-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

-the Poem of Common Experiences-

Traveling by car from the borderline

of the north-end of town
to the borderline of the southend of town
takes a measurable amount of time

impossible to calculate to a proof due to annoying

last-minute pleas for critical eggs,

emergency pumping of five bucks worth of regular,

as well as stops of longer duration, like post-parade

street sweepers or shift changes at the Sagamore textile mill.

I’ve never timed a trip from

the north-end to the southend of town

nor do I remember driving the distance
between these borders on purpose;

the Municipal Airport to the new “Dairy Queen”.

Mostly I’ll pull over somewhere in the middle

for a Coney Island hotdog lunch, or a supper
of take-out chow mein, or

to pay my respects to the recently bereaved.

Inside, from the table where poems are written,

a walk to the bathroom takes longer to navigate

than a walk to the coffeepot;
the measurement in time and distance this morning.

Scriabin on the banks of the Oka River with Tatiana

Intrada:

Sunset, and the Taunton River is washed in violet.

1.

This morning the Taunton

revealed a greying palette, its natural

weight in heavy elements,

a more accurate account of March.

––Hopscotching the planet, and at rest on the banks of the Oka,
we find Alexander with his love, Tatiana.

2.

I don’t play a musical instrument,

but if I did I’d be a piano player.––

Honky-tonk.–– Well, maybe a smattering

of Scriabin when nobody’s around. 

We'll see.

––Now playing are his piano sonatas in sequence,

recorded by her eminence, Ruth Laredo.

As to the selected reading tonight,
I’ll absorb as much as I can handle of the fierce

American showstopper and poet, Daphne Gottlieb, who,

as I hear her, has the voice of an incorrigible nightingale.

Bedtime.
Let's review:
We have Scriabin, Tatiana, Laredo, and Gottlieb.
We have two rivers, the Taunton and the Oka.
We have the introduction of heavy elements
replaced by the lighter closing atmosphere of violet.
A good grouping for one day's experience.

So, a lot of name-dropping here you might say.
Well, sure. But you know, if it's all true, why the hell not?

                                          

                                      

-Rebop the cat and 1017-

when “Rebop” the cat was called to stiffness,

we put her in a shallow grave dug by our father

at the far end of the grapevine.

same with “Schnozzola”, a short-lived blue-feathered parakeet,

but this time the planting was closer to the vegetable garden where the green
hornworms inched their way upward with an acid taste for tomatoes.

shoeboxes from “Thom McAn” were employed

for the funeral services, pulled from the bin in the basement where

shoeboxes were stacked for such occasions.

the goldfish were simply flushed overnight.

from water thou art and unto water shalt thou return.

the rapture:

the house smells of peppermint and "Raid" because

the Gleason’s are coming over for a visit
with their uninhibited daughter, Lizzie, same age as me, in tow.

during snacks but before television, I'd play my ukulele for Lizzie
as we swayed on the musty old chaise lounge under the sour-apple tree.
inside, colorful mints in milk-glass saucers cover the surfaces

under a settling veil of commercially endorsed fluorocarbon aerosol insecticide.  

my parents and the Gleason's enjoy
the "Ed Sullivan Show" on television.

the men will smoke Lucky Strike and Chesterfield,

the women will puff Old Gold and Viceroy in an effort to keep-up.

my sister, near three years my elder
will dance for them to exhaustion; theirs, not hers.

my brother, near three years my younger
will perform an encore of magic tricks pulled from a colorful box.
Lizzie listens to the thumb-picked sounds of "my dog has fleas"
as I fine-tune the ukulele for another performance.

once inside, apart from the virtuosity in strummin' the ol' ukulele,
I offer-up my latest pencil drawing for the company's consideration
of Jesus hanging crucified, as seen from hovering above the cross,
same as Saint John sees him, same as Sal Dali sees him,––

but the guy on Ed's television show who spins dinner plates
over his head at the tip of long thin rods, looks pretty good.

I'm mostly intrigued with the dancing packs

of “Old Gold” cigarettes because ladies legs

draped in fishnet stockings are poured

from the base of them like gifts from the gods.

I’ll remember the imagery in bed after my prayers.

for the record, Priest didn’t feel me up after my confessional
or blow me in the twilight sacristy like the older altar boys deemed ready

and If you enjoy stories such as these, but with enhanced detailed development,

you may also be interested in: c.1952.


                                                                    c.1953



                                                         

-pictured- (from the death notes No.6)

with the unmistaken scent

of Pond's Cold Cream

flooding her skin, she thickened

the Junior High School homeroom oxygen,

her hair spray-fixed like a helmet.

the local newspaper is a landscape

rich with news of the recently deceased.

we picture her "laid-out."

we picture how her family

dressed her for the viewing;

the powder blue chiffon 

for the occasion of dust to dust.

she’s laid-out,—

her hands fold stiffly across her frozen lap;

fingers like strands in cold porcelain,

her wedding band pressed into her stubby finger

inflated beyond the parameters of its ring of gold.

a photograph sits on a table as she was

fifty years past, slightly smiling, her torso

skewed forward at the requisite angle.

she wasn't a friend, not even an acquaintance.

she's remembered here simply as being among us,

scribbling assignments at her desk, quick-stepping

between classes, her books held close to her chest,

her knees pressed tightly together, sitting behind us

in the graded auditorium as if she instinctively knew.

she always seemed filled with cement.

and now it comes to pass that she surrenders herself

to the column of her notice.

she leaves behind everything there is and has ever been.

her name is: "departed loving wife mother of two."

     

-far from home-

––when I was very young,
the target of required bedtime,

the early years of being
adjudicated as always "in the way,"
I was keenly aware of the glistening
black Buick parked in front of the house,
of how something so heavy could glide
from the curb with such power and grace,
only to disappear eastward into the distance,
the route 6 sunrise as if by instinct.

sometimes the driver's attitude indicated

a general weariness at the end of the day

which indicated to me that maybe I had it coming.

––when I was young,
but old enough to ride my bike across a surface
other than dirt, my father tripped and fell in the kitchen

hitting the hard linoleum, snapping the little finger
of his left hand at the knuckle, forming the shape
of a hard left turn, but rose again slowly, reaching
for the open pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes
laying-in-wait on the table without missing a beat.

this happened long before his first stroke,–– although

upon reflection, lacking a medical diagnosis at the time,
maybe the fall in the kitchen was a result of his actual first stroke,
which would move the medically diagnosed first stroke
to second stroke status and now that it comes to mind,
it might have been during the time
when he was smoking Chesterfield and driving a Pontiac.

-Wellston plainsong-

He walked into his house
A good two hours after midnight

Looking like Dorathy's Tin Man, exhausted,
Silvery, clinking like metal.

(might have been house keys

 pulled from his pockets)

His young wife is sleeping.
He peels his clothes away
Coated in Paint-Fine Aluminum,

The dense agitator of detonation.

He has the scent of Urea, cross-linked

With Fumaric Acid running over him.

He's a sticky mess,

A frosting of Guar Gum and Ethylene Glycol.

He was nearly a food product,

Closing-in on the ingredients,
A producer of Nitro-Carbo Nitrate,
The slurry of high explosives,

A non-cap sensitive second-trick working man
Entering his house
A good two hours after midnight, where
His young wife lay sleeping.

Ohio

 An open letter to Josh D’Elia /  March 11, 2011

The tsunami quenches the quiet dryness of life with a terrible water.

The shockwave of the tsunami left Japan like a mad tourist, arriving

Where the next edge of land lies passively trapped in its own mitts.

News on-a-loop runs film of the tsunami rolling over Japan this morning;

The bobbing sheet-metaled heads of automobiles, the sinking Buddha statuary;

The enlightenment temporarily out of service, and the always fleeing-from-something

Japanese people trying their best again.

Now the aftershock races eastward across the Pacific toward your apartment.

Compose a song about this adventure at another time, and I look forward to listening.

But —for now, grab the love-seat from the corner room, and put it on top of the heavy

Desk in your study.

Get on the love-seat standing on your tip-toes, maybe raising your arms above

Your head to make yourself look bigger like crawdads do in the face of threat.

I’m here to help you.

Bring your bass, unplugged from its amp,— or better, the acoustic twelve-string

Leaning in the corner near the bathroom,— also, a big container of status water,

Or if necessary, bottled water trucked-in from Arizona,— and canned-goods, and

A manual can opener, a flashlight, sixteen of my poems, and a revolver.––

And it might be wise of you to get Jenny on the love-seat, too, because

You could be up there for quite-a-while, and I hear it gets chilly beneath

The nighttime stars of Los Angeles this time of year.

Your father

                                                       

                                                    

-Another moment in Kansas, and again on Interstate 35 North-

Interstate 35 North to Salina

And the sleeveless arm protruding

From the shattered window

Of the crumpled cab, crushed beneath
Its jackknifed trailer, postures its lifeless hand
Gracefully into a cool night's rain.

It’s all I can manage to process of death's finality. 

Kansas Highway Patrol
Draped in rain-gear,

Campaigns wrapped in plastic cover

Protecting their rigid authority,

Signal with sharp-

Violet flares of light

Directing me beyond the great

And broken Autocar diesel

Hissing and dripping its fluids

Glazing the Interstate.

Strange, how the rain

Taps quietly upon the Beetle's roof

As the AM radio is quickly silenced.

Instinctive, how my hand

Reaches for the pack of cigarettes

Pressed into the headliner
Above the windshield's visor. 

Otherworldly, how the drenched

Cops motion the living forward,––

The living and their living machinery,

Passing the new dead in solemn procession.

I'm moved by the watch strapped to the delicate

Form of the wrist;
Could be Adam's wrist.
Inverted, could be God's.

Strange, how out-of-place the wristwatch seems.
Otherworldly, how the simplest of things still work.

Interstate 35 North to Salina.
I remember this moment.

I'm driving North from Wichita to Salina.

I don’t remember the part which would tell me why.