-The Seasons-

David Britto's family had money.

He was the best artist in 6th grade class

Specializing in crayon drawings of Santa Claus

And other religious notables.

In the parlor of his family's tenement

Sat a snazzy space-heater,—

One with a glowing mouth at the bottom

Displaying its orange fire.

It was bigger than the one we had

And sounded like a gust of wind

When it started-up in winter. 

Ours clanked like an old jalopy.

The Britto's space-heater

Seemed otherworldly.

Ours came from the planet it sat in.

A crooked aluminum pipe

Stuck out of its back, listing upward

And angled into the wall where

A little flower-painted tin plate dressed

The wall's rough-cut hole of the intruding pipe.

In winter, a twin-handled kettle of water
Serving as humidifier, sat on top for a practical,

But unintended purpose.

In the summer, my mother would alter

The space-heater’s identity.

The big pot would be removed to be used for

Cooking spaghetti or heating the bathwater.

A fancy cloth with ends of fringe dressed its top,

And knick-knacks were placed there to jewel its crown

Along with a few chosen members of the family, who

Had their framed portrait photos displayed.

The pictures:

––Cousin Patricia, "Call me Patsy"—

Who left the Convent as Novitiate

Breaking the hearts of her mother and father

And in the face of their God before the final vows,

Photographed in pre-convent civvies, made the cut.

––So did my sister at nine years,

Frozen in a graceful tapping pose

At the “Eugenia School of Dance”— an attitude

That would follow her through life,

––And there was a colorized photo of John “Sonny” Cinquini,

A second cousin, smiling broadly, young, good looking,

Air-brushed smooth and posing bravely in his Korean War sailor suit.

“Sonny,” assigned to a minesweeper in the South Pacific,

Who tumbled down a flight of metal grate stairs

Heading to the ship's galley for a quick cup,—

Who smacked his head on the final flight,

Drifted deeply into coma for over two years

Then died when his brain drew its flatline

On the screen by his hospital bed close to home.

Sure, David Britto's family had money.

But the summertime studio portrait photos

Sitting on top of his family's snazzy space-heater

Looked like they didn’t have any stories to tell.

Quequechan

                   

                    

                   the Frequent Flyer Club:

a member-in-good-standing with impeccable credentials

and impressive flying-dream inventory has submitted another

vivid dream for Governing Board certification.

his stash of flying dreams is interesting, and individually

are not so fragmented as many of my flying dreams tend to be.

but we both enjoy sharing our dreams of non-vehicular flight

with others as do many of our members.

(In order to classify as a "flying dream" a human being

must be "flying" upward at a minimum of 100 feet above ground,

at an angle between a minimum of 35 degrees and a maximum

of 60 degrees, propelled by inertial motion without the aid of mechanical

or "spiritual" devices, including elevation during the rapture.)

following is the dream which was submitted

by the member-in-good-standing who has vivid dreams:

he’s flying, clothed, but bare-footed through a range

of cumulus clouds, approaching the darkest of them

forming menacingly behind a large, hovering alligator.

 

that’s the image he's proposed for the Governing Board's consideration,

and it certainly would be a fine contribution to the Frequent Flyer Club vaults.

but Antoine Dubonnet, last year's runner-up,

still shaken by the lopsided results is asking questions:

"suppose the alligator is dreaming within

the context of the member-in-good-standing's dream"?

"suppose this dream submitted by the member-in-good-standing

is in fact the alligator’s dream, and if it is the alligator's dream,

why is the alligator dreaming of the member-in-good-standing"?

a roundtable discussion of Dubonnet's allegations, followed by

a voice vote of the executive committee in session to sanction Dubonnet,

is soon to be rescheduled, and is currently laid upon the table.

                   various tributaries

(or the time a young woman on 195 west bumped her third suicidal opossum)

so sponsor me. curate me. but hang me away from direct sunlight.

O, how it burns me up, makes me pale, weakens the luminosity!

gimme a lil’ bit of that mouth-to-mouth so’s your hot

exhaling breath articulates my lungs, and then

warm my hands in the cold morning's room within the fold.

put them in deep, but not so deep so's I can’t manipulate my thumbs.

then go.–– but wait!

watch out for the old buzzard across the street who clears his lungs

of a day’s worth of phlegm late into night like to rattle my walls.

well, well.–– what do we have here?

see that ol' merry-go-round yonder? let’s take her for a spin, then 

announce to the neighborhood we've arrived at our destination. –– whoa!

don’t resuscitate that bumped opossum! resuscitate me, why don't cha?

unabashedly piggybacking Jack Kerouac's: "Scattered poems" /

page 17, 4th verse, last stanza, right side of the spine.

                    an introduction to cryptoverse

log on to my space.

the screen will prompt you to:

“click here to read my poem.”

click the link.

nothing will appear

and after a few minutes,

(the average time it takes

to read a standard-sized poem

written in the dreaded back-

handed complimentary "plain-talk")

the screen will go black.

not to worry.

you simply walk around town

telling everyone you meet

that you’ve just read a poem.

there’s no place they can go to

to validate your claim, so

they can either believe you or not.

those who don't will have

the distinction of claiming:

"never heard of the guy".

those who do,

will go about their business

content that they’ve met a person,

out of the blue, who has read a poem.

                   21st century digital bells, and a digital reading of my current weight

It's 7:59 in the morning, and if my math is correct,

4 of 100 people in the apartment building know I live here.

my son's keen awareness is comforting, albeit from the other side of the continent.

all others of the immediate family are deceased and express no opinions.

I’m not now nor have I ever been more popular than Jesus.

 I don’t drive around anymore, but with a phone call

someone picks me up at the door taking me to the eggs I need,

or to nab my prescription because the pharmacist says it's ready.

the dense, early morning fog has lifted from the balcony.

Saint Micheal Church rises above the tree line;

its roof and its bell tower are clearly visible when

the Autumn leaves drop, and when the wind comes in from the east,

the recorded bell's tolling is amplified. It tolls once for every hour from

8:00 AM ending at 8:00 PM.

otherwise I don't subscribe to the biblical voodoo.

nobody's got real bells anymore, they're too heavy

and could cause a newsworthy local catastrophe. 

but the sound of the tolling is still beautiful,

and the elderly of mind and body find comfort there.

the coffee’s perked, and the turkey bacon’s crisp and ready to be slipped

into pita bread with green leaf lettuce and slices of vine tomato.

this is the fourth day I'm without a new back-up exit plan.

as to how it will go, I might complete this document later in the day, but

chances are I’ll let it stand as written, call it poetry, and leave it to the courts.

I’m weighing-in at 163, and in less than a minute the bell will toll 8 times.

which means if the sun's out it's morning.

  

                    the four ghosts of past experiences  

they show-up as a family group on occasion

like an impromptu chorus interrupting a benediction.

sometimes they appear individually as to emphasize a personality trait.

that's justifiable.

they know I write things down.

maybe the spirits drop by to collect a debt,–– after all,

my wanderings are in large part due to what they’ve left behind,

and now they'd like me to pay-up for the usage during longevity.

It's understandable.

ah, this fine family. they’d be better off without the need to haunt me,

and I’m perfectly willing to honor the debt if it brings a receipt

of payment-in-full, and a little latitude moving forward toward tomorrow.

 

                 Cover Letter

I've come to accept the honorarium

of "poem-writer in residence".

when I leave the house the honorarium

will not travel with me.

The early years

I’m home-schooled in the tactics of neighborhood,

coached by-the-book in the mastery of nabbing

the high-fly ball at the close of its arc, disciplined

at the procedural altar, the chiming solemnity of the benediction,

the dousing of Priest's nicotine-stained thumbs hovering

at the mouth of the chalice drunk first of wine then washed of water,

practiced to a fault in circumventing the Saturday

morning confessionals, the weekly recounting of venial sins

without confessing to Priest my regret that each hadn't lingered longer.

my official papers are in order for the most part.

an examination of my formal education will at the least

find me in attendance.

                  

 

                   -beyond the reach of younger men-

very old men have somewhere adhered to their heads,

a band-aid "flesh-colored" strip. (available in caucasian tone only)

it never mimics true complexion as the strip is akin to taped repairs

of torn, diner-booth naugahyde. (red is to red as dust is to water)

the wounds on the heads of very old men, whatever the wounds might be,

might be better exposed for what they are. well, naturally within reason.

very old men are by their nature unencumbered by images of theirselves,

and they seem to lack the awareness to realize the young among them

are not among them by preference.

also, in the light of day regardless of what it is they're wearing,

very old men will have a soiled spot dabbed somewhere upon their clothing.

when discovered, this stain is often seen by them to be as mysterious as the far-

side of the Moon before exploration revealed it to be no more

than the same sort of rock which the lick of God avoided, leaving it with

nothing to reflect.

––a beef gravy stain is a reasonable assumption. an educated guess to be sure.

––I came to this place from among them. I'm one of their kind, you see.

the space below is reserved for the announcement of arrangements.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

                    another in a string of lazy summer afternoons

––that afternoon long ago when the chickens with slit throats

were found hanging by their feet against the peeling, pea-

green entry wall, as the junkyard dog ran in frantic circles

across the floor was reported to the proper authorities.

––nowadays my password’s my name.

my code for the withdrawal of funds is: 54321,

and that bottle of Geritol my grandpappy

laid upon his bedside table in 1951 to "re-vegetate"

his tired blood must surely be empty by now.

we didn’t have a dog.

––we had cats and parakeets and one yellow canary which became

agitated when persons of color came knocking, conflicting with

the racial sensitivities of my parents, hawking the promise

of "Jesus and Paradise Awaiting" informational pamphlets.

––you might ask then: who was that junkyard dog running around

in mad circles as the clueless chickens hung bleeding in the entry

on that sweltering planet a million years from here?–– well,

he responded to the name: "Rusty" and showed-up in the entryway 

during times of turmoil, but we didn’t have a dog.

                    elegy to a tap-dancer at her core

I worry about overlooking the best of things.

the house is a mixed collection of parts; some

stand alone, while some are in need of accompaniment.

others are left unknown but to me.

1.

the checklist is far from accurate.

I don’t know what to look for.

I’m standing at stuff stacked in columns

as high as my knees.

they're stacked that way for a reason.

It’ll take longer than nightfall to find the answers.

my senses collide on the march.

my eyes aren't what they used to be.

2.

behind me, the time-worn drone

of the veteran broadcaster, dumped to the midnight slot,

reports the "Breaking News" I’ve heard since morning.

upstairs, there’s a photograph to be found.

downstairs, there are others to consider.

kitchen shelves are examined for disposition.

the lines of demarcation are formless and not helpful.

there are drawers to approach, each and all in their time.

everything keeps coming and going.

dear, remarkable sister / 12/17/ '39  /  12/18/ '18

                    feels like minus 15° when calculating into the equation the wind-chill factor

early morning:

the young meteorologist

has an announcement to make.

she says it’s cold out there.

It’s an old house built in the '30s.

new storm windows were added in 2011,

but the insulation is sub-par. she says it’s worse than cold

because she's calculating into the equation the wind-chill factor.

It’s not just the cold, but the wind-chill factor.

when the wind comes in off the Bay at, let’s say,

20 knots, it dilutes the inside heat of the furnace.

It’s a tepid heat on its own, but accompanied by

the wind-chill factor it feels like -15° like she said.

It’s the combination of temperature and wind-chill factor

which overpowers the furnace; the big, fat metal-green

contraption squatting down there is cranking like a Model T,

and its gas is hissing down there. I can hear it up here.

blue flames ignite, and strengthen, straining to achieve maximum output.

It seems constipated.

In the kitchen, the oatmeal thickens rapidly.

If I sit here, my left side is colder than my right side.

If I sit over there, my back is colder than my front.

If I sit on the toilet, both hemispheres will come to know the wind-chill factor.

early afternoon:

the young meteorologist hasn’t changed her mind.

she says it’s cold out there.

she says to bundle-up. she advises the layering of lighter clothing.

feels like minus fifteen she says like a cracked 78 rpm.

she looks fantastic, but not so much that it warms the interiors.

she palms the digital radar map with a clean sweep, tapping the information

she knows I'll need, what with the cold and the wind-chill factor.

she's emphasizing high and low pressure developments.
precipitation intensity is noted by color ranges from yellow to green to red.
the radar imaging proceeds frame by frame in near comic sequence, but

the intensity of the colors is convincing, and my position on the map

is deep red which the young meteorologist is telling me is not a good thing

considering the cold, and calculating into the equation the wind-chill factor.

first writ: Swansea, early March, 2017.

jazzed-up: Fall River, mid December, 2022.

                   could be Ben Martinez is in the hoosegow

he’s unresponsive.

the screen’s straight-lining.

could be he’s enjoying a self-

imposed isolation, scheming

a new Picasso situation.

could be the infatuation’s

grown too dear and moved

too close to the edge.

why couldn’t Martinez

leave the old Spaniard to himself?

isn’t that where the dead belong?

no. not for Martinez.

he’s got a rare sort of penmanship.

his tinfoil’s the best I’ve seen.

could be he’s roaming the Italian landscape

as we wait his return when the scent

of the pane is pulled from the oven.