-Requiem for Frank Leo-Davis-

Wiseguy,–– justifiably incorrigible back-row "boogie",

involuntary isolationist, lunchtime eater of mayonnaise sandwiches
wrapped in waxed-paper pulled from a brown paper bag

neatly folded for yet another tomorrow.

8th grader, 8th streeter, self-preserver,

non-participant whose "brand-new shoes"
are timeworn at the outer edge of their heels.

This one,–– who stands alone
outside the active circle of glassies

whose name is ridiculed inside the harsh
florescence of their bitter, nicotine-stained lounge

       who's passed from one of them to another of them

              snuffed as if an ashtray's punch-out at the bell
                     whose name is Frank Leo-Davis.



archives, the James Madison Morton Junior High School.  City
                                     

-the early morning whip-poor-wills-

the two whip-poor-wills chirping dueling songs

which mirror one another in pitch and meter

perched in two trees half-a-front-yard between them

during an overcast, sweltering August morning

has become intolerable.

it’s been this way for nearly fifteen minutes,
maybe more, maybe less, but who can tell

when faced with such complicated arithmetic?

calling, repeating, calling, repeating..

above the lay of grass beyond the road, behind the stone wall,

across from the time-consuming joggers and alongside the automobiles

accelerating their occupants northward toward Interstate 95, and

whatever it is available to them in that direction.

I can’t locate the whip-poor-wills due to the cover of leaves

which are dense in the extreme at this time of year,

and I’m anticipating the usually intrusive lawnmowers

to roll from their garages to blot the chirping
whip-poor-wills out; the tense, metallic cranking of the oily motors,
the little pistons agitated by internal combustion,
the blades whirling in horizontal rotation beneath
the rattling housings, the sweet exhaust of spent gasoline

embracing the succulent fragrance of grass, sliced to perfection

across the neighborhood yards adjacent to my own
where I believe the whip-poor-wills are plotting to kill me.

   

-August 22- DRAFT DRAFT

The eclipse of the Sun is one day gone

and the medieval engravers are long dead

after doing a good job recording the event.

At the walls of caves in what will be known as France,

evolved neanderthal painters explained the imagery

at the wall, to the kids squatting around the control of fire

in a language I would have liked to have listened to.

Yesterday, the people peered
into the daylight sphere of darkness
sporting snazzy, fail-safe eyewear.

I didn’t go outside.

I stayed in the house eating a sandwich,

occasionally hydrating with drinks rich in electrolytes.

But the television was broadcasting the event.

On the balcony of our collective house, the President of the United States

was news-reeled squinting toward the Sun with naked eyes.

Well, my son, there are none so blind,
and Happy Birthday anyway.

-At the "Museum of This, That, and the Other Thing"-

It's off to the MOTTOT!

I enjoy visiting the gallery of “This” at the MOTTOT.

It has all “This” stuff in there.

And “This” is terrific stuff.

At the MOTTOT I enjoy the gallery of “That” as well.

It’s a wonderful collection of all "That" stuff.

And I like “That”.

I particularly enjoy the gallery of the “Other Thing” at the MOTTOT.

But the “Other Thing” is a fatal temptress –––

Like "Eve" in the garden, or "Lulu" at the opera.

Epilogue: 

“This” can never be “That” or the “Other Thing.”

“That” can never be “This” but can often be the “Other Thing.”

  The “Other Thing” is never “This,” but is certifiably “That.”

-taking off Donald Trump’s clothes-

 with an apologetic nod to Billy Collins and Emily Dickinson 

first, there’s the full length mirror to adjust.

It has to be tilted in a way that reflects

his shoeshine and the top of his fool's gold head.

ask him to take one step backward.

maybe another one. just one more.

take a stance behind him grabbing the lapels

at his suit jacket.

It’s lighter than you’ve imagined.

nice material. expensive.

let it descend naturally from the long-sleeved arms.

you’ll notice a slight swish against the silken

sleeves of the shirt as it falls expensively.

this is not your father’s shirt,

not even from behind the plywood lectern at the semiformal testimonial.

funny, how Donald Trump exaggerates his posture

during this de-jacketing procedure; how the head swivels

upward from the neck elasticizing the jowls.

the weak mouth bends downward like the strand of a worm.

you might wonder what it is he sees in there.

unloosen the knot of the bright red necktie.

the skin there wobbles like the wattle of a turkey.

pull the red necktie over his head preserving the knot.

be careful!

one flip-top to the back of his hair and it’s curtains.

overcome your curiosity.

work quickly now. 

unbutton the shirt, slipping it across his shoulders.

(there are long, grey hairs matted there)

tug the shirt downward passing the upper arms.

there’s a bit of a struggle here.

loosen the belt.

unbutton the button.

un-zip the zipper.

tug the trousers downward avoiding the ass as best you can.
let the waistline fall below the kneecaps.

that’s far enough.

you can step back, now.

it's only the cruel hand of God makes him naked.

-the great plan of 1952

let’s meet at my house.

It has to be early, before the streetlights warm-up.

once we're out there, once that happens,

the calling of our names will run through the open windows

and fall upon us like fatal stones.

they’ll see the playgrounds, the tarmacs of the schoolyards,

the meadow behind the billboards, and the dugouts,

all in a new kind of light,— a light that makes the world

a darker place.

the streetlights send them running to the windows.

I know your mothers as you know mine.

this will be different,— different than the inside chaos of daylight.

tonight, we won't have time to digest our suppers

and the tension will build inside their kitchens.

their eyes are menacingly half-lidded,

the dishes stacked with an increasing sense of agitation.

they'll know something's up. It's in their blood.

when their aprons are undone from the waistlines of their house-

working dresses with a disciplined, determined yank of the sash,

hung hard and fast to their hooks, when even the cats are scurrying

under our beds for cover, when our mothers have had enough

of our planned shenanigans, and when their windows are thrown open

with the strength of their common resolve bending their torsos into the darkness,
screaming our names through the streets where the incandescent amber

of the streetlights are warming-up; and when that happens, my friends,

that's it. we're done for.

quequechan

To the Publishers:

––I can run fast.

I beat the long-striding Russell Silvia to the chain-

Linked fence across the tarmac of the schoolyard

To the astonishment of the girls.

––Pardon me.

Allow me to begin again.

I’m too old to run fast.

I’m nearly too old to run at all.

I beat Russell in 1958.

––But I’m strong.

I can twist the tightest

Cap of the jelly-jar to open freely

Against the stubborn, sugared-

Cement at its flights

Impressing the women in the pantries.

––A moment, please.

Allow me to clarify.

I have trouble scooping

The ice cream from the freezer.

I can’t open anything that’s stuck.

––Soon enough I’ll sleep

Wherever they sit me down

As people I've counseled through the years 

Shout instructions close to my ear

Assisting me in the daily mechanics of life,
––Warning of the dangers in the kitchen

Where the fires of gas-burners threaten

And knives are exposed with the open

Exhibition of their blades.–– but
––I see clearly.

I can manage the imagery.

My dead friends depend on this.

-If I go, I’ll be back-

the “Stop & Shop” is half-a-mile from the house,

but it's not a pleasant drive.

the 24 hour “Extra Mart” is less than a quarter mile west
on route 6, but at three-times the price.

there’s a “Cumberland Farms” variety store

same distance from the house as the “Extra Mart”

but in the other direction, toward the “Village Convenience”
in Seekonk and that's a good two miles north on 103.

“Joan's Country Store” on Gardners Neck Road is closed,––

locked-up, shuttered, dark and abandoned, no more than

50 yards north of the house.
Joan tried real hard to make a go of it, with fierce,

hand exclaimed signs of "Free Coffee"
expanded to: "Free Coffee No Purchase Necessary!"
she introduced a daring "Cigarette Smoking Encouraged" policy,
set up a little folding card table with two metal chairs outside the front door,
café style, inspired by those dotting the Avenue des Champs-Élysées,
and she established a unique "Confederate Currency Exchange System,"
none of which encouraged potential customers to stop by.
Joan didn't figure that the people in residences of the road traveling north
were just getting up to speed as they roared passed the little
country store on their way to work and sped passed it moving south
on the way to the comforts of home after being busy somewhere else.

but today, all I need is bread, milk, maybe the standard

dozen eggs afterthought, and a definitive destination.

the car’s in the driveway gassed-up and ready to go, but it doesn't matter

to obsess over anyplace in particular. 

I'll change my mind on just about everything along the way.

approximately 12 seconds of elapsed time in Swansea, USA.

        -In the neighborhood of crows-

        the crows have occupied the neighborhood,

        and it seems to have lessened the activities of smaller birds.

        In the morning I toss ripped chunks in day-old out back,

        but the crows quickly invade the lawn, and to the crows go the spoils in day-old.

        even the larger rodents flee at the sight of them.

        on the low wing, crows frighten the young cat,

        conflicting its inherent sensibilities.

        yet the crow is beautifully majestic in its feathered cloak of jet-stone
        black, brushed in glistening jade and purple hues highlighted by atmosphere.
        

        but of the crow there is also this:

        although the crow is classified as a songbird, chances are
        when a solitary crow sounds its caw, something's gonna get whacked.

        

from the Wellston notebooks unfinished

1.

once upon a wife––

why did we choose to walk this road?

you don't have to answer.

I've known the answer long enough.

let's walk this way.

behind us the embers are just dying out.

don't worry––

we'll join-up with our failings.

our hearts are not in the journey,

and now we’ve lost count of the miles.

2.

once upon a wife––

what called the wind to cross our path

with such a wild approach?

cool-eyed barmaid

on your mission toward the two-top

where I sat waiting to stake my claim, and then

the son rose beneath

the sun of southern Ohio unfinished

and the sun

set upon the stage of uncertainty.

once upon a wife–– your early

dress fluttered in the wind and clung to your skin unfinished

                                                                      

                                                  

-dust is skin-

the proof’s been around a long time.

dead skin sheds from our living bodies

drifting downward

forming film across the end tables.

the mild breeze wafting 
through open summer windows

present particles of dead skin which dance through the air

like speckled spittle expelled with a sneeze.

we’re disgusting.

we’re no longer in a position

to criticize the dog's self-licking

save for the tongue-slapping sounds of outrageous lapping.

let’s love one another

now that we’ve inhaled the spent flesh of our neighbors,

after we've vacuumed the remnants of an annoying company
from the living room rugs.