in,

Walked out to the avenue.

-attitudes in critical behavior-

Submissions, Mount Holyoke College,

South Hadley, Massachusetts, 01075

Mount Holyoke submission guidelines

demand "Impeccable Virtuosity"

and recent poems are tucked neatly
into a FedEx three-day with my money.

enclosed: four "one-side" submissions,

cover letter, and a check for twenty bucks.

the "requirements form" states in conclusion

that the chosen poet will be granted a reading
at the storied, liberal arts university.

I imagine it thusly:

––the young women of Mount Holyoke

drift casually into the Great Hall for the reading,
taking positions without quarrel,

on their guard against fraud and neutrality,

cool-blooded in the face of the poem-writer's sweat,

the nervousness in the vocal quavers,

the immature swallows of dryness interrupting
syllables in mid-phrase, –– the intimate setting in polished

mahogany, the blood of the wood reddened with nearly

two centuries of age.
the young women of Mount Holyoke, engaging,
studied, curious and critical, some reclining
on the floor, resting their young, blood-colored
elbows upon a great, hand-knotted Persian,

(looks authentic from here)
as others position themselves, leaning lithely against

the sills at the base of towering leaded-glass windows

where during the reading even a glance to the outside,

and the poor schmuck at the lectern will know he's done for.

-to travel there-

-We have the blood of the Wampanoag.
But the blood is on our hands-

we went looking for water.

not that which is salted,

which moves inward and outward,

which is driven by the moon's pleasure,
which is driven to by the authority of our fathers,

but water, fresh and still,

not far from where the sunburned, compressed people

who complained of the heat, who traveled to saltwater,

then dog-paddled into the stingers of jellyfish.

so we pedaled our bicycles
eastward to fresh water,

up the hill passing the great holding-tanks
and pumping station of the Waterworks at the Narrows,
leaving the city behind us,

riding into the forest and through the dense

narrow pathways, then doing little of anything
when we reached the water.

but we’d lay-down our bikes

(the kickstands nearly useless to us)

upon the ground of high, cracking

meadow and scrub-grass strewn with rock and stone.
then we'd walk around smoking cigarettes.

the forest of the sweeping Watuppa

Reservation was dense

and its great, freshwater ponds

were laying before us like sheets in burnished metal.

now the city was low at our backs,

disappeared from our line of sight.

we were too young to appreciate the history of this place,—

the latitude and longitude of all that remains here,

that in the 17th century, a young native woman,

Sachem warrior, Weetamoo of the Pocasset Wampanoag

waged war against the English "coat-men"

who step-by-step and with terrible deception

sopped-up her land laying fence by fence
for the holds of their cows and pigs.

and they forced her to run, run for her life,
then to drown in the Taunton River

then stole her body from the river and stuck her head,

severed, to be displayed on a pike as a warning
to others of her nature, at the banks of the steely Taunton.

there were limitations in time allowed to us
by our parents and before the sun would set,

we'd be stuffing our mouths with sweet, "double-bubble"

chewing gum to mask the bitter slick of tobacco

coating our tongues.

to our credit we snuffed our cigarettes on rocks
resting there from the last age of ice,
and tossed the butts into the water,
amused at the "shiners" creeping up for a taste, 

then, straddling our bikes

at the deepening twilight, we rode

from the heights of the Narrows, the drenched Watuppa
once known as a Nation to the great Pocasset Wampanoag,

westward through the long narrow pathways to the steep,

paved road, coasting downward toward our neighborhood 

not far from where the water laid-down fresh and still behind us.

                                                                 Quequechan