-first things: 3/22/16-

I'm informed this morning

via the "Writer's Almanac" webpage

of the birthdate of poet Billy Collins;

This, after reading in the N.Y. Times on-line

reports of the bombings in Brussels;

This, not long after reports of the carnage in Paris.

Billy's been quoted as saying

that in Paris as a visiting teenager

he once sat at a cafe table with a small
group of people which included Gregory Corso.

News of the bombings was horrifying,—

Scores dead at the airport and the subway station.

Scores dead as in most bombings.

I enjoy reading Corso. 

Collins didn’t say if he still does.

Maybe Corso was a passing phase at his younger,
more adventurous staging in life.

As a kid, Collins fantasized driving cross country
like Neal Cassidy, but couldn't because he said,—
which made me laugh,— "there was always

a test to study for, or band practice".

It was a humorous addendum to the musings
of a teenage poem-writer-dreamer who spent a summer
in Paris in the 1950s and there, snacked with Gregory Corso.
A light snow fell last night.

In the kitchen I poured a second cup and pushed-
open the shuttered windows in the downstairs bedroom
overlooking the backyard's peaceful standing for the cat's interest

before finding my way back to the Times on-line and to bloodshed

in Brussels.

-Joe Powell Requiem-

one day I’ll vanish from the Earth.

I’ll bite the dust one day;

head to the last round-up.

I’ll croak, I'll buy the farm;

the farm at the last link of the chain,

the exit to eternal plantation.

one day I’ll go to Miami.

I'm anticipated although unknown.

I’ll show-up in colorful shorts,

the calf-high support hosiery 

fitted neatly into their loafers.

this is where the gleaming
fiberglass motor yachts from "Delaware" tie-up

after they’ve seen the gay wharves of Newport.

in the end, they all come to look for Miami.

one day I’ll tie-up
starboard to the glassy "Betty Jean"

namesake to Betty Jean Keenie,

elected Queen of the Hop, who
ran through her early life on granite-

headed Quarry Street, then croaked

an old widow with a smile on her face

in solar-infested Miami.

my old friend Joe will be waiting there;
good ol' Joe Powell, the guy who failed at textile design,
who failed at marriage and the taking of Pleasant Drugs, 

but nabbed a nifty spot on the grassy knoll beneath

a real nice grouping of chrysalidocarpus lutescens.

one day the cold wind will no longer
freeze my skin.

one day I’ll lay down stiff as a starched

french speedo.

I'll vanish from the Earth, one day.

one day I’ll go to Miami.

-living in state-

I've considered running down the road, the road

laying parallel to the Taunton River encouraged

by those who do whenever spring comes around.

I'm not nearly as young as they who run down the road.

It’s that time, that closing stanza when even the most

fundamental of things require new considerations.

I might collapse if I run down the road.

I’m counseled against shoveling snow

via public service announcements.

It won't alarm anyone if I start smoking cigarettes,

but they'll yell at the kids.

I've lost confidence while waiting on the bench

for my eye examination at the DMV— and

of the eggs I’m frying this morning,

they might be the last fried eggs of my life,

crackling and popping in their bed of extra virgin olive oil.

so I find myself thinking of writing the final poem

within the next few days while I’m still around to do it,
understanding the necessity of having to be particularly

disciplined at sticking the ending,–– 

something better suited to the already dead.

-Spot of Paradise Wandering-

Notations:

What are all those pesky hydrogen molecules up to now?
The prophets of surrender have said:
"Agh! if it's not one thing it's another!"

Then there are those who've accused the turbulent
hand of God for these measurements;
its predilections, indulgences, its eccentric

conclusions in triage.

Priest says: "We cannot reason away the ways of God".

And this was told to them in the children's wing.
––Later, it was determined that

"Hartley’s" pork pies on South Main are the best in town,

so I'll go there tonight for a 9 inch pie to travel.

––It was last afternoon that I read random selections

from Günter Eich's "Angina Days",

a gift to me from my son, born of his mother
near the northern banks of the meandering Ohio.

Earlier in August of 1976:

We'll leave for the hospital at Gallipolis while we're still young,

the heavily creased roadmap at the ready, trusting that a vital

exit isn't lost in the time-worn crevice of the fold.
We'll leave when the time is right, which is to say, whenever she says so.

Back to the neighborhood in the present time:

Traveling South Main after closing the book on "Angina Days",
I found the crusts of the pork pies at "Hartley's" resting earth-
colored confined to their tins beneath the counter under glass

presented in rows, columns on a tray, warm to the touch.

–– what if anything of substance is left for me to do now,
but simply choose the one, or the other one.

-Gallipolis-

I was conned into a small waiting room

wall-stenciled in cartoon storks

carrying hammocks of infants in their beaks.

although two other men in the waiting room

seemed calm, fanning through "Boys Life"

and "Fresh-Water Angler" I saw them as

apprehensive, chain-smoking wrecks

pacing like caged elephants close to lunacy.

time seemed impossible to measure 

when the wall-phone buzzed my name

and a woman's voice in Kentucky drawl announced:

“William, you can see your wife now.”

I assumed they were simply preparing her,
strapping her down upon the gurney 

for the arduous task of first delivery. 

I entered to chaos, the frantic

activity of a darkened room where

sympathetic handmaidens dab the sweltering
beads of sweat from her face.
an apparatus is placed between her clenching teeth.

otherworldly implements ping through the atmosphere,—

dank, imperative, near punitive.
attendants, whose hands are soaked sterile
beneath the pouring of cheap whiskey
stand upon sawdusted floorboards as cast-
iron kettles are carried inside from the squealing
hand-pumps of the deep water wells on the sprawling,
southern frontier of Ohio.

rather, she rests quietly
in a private room on the late-side of light,

glowing in August closing rapidly and she said to me:

“Have you seen him"?

and all the inexhaustible beauties.
and all the advancing glaciers.

the circle is two dimensional

there will come a day when the undertaker

will strip us of our clothes.
we’ll lie in brightly lit rooms on tables of stainless steel

unlike the tables we're used to with nobody else around

unlike the rooms we've come from.

––this happened to Tommy Imbriglio, early drowned

below still water at the foot of his fatal ledge, and to Peter Cipollini,

rolled beneath the wheels of the "NEHI" grape-soda truck on Bedford

between the right-field fence and the pumps at Whitey's Esso, and

to Sandra D'Adamo, fifth grade, vandalized by leukemia, replaced

with formaldehyde and to star-crossed luminaries like Jayne Mansfield.

––the population therein is bloodless and silent.

there is no praying. time's up. no one is vying for favored returns.

there’s no one to vote against when the machinery of life does not exist

and unlike the pastoral images pushed our way by early catechism pamphlets,

small furry animal life is nowhere to be found.

––who then will lead us to the lamb of god?

residing in stasis we are dressed for exhibition,––

the terrible suits of clothes, the ultimate afterthought,
the patting of powders and the always intrusive lily-
scented perfumes spritzed to our faces to close the deal
after pathologists complete the prosecution of our livers
whenever foul play is suspected.–– but first,

residing in the here and now, the sonorous

mezzo opens the wrenching "Lament" of "les Nuits d'été"––

the collective whoosh of formal material accompanies 
as the first violins attack with the strokes of their bows
across the strings of their instruments.

with Frederica von Stade / Symphony Hall, Boston /  October, 1983.


                             



                        
                               


                          

-Albert Pinkham Ryder on rice paper-

for the graphic's department assignment, I considered a photo of Albert Pinkham Ryder

printed on a Braziller Publication's book jacket featuring representations of Ryder's pictures and determined that I would cut his likeness into a block of wood.

so I purchased a 6x8 block, (resingrave) black printer's ink, one hard rubber roller, a couple of specialty knives, tools for gouging, and sheets of fascinating, tactile rice paper from

the school’s art supply store, then proceeded to the bowels of the printmaking department with my goods, and an art student's indefatigable attitude. 
when the block's inverted drawing was done, I began to cut into it for the image,–– 

the cut-away areas serving as negative spaces, then inked the raised surfaces of the block with the hard, rubber roller, placed a slightly oversized sheet of rice paper atop the block, and using the barrel-end of the knife, pressed and briskly rubbed the paper into the ink until I was satisfied that the image was completely transferred to the rice paper.

peeling back the paper, I liked the sharp-edged contrast of the black and white image and continued inking and transferring a number of sheets in the hope of selling some, as I recall

for around 15 bucks a print,–– with my personal signature, with "Ryder" noted as the named subject, a notation as to the numbers run in sequence to 30, with additional prints, each designated as an "art proof" and the date created: 1965.

some prints were given as gifts, or traded with other students for their own woodcut prints or intaglios of various luminaries, and others submitted to art-shows which is where the 15 bucks was applied.

the Ryder woodcut seemed to be a hit among my brethren, and even the visiting president of the "Underwood Deviled Ham Company" purchased one for his collection, Ryder's link to New Bedford being a contributing factor in Julian Underwood's deliberations.

I guess 15 bucks was a lofty sum to shell-out for a print from an unknown, snot-nosed art student in 1965.

emboldened by financial gain, I matted and framed another print, and presented it to my girlfriend who was on the run through the narrow corridor from "Art History" heading to "Figure Drawing" where she latched on to it with a quick, free hand, as slick as Wilma Rudolph to a relay baton.

along with my art school buddies, my scurrying girlfriend, and the "Underwood Deviled Ham" guy, my younger brother in Florida has one, and my son who lives in Los Angeles, has one, and a niece living in Brooklyn, with husband, daughter, and cats of her own, who was 2 years old when I gouged Ryder's image into a resingrave block, –– she has one.

-Easter-time blues-

Jesus said:
ugh...

this guy's feet stink.—

basin water’s turning to mud.

look at those toenails,—

brittle, curled-in, yellow as a parrot's beak.

this is my job.

Jesus said:
I’m a carpenter of wood

turned washerman to the foot.

one hand for the lathe––

one hand for the washbasin.

I’m open for business.
O come all ye to the rock of ages! —

sign says:

“I Am That I Am & Son” open-air marketplace

for the washing of feet.

Jesus is saying:

now I hear they're out to get me.

I should learn.

I should keep my mouth shut.

I’m quite mad, you know —

madder than the hatter!

distressed, Jesus says:
ugh...

the guy next in line

looks like Jerry Rubin.

I should tell him:

"sorry, fella.
temporarily out of service"—
send him on his way,
maybe Papa can shelve him for Chicago.
ugh...damn!

look at those feet.

goddamn !  hey! listen, fella !

I need to see a ticket !

you got a ticket, buddy?

you should’ve taken a ticket, man !

listen.

for chrissakes, I'm begging you.

wash your own goddamn feet !

-The fullback in the poem-

What wouldn't normally cross my mind

on any given morning are thoughts of Red Grange.

But reading Bukowski hawking

"Rossini, Mozart and Shostakovich"

after eating Japanese is always a good idea.

Red Grange was a fullback out of Chicago, where

the slaughterhouses worked overtime on whacking

the clueless cattle, electro-prodded
through the narrowing chutes to the end of the line.

Red's oldman worked the lumberyards somewhere near

Forksville, Pennsylvania— but Charles Bukowski

wrote his poem mentioning Red Grange upon

reading in the papers that he had died, incorporating

his name into the body of the poem which

didn’t elaborate on the career of the "Galloping Ghost"

nor even listening to Rossini, Mozart or Shostakovich, —

rather, eating Japanese, a red-bean ice cream dessert,

(his wife declines)

a war going on in the Gulf, smoking
cigarettes imported from India, counting

4 cats sleeping out of 6 cats total in the house

and news of the death of Red Grange

is simply caught-up in the long night's mix
which in turn becomes the poem.

after reading a selection from

Bukowski's "Last Night Of The Earth Poems"

-Pleasant drugs-

A pleasant afternoon for a walk by the river.

Or a drive in the country would be nice;
––Westport, along the beach.
Maybe I'll just stick around the neighborhood,

and take-in a little league game at the ballpark.

The game's probably in the middle innings by now,

but what the hell.

I'll cut through the meadow behind the billboards.

Ah! I can smell Marcucci's Bakery!

I'll pop inside and grab a slice or two.

On the close approach to the ballpark,

the cumulus cloud looming over the backstop

looks like a human head wearing a brimmed cap.

Another one, a feathery, is brushed

over the designated visitor's dugout, looking like

some sort of a fish, but that's a stretch.

A passing motorcycle makes the menacing

roar the biker longs to hear.

Says "Norton" in bold-gold lettering across the teardrop tank.

Yeah. I hear you, "Norton".

The whole fucking neighborhood hears you. Nice bike, though.

Impressive sound. It thunder's its underdog name for all to hear.

Good for you, "Norton"!

I wonder what it is the rider dreams of.

I don’t like the sound of aluminum bats,

that mid-range clink of a note, its weak

reverberation when contact is made, — sounds like

a mid-range note from a xylophone key

when tapped with its muted ball-headed mallet.

Give me the thick, opaque, no reverb knock of the ash

any day of the week.

Two-a-side, top of the 5th,
"Clippers" v. "Comets" and nearing twilight.
The shortstop, hunched and swaying
like a caged pachyderm drones to torment

the "Comet" at the plate: “nobatta'nobatta'nobatta'nobatta'..."

I'll nab a good spot at the fence at the third base line.

Long absorbed into the atmosphere,

the cumulus cloud seen over the backstop

on my approach to the ballpark drifts slowly to mind.

At the top of the fifth, knotted at six, it would be inappropriate

to recall the feathery that looked like some sort of a fish.

Fall River

                                               

  

-Toilers of the Sagamore-

I recall certain aspects of my past
with more clarity than other recollections

which today I know to be true, or at least,
elements cling to a modicum of "truth enough"

to justify truth in the telling.

here, I'll recall the inner hatband stitcher

although I don’t remember my mother

as ever sewing anything inside the house,
not even the hem of a garment,

or of there being a sewing machine

inside the house in the way there was
an ironing board or the television or sugar,
and although I never actually saw
my mother at her work station, stitching by machine,
the leather inner hatbands exclusively for the heads of men,

I know for a period in time, that’s what she did.

occasionally, I’d ride along with my uncle Frank to pick-her-up,

(my father, on the road somewhere beyond Buzzards Bay)

along with her sisters, Frank's wife among them
as the first shift came to an end at four o'clock;
the young,— mostly young women,

the Italian, the Portuguese, the French and Irish

poured from the great textile mill
through its large set of wooden double doors,
high above street level as if the sweltering factory displaced
its own weight in the late afternoon atmospherics, the doors
held open by non-union men in white shirts and neckties,
and from the double-wide space, the women descending the rough-
sawed granite steps as in a glistening stream flowing over stones

to the waiting cars of their men, the engines running,

always the engines running, and their men waiting there
and Uncle Frank and me waiting there with them.

(as this writing was progressing, I was assuming the end result

would find the women descending, weary, sullen-faced, silent..

but here are the lady garment workers of the Sagamore,

the card-carrying members of the I.L.G.W.U., the drenched,
color-beaded flow of them, stepping downward,

talking among themselves, planning their suppers, planning
a possible Saturday afternoon at the "Narrows", the green
and wooded Watuppa Reservation's picnic grounds,–– descending,

laughing, touching one another as if nothing of the inside had happened.

                                leaving the "sweatshops" / Quequechan, 1952 / 1955

-if you went to the little store-

If you went to the little store

the one on the corner

the one painted red with bigger

street-side windows than you have in your house,

the store where the sign reading "Cigarettes"
with a big, tubular, filter-tipped beauty

burning from its head a veil of seductive

smoke, pure blue-white, coiling upward

intrigued every time;

the store where one day the kid from 1026 Stinziano

crossed the street from the park to ask

old man Schnozzola if he could use the toilet and was told:

"Go piss behind the billboards like everybody else"!—

the store where the scent of fatty cold-cut meats

and vinegar permeated the air where the flies
last landings were preserved on the entrails
of a more contemporary application in amber
and compartments gleaming with packs of fresh Lucky Strike,

longed to link-up with the fatal passions of your father;

"he said he'll pay you next week"—

but you're far too busy with the goings on

of your daily requirements with no time allotted to consider
such encounters in triviality as in once, "going to the little store"—

well, this poem is not for you.

                                                       Quequechan