-directions to the exhibits-

Manny Aquinas taught catechism classes

in the basement of the Holy Rosary Church. 

he lived on County street where the bus stops
before circling its way around again.

Antoine Sebastien, well, he was killed

just around the corner over there ––

and one of the Anthony's, the one from Padua,
he lived down on Bedford street across from
Ventura Drugs and once, at his parish festa,
found my lost car keys.

on the road, the other Anthony stayed at the Desert Inn;

the old one on Rodman street before the fire.
later, we'll go down to the river, where

on the hour every hour,

Bernadette’s bush is trimmed by fanatics
making ready for the broken-limbed and broken-hearted

and back there, at the banks of the Quequechan River,
Giovani Christopher, poor bastard, was disenfranchised;
snap! just like that.

never knew what hit him.

speaking of planets, Pluto’s a goner,

too small to defend itself, has no moons

to grieve over its demise and hung far beyond

even the remotest section of the extended neighborhood.

Nick the Baptist said:
"let's wash away the sins of the world"–– but he's crazy.

you can see it in his eyes;

red eyes from the water’s minerals.

and priest, well, he said: “god said: go forth and multiply”

and suddenly, there I was.

now I’m old and grey.

my hair’s grey, too.
so's the whites of my eyes.

but I have three stampings left on my new card

and it’s another free carwash at "Vic’s Automatic" just off the Avenue.

-another moment in the history of time-

one can seduce the bob-headed

backyard chickens,

snag the lazy coop-sitters day-

dreaming of better times

or like my grandfather,

buy a few chickens living and feathered

behind Gioconi’s little store

at the corner of Healy and Quarry,

carry them to the first-floor entry

of the house, tie their legs together

with a sturdy twine,

hang 'em upside down against

the pea-green plaster of the inside

wall of the entry and slice

their throats with a jackknife

over the shallow pans

where the blood-drops tapped.

the dog will go crazy

running in frantic zig-zags

with a hard-on — but

the visiting catholic schoolgirls,

classmates of my teenaged sister,

opened the distance between themselves

and the wing-flapping birds in the throes of death,

gliding against the opposite wall

forming with their navy blue jumpers

a trail of slow-burning meteorites arcing

toward the screen-door to the clamor of the kitchen

where my sister will greet them.

my visiting neighborhood friends

have seen this sight before

and so, ironically, has the egg-man.

but the sales-rep for Encyclopedia Britannica,

horrified as he might be

will knock on the warped-

wood frame of the screen-door anyway.

there’s the New Edition to peddle

and it looks like he's got a heavy load.

once inside, the restlessness intensifies.                          

                                        Quequechan

-Nearing midnight on the Eve-

Approaching tomorrow but fifteen

Minutes away — walking with neighborhood friends

Across a field of snow which fell in the cold of late afternoon.

The sky is clear above the brush of moonlight.

The parish church, these days still active,

Although without my acquiescence

Rises from its slow elevation, its standing

Stained-glass windows shine bright in the near distance

As the atmosphere strengthens its posture, and community closes in.

Murmur of rubber

Soles pattern the snow beneath our boots;

Lay the frozen

Traces of ourselves on the bluing

Snow-plain beyond the left-

Field fence of the hibernating ballpark.

This is the night’s vocabulary.

Soon, westward toward the banks of the river,

Earnshaw's Diner will open its doors to daybreak.

So will the little Night Owl Diner on Pleasant Street.

So will Al Mac's Diner at the foot of the Seven Hills.

 Quequechan / 12/24/58

-From the Hugo A. Dubuque School-

The black

Rubber snow boots with lever-like clips

Running upward where the child

Tucks the pant's legs in,

Finds the snuggest notch,

Threads the clip through

And locks it down, squealed

From their soles across the corridors.

The coolest kids

Walked the drenched marble floors,

Their boots unclipped, wide-open,

Exposing the rubbery lick of their tongues,

The boot-sides flapping

Like the wings of vampire bats.

Miss Pollard

Of the 5th grade classroom

Informed us one morning that Sandra

Had gone to Heaven.

I looked toward the vacant desk for conformation.

My Uncle Frank came to get me after I threw-up.

Miss Pollard called my mother who didn’t drive.

So my Mother called my Aunt Lee who didn’t drive

Who called Cousin Edith, too young to drive

To fetch her father, my uncle Frank who drove a Plymouth,

Who was in his shop on South Main Street,

Around the corner from his house

On King Philip Street, southend of Fall River.

My father was on the road selling booze

To every bar and restaurant from Buzzards Bay

To Provincetown, rendering him unavailable.

Uncle Frank was a cobbler,—

Surgeon to the riven shoes of the working-class.

Half the little finger of his left hand was gone,

Ripped off by a polishing wheel

Spinning across the leather, making it shine,

The effect always satisfying his customers.

A dangerous row of wheels of varying

Widths and textures spun

In a furious threat across the heavy lathe,

To my recollection, the size of a battleship.

This dark morning, Frank Toni pressed

The big black button on the lathe's control panel

Starting the wheels in motion,

The drive-belt screeching as it must have

When the polishing wheel with his name on it

Spun to eat his finger years before.

Now he was called upon to shut

The whirling lathe down,

Hang the "I'll Be Back SOON" sign on the door,

Lock-up

And fetch his pale young nephew

Sitting in the dank, narrow "Nurse's Office"

On the other side of town

Who learned of grief that day. 

This poem is written in memory of the girl,

Struck down by the bloodless lick of leukemia at ten years of age 

Who quietly sat at her desk one row to my right

And three desks forward, who never done nothin'

To God or its minions.
But who am I to philosophize such disgrace? 

                                                                          Quequechan

  

-consideration of an installation-

the town's folk are well represented.

I see the first row of free-standing chairs

have soft upper backrests and seats, whereas

the rest of the chairs in the Hall are of the folding metal type

with no such regard for user comfort. 

old Mrs. Fernando has taped placards

to the pliable backrests of the first
row of chairs, marked: “RESERVED”,

indicating that dignitaries will be in attendance.

a long, banquet-type folding table

is set-up on the ridiculously spacious stage
with ample seating for specially selected
moderators from the Board of Selectmen.

I assume they'll pass the mic along hand-to-hand

during discussions, otherwise, why such a long cord?

there’s a standing mic in the aisle for townsfolk

to voice opinions, constrained only by the allotted one minute rule.

"Please Do Not Remove Mic From Stand"

I continue to be distractingly curious about the front

row of free-standing chairs marked: “RESERVED”

and when I inquire of Mrs. Fernando

as to whom will be occupying them,

she curled her mouth, shook her head

and wagged an index finger back and forth

like an agitated elementary schoolteacher.

I laughed and asked if the Pope was in town.

instead, I was motioned to take a seat with a stern
directional nod of her head which indicated to me
that I should sit in the fifth row, third chair from the aisle,

and once there, keep my mouth shut.

It wasn't difficult to notice that old Mrs. Fernando was sporting

a definitive "YES!" button pinned to her rhinestone-speckled sweater,

but later, after a slight adjustment to the microphone's stand
and one last glance to the still unoccupied reserved seating section,
I’ll be voicing my objection to the proposed installation, sporting my

oversized, overzealous button: "Vote NO! on the proposed Installation"!

Swansea

-The year was 1952-

It was a memorable

Saturday morning in 1952.

The kitchen door is open to the screen door

Which never closes the same way twice.

I’m on the first floor with my family

And I can see the entry clearly through the fine, wire mesh.

There’s my bike and my brother’s bike,

Same make, same color, but different in size

As measured by the Schwinn engineers.
My Schwinn is bigger.

Both will lean against the entry's wall until we’re ready.

My father’s house is a tenement.

I live in a tenement, complete with a toilet

And a small sink in a narrow space, separate
From the wider space where the bathtub sits.

During breakfast, the milkman

Knocks on the warped screen-door’s frame.

It’s a sickly knock because the door gives way
During contact with knuckles. 

My mother takes in the 4 quarts of milk.

The milkman represents the Hood Dairy Farms.

His uniform is white, but faded, with a hint

Of pale-yellow around the collar and armpits. 

No money is paid.

That’s next week, he says.

An intermission, with the typical goings on,

Going on in the morning kitchen.

A knock on the screen door’s frame
Calls an end to the kitchen's intermission.

Another sickly knock, but this time, more knocks

With a faster, more deliberate knuckled beat.

It’s the egg man.

His eggs are still warm, dotted with chicken shit

Where little strands of coop-hay pattern the brown

Shells like arteries in sclerosis.

The egg man is more interesting than the milk man.

He wears farmer's clothes, grey-striped bib overalls
topped-off with the obligatory, sweat-banded fedora.

My grandfather has one.

So do his few friends from the same
Italian province, still among the living.

Pay the egg man on Monday.

Wintertime.

It was a memorable

Saturday morning in 1952.

A heavier knock. Solid, like the heavily
Lacquered, solid wood of the closed kitchen door.

A blackened man stands in the entry, the first

Blackened man I ever knew by recognizable sight.

He’s black with the dust of anthracite, 

The coal shoveled down the chute

To the bin next to the furnace.

It's been over two months, he says.

My mother pays-up in cash money.

Spring is one month yet to come;

The coal bin's last full load.

                                      1017 Bedford Street, City

    

-the Mutual Admiration Society-

It's become increasingly easy

To piss somebody off when visiting

The Mutual Admiration Society. (M.A.S.)

For the past few years I've been a member

In fair-to-middlin’ standing, keeping a low profile,

Bobbing and weaving like a digital featherweight.

There used to be a time long before the M.A.S. when

Days would pass before someone unfriended 

Somebody else.

Face-to-face inquiries would be made,
Accusations handed down, defensive postures drawn,

Varying accounts of the situation proposed, and

Ultimately, two-sided threats of retribution.

In fact, the term “unfriend” was created by

The Mutual Admiration Society in order

To make the task of killing-off a friendship

Quicker and cleaner,–– 

Like slicing a head at the guillotine.

So I keep my friends at the M.A.S. to a minimum.

Taking on more would be akin to the leaking

Inflatable taking on impossible water in the middle of shit creek.

In the arena of the Mutual Admiration Society,

There’s no door to knock.

There’s no envelope to lick.

And when an unfriend dies,

Although we may be intrigued,

Although we might look-in on the proceedings,

Although we might sneer from a safe distance:

"Better you than me"––

There’s no need to attend the funeral.

Hell, we won’t even be obligated to sign our names

To the digital "Book of Condolences" application.

Quick, clean and easy.

One click: "Unfriend"

And done.

-The rambling poem of the dragonfly, trimmed to its last two stanzas-

The defensive rebound under the basket; 

Now, that’s a beautiful thing,
Especially if the outlet pass results in a fast-break score.

Would it have helped my cause had I told them
That I actually witnessed Bill Russell play the game?

Who then would dare say: "Where’s the beauty in that"?

-Nearly suitable for children-

I awakened early to the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of the woodpecker.

I understand the language it speaks:

"This is my tree and I'm looking for love".

An overnight rain and the grass is a cool slop at my feet

as I trek to resolve my grievance toward the tree-line at the riverbank.

But unrelenting, too, is the love-beating song of the woodpecker.

It seems to be coming from the east, the direction where

I last laid down the game-riven five-fingered glove.–– Wait, no,

––westward, the direction where loved ones have made their house.

Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat,.. "Here I am"!

knocks the bird with the stabbing épeé of a beak!

Where are you, woodpecker?––

Do you know why it is I've come to seek you out?

You woke me from a sound morning’s sleep, didn't you, woodpecker?

Was that not an invitation to attend your love song's recital, woodpecker?

6:10 AM / Swansea, Massachusetts

-Untitled poem / 1966-

From the Swain School archives:

There will be a hayride at Meredith’s family farm

in Padanaram, Massachusetts.

Shortly after arrival, art students from New Bedford

will be rollicking in the hay as the wagon teeters onward

like a glorious inebriation.  

Protest folk-music will be sung to accompany a stressed,

acoustic guitar, as the hay wagon’s horse will have the scent of its ass;

the whole horse–– from its withers to its droppings.

But its tail is as silky as Wendell Willkie, fanning its scent

into the nostrils of those strewn about the wagon, where

two-by-two, they'll have burrowed deeply into the hay,

rustling around under there like horny ferrets.

A few nights before Meredith’s hayride jamboree,

Madeline, of Jesus-Mary Academy, a great schoolgirl incubator,

and William (this poem-writer)–– will have danced cheek-to-cheek

at Madeline's Senior Prom.

When in southeastern New England, visit the seminal

"Historic Delights Exhibition" at the winding, tree-

lined, Wampanoag Trail.

When visiting scenic Padanaram, be sure to explore
the legendary "Historic Delights Exhibition" at Meredith’s family farm.

Huge segments of this poem are undeniable elements of truth.

Other segments are determined to be presented as truth enough.

-A Requiem for Thomas Curry still among the living-

Thomas Curry, who has made a success of himself as administrator,

Is another one who walks by the house.

He lives by the road where it slopes downward toward the river,
The first stroke of Mount Hope Bay.

Tall and lean, calm of demeanor, once a pitcher for the baseball team

Representing our parish in the old CYO league of Fall River, Massachusetts.

A fast-baller, Thomas was a long-strider then, and he’s a long-strider now,
Albeit much more cautiously.

I’ve seen him on occasion apart from walking by the house,
At the Stop & Shop checkout or the gas pumps on Wilbur Avenue,

But those are rare sightings.

One thing, though; I could pick Thomas out of a police lineup with ease,

Something I can’t say about others I’ve known from the warm
Romance of the old neighborhood.

The exceptionalism of the ancient explorers is that they weren’t hindered
By the fear of sailing off the edge of the Earth.

For a moment, I’ll be that ancient seafarer who, long before Magellan,

First noticed that ships appearing on the horizon were initially sighted

By the mainmast’s flying ensign.

Then the great mast headers came into view, then

The hand-carved bowsprit and the Earth was seen as a sphere for the first time.

A romantic fantasy to be sure. The Earth is far too large for a ship
On the horizon to be seen rising above its curvature, but I like the imagery.

So this is how I will see Thomas Curry tomorrow.

I’ll wait for his appearance near the fieldstone wall, street-side at the house.

First his head will appear on the horizon where the sloping road

Meets the water at his back, then his neck, shoulders and torso

Will be seen on the approach, his long arms swaying

For the balance he needs and then his legs with his feet on level ground,

Long-striding toward the house where I live.

But I won’t stick around at the wall to greet him.

I’ll go back inside, waiting there for the great discovery
To pass by the street-side windows for the moment when
The Earth will become a sphere again.

                                                                                                   

-the rediscovered painting-

It’s been three decades; more, I think

and nearly forgotten, but now I’m obsessed.

somebody had it, I assumed. but who had it?

I couldn’t ask around. I’d feel like an idiot.

“I wasn’t even born then” most would say.

but jesus christ, three decades gone or more and then

there it is, mailed to me in a stiff corrugated envelope,
the painting oiled-up in caucasian flesh tones broad and milky,

warmer in a few places around the plane of the face.

I was looking to Derain back then and all the Fauves.

I looked to Vlaminck and Matisse, with his on-again-
off-again "wild beast" attitude.

I looked to Bonnard and Vuillard, too. the Nabis,––
then put them all aside and began to paint the picture:

"portrait of a young woman", a girl, actually,
younger than me who lived up the street behind

the drugstore toward the Sons of Italy Hall.
I imagined her as a young woman I would never come to know,
now grown enough to paint, too many years or better said, a lifetime away.

the picture is busy with paint, but it looks unresolved to me now.

(I could have used a narrower brush to make those strokes)
and the soft-brushed blending of forms on one side of her face is
something I'd like to define more clearly, but I won't.

the painting is skull-deficient, its colors do not drape.

there's nothing of substance beyond its colors,

it's flat as a pancake, the eye moves along a horizontal line,

and between the poles and besides, it’s not so easy to paint

as a wild beast through the lens of a common life.

what did I know?

I didn't live the way of any of them, but
I once lived as young a life as the girl who lived up the street.

It’s said that old Matisse, sitting in a broad, soft easy chair,
shawled, white-haired and chubby, painted with a brush attached to a wand
so that the surface could be seen more clearly, and living doves
were flying, fluttering ‘round and ‘round in there!
I didn't realize the full measure of what it was I was up to, but
I knew a thing or two about the girl who lived up the street
and that was enough.

who knew interior doves on the wing as well as Matisse?
who remembers the girl who lived near the Hall as well as I?

who knows what's left undone with this old paint,

once accomplished, now recovered, once dismissed,
when I was young enough not to know any better?