-the Hall-of-Famer-

Herein I'll state my case for

enshrinement to the Hall of Fame,

the Baseball Hall of Fame because

in the summer of 1953

I made that catch in left;

runners on second and third,

two outs in the ninth,

the line-drive on a frozen rope

cracking the atmosphere

off the lightning bat

of Johnny Santos,— my sneakers

on the run toward the gap

closing-in on the fence,

the chain-link fence neck–

high and brutal;

my young, skinny right arm

extending as high as can be

expected of muscle and bone,

toe-tips brushing the blades of grass

bending in the wake, the glove

wide-open like the brown-skinned

nestling screaming for a taste of the worm,

the stinging 

slap of the baseball

nabbed in the skin-thin pocket

the rawhide knotted, Rawlings five-finger

closing-in,–– closing-in,

squeezing

the life out of it.

Columbus Park / 1953

-Nearing the Island of women-

There's an island inhabited by women.

The lone figure of man aboard a skiff, stands

Paddling toward the island by use of an oar
Which seems fashioned by his own hand.

From the viewer’s line-of-sight,

Activity is seen on the island as the women 

Go about the chores of daily life.

Some are building a habitable structure.

Another, pulls a great fish from the water
Knee-high at its banks with her bare hands!

It's not clear to me

How he'll approach the women

To communicate his intensions.

I'm left wanting for information.

When the instruments of their labors

Are laid to rest for the night,

Will the women dance with one another

Circling a raging campfire?

Is a cappella singing involved?

How will the great fish be dressed?

Will the women dress for dinner at eventide?

Will they sleep together beneath the open sky?––

But the gentleman's approach, as it is with all men,

Is endless and is endlessly anticipated;
The destination forever laid beyond the bow.
But silently onward, onward he rows...

 2011 / from a drawing by Leonard Dufresne

-no, Duckie. there is no Santie Claus-

sometimes god reaches

into the water and

pulls-out a great fish

sometimes a minnow

sometimes silt is taken

from the depths of the water

sometimes silt

is drizzled into it
forming a blanket of silt

covering the bed of silt 

sometimes

the water is stocked

with new fishes

to be eaten by the more

experienced fishes

god churns the water

with a mighty hand!

pisses in the water

with a mighty abdominal thrust!

if god exists, the water expelled

will begat a great and terrible water.

if not, the water becomes what we do of it

and that’s the water we drink, Duckie.

the EPA under Donald Trump

-Heminger-Burke Requiem-

So I've come to this, Lois Heminger-Burke,

Long from the mid-western banks of the river.

But in this I am not alone.

The children are grown,— yours and mine

As I read of your death by-chance,
Years after you had died
"After a short illness" as it was written

At Fairfax Hospital

In the Commonwealth of Virginia.

There I was again, lurking within

The cold machinery, foraging into

A not too distant history for the stories I'd lift
Of the people I've encountered, intruding

Into their living quarters, but only

The dark obituary showed-up with your name
With nothing of the light once known to me
And I ran from that darkness

Into the distance where I could see clearly

Never so young as at that moment

Running toward the Huron.

 On the anniversary of her death.  1/18/1997

-the brushed, blue car-

the brushed, blue car

which has no name
which has no make nor model
which occupies a space in two dimensions
whose only depth is of its own making,
has a manufacturer,
has an identity unto itself,

drives nowhere but always

appears to be ready to go.

It’s a streamlined two-door

with full wheel covers, a sloping hood

without ornamentation, cascading to rest upon
the leading edge of its grille, a simulated chromium plate.

the rear deck's molded organics are seductive.

looks to be in good shape.

It’s been parked at the top of the hill

on a side street with a wide expanse

adjacent to a gas station which is closed
for the Holiday.

the pavement behind the scene
slopes downward, and I romance its ending at the banks of the river.

the brushed, blue car has been sitting there a long, long time.
I’d call the cops but what are they going to do?––

ask a bunch of stupid questions, that's what.

“you see anybody hangin’ around there”?

“you see anybody messin' around"?

“you see any drugs"?

(there’s a kid lurking in the shadows.

looks about nine or ten.

he's standing against the dark-side of the brown
two tenement behind the gas station.
kid looks pressed to the house.

looks like he’s playing hide-and-seek.
looks like he plays alone.

looks like he's ready to throw a stone...)

I'd call the cops but they'd just tow the brushed,
blue car away,–– into the bowels of the dreaded
north-end of town, the lifeless Impounding Station
near the woods of lonely Assonet, where

nothing returns quite the same as it was,
if anything returns at all and anyway,
I don't want the cops traipsing around inside my house.

                       
detail of Leonard Dufresne's "Holiday" / 1972
                                                    


                                         

                                                          

-at the famed “Clarke Cooke House”-

1.
my wife,–– well,
once my wife,–– spoke softly,

smiled slyly,

speaks softly, still,

still smiles slyly.

one might say

she’s up to something.

maybe she's up to something.

she could be up to something,
but who could say with certainty?

there are children,

one of whom is our son.

so we meet again,––
compressing the long years between us,

me, her, the son we made together
and his girlfriend, –– "bella ragazza"
the Italians would say,

in Newport over dinner

in deepest December

a wharf restaurant of note,
noted for its French cuisine,
authentically elegant, 
charmed by the sea,–– weatherly, I'd say.

outside, a clear northeastern cold,
crystalline atmospherics,

the stars overhead lingering,
displaying the pictures made of them,

(which I still can't map out

without a detailed ephemeris)
spinning tall-tales of romance, the mastheads

rising from the heavy laden decks, pinpricking the sky
above the icy wharves of sea-swept Newport.

inside, cloaked within the organic atmosphere of saucy France,
but in compliance to the wood-burning fires, the fundamental
discovery of man, I order something burned-up,
as burnt as the heart of the Crab, out there, up there,

but to my senses as beautiful as the colorized veil it makes.

2.
outside for the last time;

shake my hand my once young wife.

pat this icy face with that warm-handed mitten, woman.

                                          December, 2016

the fowler’s toadlet

or baby frog as I called it, rests

in the cup formed by my hands.

it didn't seem traumatized

during the hunt nor by its gentle capture.

it jumped around in the thick overgrowth
of the garden meadow beforehand, but
not in fear. it seemed to like jumping around
barely disturbing the blades as it did. 

cupped like this it seemed to find comfort

in the moisture of my skin, the salt of my boyhood

cut with rainwater, the sweet lingering scent of vine

grapes coating the fingertips violet.

It's silent like me and beating like me,

enjoying the warmth of my company.

the backyard
circa 1951

-suffer the children through small inconveniences-

home from the corner store

and the box has a small hole in it.

I didn't notice as I pulled it from the shelf

ignoring the other boxes of cold, dry cereal,––
colorful displays hawking sweetness and ballplayers.

It doesn’t appear to be a clean perforation
as if retail sabotage had taken place, 

nor is there excessive gnawing evidence
as in rodent mischief,

but more like some sort of shelf damage
although all the above are possibilities
at "Chasidor Leo's Market" across the street
from the backstop in the early 50's.

giving it the once-over, the rest of the box looks okay.

the flat orange color is pleasing to the eye.

nice illustration of Stan Musial swingin’ away
regardless of factual inconsistencies.
(how I love the left-handers)

looks like good contact. nice form, too.

don’t get to see much of Stan "The Man" Musial.

National League. Saint Louis Cardinals. I’m not going back.

a small strip of scotch tape will do the trick and then

it's a bike ride to the Pine Street Dump with Ernie Carrocelli

in search of frame-rail reflectors and other essential enhancements.

                            

-niece's 7th year advancement-

she has grown up with

cellular phones and laptop computers.

It’s fun to see her reaction

to an old, manual Royal typewriter

and heavy, awkward Bell rotary telephone.

her instinct is to laugh at such

cumbersome machinery.

then laughter slips to a curious smile

as she considers the items sitting on the table.

she glances in my direction, one eyebrow lifting

as if to ask: “who are these things from another planet”?

she instinctively presses the Royal's bar, advancing
the tactile mechanism to its inevitable ping, which

broadens her smile.

the big telephone is hooked-up.

she is shown how to dial her mother’s cell,

index finger in the hole, it turns and then

her finger spins back effortlessly for a moment's rest.
these rest stops are welcomed.
she barely has enough strength to complete the journey.

listening into the massive receiver,
(both hands are necessary)
It’s as if she is hearing her mother’s voice

for the first time, smiling more broadly now.

she then comes to type a message to her father,

aggressively pressing the Royal's ivory-colored keys,
(she won't tolerate interruptions)

using the broad underbelly of her index finger,
stopping to carefully inspect each inked letter
she types upon the page.

tap...tap...tap...tap...tap...tap...tap..

“w ere  aire  yo u”

-art student flees the crime scene on foot-

It wasn’t a crime of note on the national front.

in fact no notes were taken at the scene of the crime.

besides, who can say a crime was even committed

without the credible testimony of living witnesses?

certainly not me.

but the cops are sure to ask questions:

"where you two guys from?

you got marijuana needles on ya"?

It was enough to cause

an art student to flee the scene on foot,

but I stayed-put to answer questions:

"we’re from here, officer.

we go to art school on Hawthorn, just around the corner.

I was putting the final touches on a picture

I  like to call: "The Nun Painting" and my friend, well,

he just finished hanging this real big charcoal drawing

he called: "The Kiss"–– nice drawing.

anyway,  um.. we decided to take a break, so we held-up

that little bodega across the street over there and my pal,

well, he shot the clerk and some pain-in-the-ass

innocent bystanders and he took off that-a-way with the loot."

New Bedford Street Scene / 1965

("pain-in-the-ass innocent bystanders" is lifted from

  the Sicilian quotations of Peter Clemenza)

  

-baseball: the psalm-

true confessions of a left fielder 

Rose, my maternal grandmother

tried in vain to push

right-handedness into me.

there were times when

after school, after supper,

after I flushed the toilet
after being admonished
to go back and flush the toilet

she’d grab my arm,

lead me to the kitchen table,

slap a sheet of paper in front of me

and wriggle a pencil into my right hand,

the "hand of God", she said.

It seemed I was possessed with the hand

existing on the other side of righteousness,

the Devil’s own hand!

Rose didn’t speak english

broken or otherwise

let alone write in english, but

what she did do with biblical authority,
was to cup her hand

(deep-purple veins, blood-bloated

under a glazing, translucent veneer of skin)  

over my right hand which held the captive pencil,

moving it aggressively across the sheet

in heavy, haphazard scribblings and although

her tenacity to exorcise demons didn't take,

I'll romanticize herein that she foresaw, that without

this transformation I’d be forever confined

to the loneliness of the outfield plain, or
please, God, no!...first base.


Quequechan, 1951, 1951?, 1952

-Notation from a tense evening in Quequechan, USA-

1/5/2017

Basketball great, John Havlicek

bears a striking resemblance

to avant-garde composer, John Cage.

Sportscaster Johnny Most, in what's become

an historic instant in Boston Celtics basketball lore,

screamed uncontrollably into the broadcast mic

at the moment in time when:

“Havlicek Stole The Ball!

 Havlicek Stole The Ball!"

John Cage should have had such a moment.

after all, the facial resemblance is convincing,

with much the same chiseled bone structure, and body-type, too.

Both were tall, white geniuses.

Due to poetry's insatiable search for truth, I went scurrying for information

on their dates of birth, death, (Cage only, as of 1/5/17)  assists, rebounds,

accuracy in the fast break outlet pass, perimeter jump-shot percentage,

and championships won,–– and given the parameters of these statistics,

head-to-head, Havlicek beats Cage easily, going away.

But a new "Wergo" release,–– set in an impressive, 3 CD jewel-case:
“The 25-year Retrospective Concert of the Music of John Cage”

recorded in May of 1958,–– seven years before Havlicek stole the ball,

cost me pretty near fifty bucks.

-Free translation-

And as for you, God, –– creator

of Heaven and Earth and Debbie-Ann Gardener,––
I’ve traced myself back to your beginnings

before that doozie of a Bang, long before stupid

Adam failed at his only chance at a piece-of-ass
(that Eve, she could hang a temptation better'n Lulu)
long before my baptism
longer than the distance
from the act to the act of contrition ––
back before hydrogen.

I liked your story, God,

but Priest's a tepid interpreter

who stunk at playground basketball.

why play when you play like that?

didn’t he know something was amiss

when he missed the rim by 3 feet

from the free-throw line?

I hear tell of a second year Priest
placed way down south, South Main Street at Saint Anne’s Cathie

they say is lights-out from thirty feet!

I was there at your birth, God.

I was there when we were committed to killing you. –– you said:

"et tu? William, Gerry, Bobby, and Russell.
et tu? Cynthia, Allen, Tommy, Louie, Shirley and Henry.
et tu? Betsy, Susan, Jeanie and Nancy!
et tu? Debbie-Ann Gardner and all the angels and saints"!–– no,

Priest killed you, God.
something chosen over your church on early Sunday mornings

and it wasn't a Time magazine cover, God.

‘twas the short-order cook , the slick-
handed grill-man at Sammy's Diner on Pleasant Street,

long gone and unrepentant, killed you.–– Basta!

'twas the new Sunday morning call; the blotting stain of Priest,
an execution by the oily crackle of a busy fryolator,–– by eggs

over easy, over sausage links and hash-brown potatoes killed you,–– hung
by the withered hand by dawn's early light until you were dead! Basta!

-what’s next-

Requiem for Bobby Petrillo

Bobby Petrillo, second baseman
with better than average range

later to become a deep-sea diver

welding steel below the waterline out of Louisiana,

lived on Wall Street adjacent to Bedford Street

in the three block Italian neighborhood of Fall River, Massachusetts.

he died of cardiac arrest at the age of 55 or so

lounging topside on his Chris Craft 30 footer while

watching television, wired, docked and tethered in Miami.  

Wall Street ran perpendicular to Bedford Street,
from the brick and mortar facade of the Church
seated behind the left field fence to the north,

and Marzilli’s Bakery to the south.

this would be facing the third base line

as opposed to my house on Bedford Street

which faced the first base line.

when running, that would mean
from home plate to the west where Marzilli’s Bakery sat

scented in flour and sugar, to the first base bag to the east

toward "Whitey's" ESSO Station and "Club Marconi,"

the Italian neighborhood's beer and wine joint, squatting

just beyond the billboards for the old-timers, and younger upstarts

nabbing a few hours, or all-nighters, away from the house.

this has been a quick, lay-of-the-land.

but knowing what I've already reported, I could justify

stopping here in mid-verse, confident that the reader
would fill-in the blanks, call them interludes,

to continue this tragic opus of early neighborhood.

the reader must know by now of how

the Petrillo family up-and-moved to Tiverton, Rhode Island,

a low-slung, ranch-type beauty resting at the quiet road of trees

with generous grassy frontage in the early hours of morning

when old man Marzilli was unlocking the door to sweetness
and the fat DeCarlo twins began airing-out the stagnant,
late night's atmosphere of "Club Marconi".

my father, an affable glad-handed liquor salesman might have
already been on the road extending the measurement
of the first base line eastward toward the Cape and Islands, but 
it's getting late, I'm growing tired and–– well,

the souls of the faithful departed herein or assumed close enough
will have to fill-in the blanks for themselves, or

wait.