-the profundity of certain parts-

due to our advancements in detection and tracking

we’re no longer leaving much behind in the classification

of artifacts for future archeologists to discover.

they'll no longer be able to realize what's what with our parts.

we'll make it a dying field of endeavor.

when the Sputnik fell back to Earth we saw it coming

and gathered every surviving fragment for preservation.

the archeologists of the future will be left empty-handed

when it comes to the Sputnik.

they’ll dig up the bones of men like me and wonder how

we survived such a primitive existence.

they’ll saddle me a nickname.

“Todd”, they'll call me, "Tod" for chrissakes!

there I'll be in a seated position just above a near-

complete Motorola, calcified in the rock.

they’ll dig and brush to find me draped-over the cathode-ray tube,

buried years before me and dig-up my big toe bone and the vertical-

hold knob, just under the once, great cathode-ray tube.

so, we’ll leave the archeologists to our bones and the bones

of our dear departed appliances, and they're entitled to them, I suppose.

but not to the bones of the Sputnik. no-siree-bob!

dem dry, Russkie bones is ours.

-September 22, 2016, 8:15 PM-

after a twilight supper, (wide egg noodles in butter

with steamed broccoli and a nice young Chianti) a pleasant
night's walk out-front where the road is, Mars is seen

far above the tree line in the northeastern sky.

––It was noticed as a burnt-red smear, but faded

slowly  behind a drifting, sporadic cloud cover, but

rose again as it does in a playful god’s-like game

of celestial peekaboo.

––tonight, the jitterbugging gnats dance

over the common bushes, polished under streetlight,
the blue, fickle Cumulus drifting northward, the planets
dancing in their system's promenade, as the stars
continue their reluctance in surrendering their true positions.

––from this place I'll confront the unbelievability of what is known

and the true-romance in the wild hypotheses of what is not.

––I first took notice of the Solar System in early grade school 

with glossy pictures in color taped above the blackboard

during the time when the Moon was well beyond our reach.

my schematics of a long ladder with extensions
to be added on the way up to the Moon seemed to make sense
and was fondly received by Miss Pollard with a warm smile.

later, I addressed the Moon by linking it directly
to the drive-in theater's atmosphere and my young love life.

the sky will have its way with me tonight
and after a fine supper, standing on my home planet

where the road is, I'll continue my observations
as well as my oath in keeping my mouth shut
on the status of Neptune, awaiting confirmation
concerning that disturbing dream-sequence, deep in the late-
Autumn skies of October, 1951. 

  

-Slipping into terrycloth-

Consideration to toast a couple

of frozen blueberry waffles for breakfast

came too early and at best was halfhearted.

––In the bathroom,

scrambled eggs seemed a better option 

as I zeroed-in on the flushing water of the toilet bowl
contemplating the influence of the hemispheres.

––Slipping into terrycloth

I said aloud: “let’s make ‘em fried!”
––But knotting the robe's sash

the decision of fried eggs was quickly weighed.

––“Poached"! I shouted with confidence in my brain,

adding a grin of accomplishment with a single
nod of self-gratification.
––An arm-stretching yawn refreshes my sensibilities.
In the kitchen, the early morning air has cooled
the linoleum at my feet.

––Not poached,–– too much direct boiling water.

Not soft-boiled,–– the shells
are too hot to handle and besides,

they seldom turn out as preferred;
boiled too long, not boiled long enough,
each egg seeming to have a timeline of its own.

I’m loath to scan the appliances lined-up for the audition,

frustrated at waking-up to such an array of possibilities when

I haven’t had my breakfast.

It’s 10 minutes past the 7th morning hour

in the countdown to what remains of a lifetime.

-September 15, 1963 / from here to Birmingham-

the beat-up turquoise and white

1957 Chevrolet was six years old

when four madmen drove it to a red-brick church

in the dead of a Saturday night.

the turquoise and white '57 Chevy drove

the dynamite there, too.

turquoise and white was a highly sought-after

color combination for the ’57 Chevy.

my friend Henry Rossi's father had one

telling everyone in the neighborhood
with a high dosage of pride:

“last one off the showroom-floor”

as if the acquisition was ordained by General Motors.

Henry’s father was a jazz musician, a saxophone player,
playing the nightclubs in New Bedford and Newport,

and in fact, albeit briefly, I took saxophone lessens

from him on Sunday afternoons after morning mass. 

the dynamite was tucked beneath

the stairway of the 16th Street Baptist Church,

the sticks, taped tightly together with a crude timing device.

the blast ripped through the basement in the heat of a Sunday morning,

killing four young girls at their bible studies.

I remember Henry’s father
would take me, Henry and his little brother, Louis

to “Sambo’s Diner” on Pleasant Street after my sax lessons.

“Sambo’s”——

as in the children's book: “Little Black Sambo”

of which I had a copy at home, as did Henry and Louis,
as did just about every kid in the neighborhood.

I looked forward to being driven to “Sambo’s” by Mr. Rossi,

for "Breakfast 24 hours" on Sunday afternoons

after morning mass and my saxophone lessons,

along with his sons, my early friends in a sleek,
1957 Chevrolet, brand-new, turquoise and white,
last one off the showroom floor.

                                                     

-addendum to:  "the twilight zone"-

Addendum:

at what point does the act
of jumping begin?

what is the distance between

standing at the precipice and the act of falling?

should jumping be defined at the moment of decision,

the first, slight bend of the knees and the hand’s slow release,

or the immediacy of the last chance at the only way out?

the Law is Clear. the Church is on Record.

the Insurance Company won't be obliged to Pay-Up.

says right there in the policy, page 366, section 4, paragraph 2,

subsection B, under heading:

“SUICIDE”!

at what point does the act

of jumping begin?

Disposition:

It's reasonable to conclude through examinations
of on-site utterances, that the act of "jumping"

likely begins at the moment when

somebody down there

          somebody way down there
                    burdened by bearing witness cries-out:

                              “oh, christ! they're jumping”!

-a very good place-

the Song of (the other) Bernadette

there's a place,

a place which holds-fast to the scent

of standing water, of mold on damp plaster,

and of rusting metal; a place of stillness

and silence far below the commotion

of family and their chattering company;

a place where nothing is set in motion, and even

the vacant atmosphere is enough to cool the skin of our faces;

down the creaking stairs, bending at the waists

from low-lying beams, with nobody above our heads

questioning our whereabouts, where it’s dead-

slow ahead in navigating the dank approach bypassing the wire-

hung 40 watt incandescent bulb nearing its existence,

the cobwebs and the pipes, downward, downward to a very good place.

Quequechan / a love story

-Apply Within-

I made the decision to Apply Within.

I was too young at the time to do most anything,
but I needed some money

to get the thing my mother said

I didn’t need and my father said

I should listen to my mother.

the thing was too inviting to resist,

but I needed some cash to get it,––

to get it from that place downtown

and into the house.

this thing, this item I longed for
wasn't produced for left-handed kids

or kids my age, or recommended

for kids susceptible to constant scrutiny.
complicated assembly may be required,

but I assumed maybe not.

they said it’s too big.

they said it will never fit.

that it’s poisonous if swallowed,

but there’s no need to hide it under the sink.

so I walked inside to Apply Within

but the guy said: "Get the hell outta here kid"!
because I'd wasted 12 seconds of his valuable

day standing behind the counter where

things were displayed that nobody wanted.

so I didn’t get the thing

I didn't need which cost too much.

but I did make the effort to Apply Within

which qualified me to participate in solidarity
with the gathering of day-workers
at the family's backyard Labor Day festivities.

1953?

the unfinished indefatigable poem

I enjoyed inhaling the pungent

scent of automobile exhaust,––

the back-thrust of leaded gasoline. 

I liked just about everything of cars as a kid;

the sense of tactility in the shifting of three
forward gears on the column,
the tight-sprung tension of the clutch –– the rotating
crank of the windows, the fuzzy headliners,

smooth to the palm one way, a tickling resistance the other way

and earlier, the manual choke, which when manipulated
with a smooth pull of its knob from the dashboard
often saved the family's Sunday morning drives to the Narrows
picnic grounds with an added spritz of gasoline to the stubborn carburetor.

what else...

they could be identified; each make and model

formed in sheet metal with its own distinctive body type.

a Ford looked like one.

a Chevy looked like itself.

a Cadillac sighting was a miracle.

we looked forward to yearly changes in body sculpture,
fuel delivery systems and the ever challenging increases in engine horsepower.

all were points of distinction in my neighborhood.

understand, it had everything to do with the make
and model choices of our fathers;
what we saw pulling-up to the curbstones at 5:30 PM.

If one had an edge in horsepower, it was countered with

an edge in quarter mile elapsed time, which was countered by
best in top-end performance.
miles-per-gallon ratings were never considered
meaningful enough to be introduced into the debate
of Ford versus Chevy versus Dodge versus Pontiac...

the speedometers topped-out at 140 miles per hour.

my father, on the road for much of his working life would never come close.

those who came close became our fabled, early dead.

Manny Nunes,

riding solo in his hot '57 Chevy, six times rolled-over
nearing the end of the quarter-mile line of route 24 north.

Paulie L'Heureux,
hot-rodder, southend of town, eulogized in Leonard Dufresne's:
"L'Heureux's Last Ride"

and "Cal" Sousa-Philipe, who drove his powerful '57 Ford Galaxie

"Green Stuff" directly into the "Entering Westport" sign on route 6 East,
the needle frozen at 138. 

Quequechan, 1957 (?)  / 1959

-well beyond the realm of reason-


well beyond the realm of reason,

out of bed, shuffling toward

the room of porcelain and water, thinking: 

what if this is the way it will be all the time,––

like this, going to the toilet, to work, to the opera,

going to the Stop and Shop, dancing,–– looking like this,

as dreary as this, the way our zombies appear on late night television.

I probably laughed at the imagery at the time,

but soon I’m at my station confronting the scraps of paper, the remnants

of last night's afterthoughts, one noting simply: “encyclopedia salesman”.  

I wasn’t immediately moved to take this concept further,

but the cat's fed, the raisin bread's toasted and

sitting there, the thought of this skinny young man

intensified with every sip of coffee;

his rumpled, baggy suit, his mile-worn, semi-polished shoes and

the big, leathery case holding the snazzy promotional enticements.

he was invited into the living room, passing
the violence of the kitchen to sit on the living room couch,
prime seating, within easy reach of the mints.

his pitch started with the wonderful Index, which was like

a heavy, tactile "Previews of Coming Attractions".

but this young salesman was lucky,

not for closing the sale of the complete edition by deftly
utilizing the con of afternoon naps for our young mother,

but for simply arriving at the door at the right time.

my grandfather had cut the chicken down

from the cold, inverted gallows
at the first-floor wall of the pea-green entryway

leading to the screen door of the kitchen

where my grandmother plucked it naked

and my grandfather chopped off its feet for the broth.

the chicken-stock is being heated on the stove.

the television’s volume is lowered in respect.

he closes in on the sale, then drives away in a road-weary,

utilitarian ‘42 Plymouth Business Coupe.

Quequechan