-the posing / 1934

consider a photograph; a snapshot taken

during the courtship of my father and mother.

they’re sitting on a couch in a room which

resonates with me even now. he’s seventeen. she’s sixteen.

how do I know this? because the photo is dated

on the backside, and because I know the year

of their births I can calculate their ages, and this

from a man who as a kid seemed alien to arithmetic

unless I’m miscalculating everything I'm assuming now.

but I’m not, so let’s continue. of course they’re fooling around! 

they'll easily find themselves far from the family interiors.

he has access to a car. he’s adventurous, a handsome young man

well into the edge of exploration. she’s lovely, she's reserved, and

at the edge of curiosity. her glance tells you she's well-aware of how

she hooked the big one from the Walyos on the corner of Bedford

and Stinziano. It's not difficult to imagine where they'd go

when they slipped away on their way to exploration.

ah..the little unpaved road along the Narrows of the sprawling Watuppa,––

a place known only to them and others of their kind, the same as it was

with us. sneaky. but–– I can chart the direction of his hand navigating

toward its destination. I can sense the activity of her breath as

the applications came to her skin.

I know the reasons why the dark confessionals were tossed

to the ash-bins when all of us began to realize a thing or two.

                    From Raisin Bran Way, Palm Beach, U.S. of A.

I nearly missed my appointment due to dampness.

The sand was coagulating and running slow, and the local horse

hoofing to the barbershop took a wrong turn.

Lucky for me the barber had his leeches on a short leash.

He knifed my hair leaving only a few open wounds to my scalp

as the leeches sucked away my tired blood, bless their little hearts.

This guy’s the best.

Later, I purchased some six day old mutton on sale,

(not too many maggots) and horsed to my hut, finding

only three of the kids had died with the yellow-ochre fever.

It’s certainly good to live in such an exciting modern time.

Someone said: “Let them come to "Raisin Bran Way"

hence to whither and die after a soulless life.”

 

-William's resumé / please adjust the curvature of the brims of your caps

to indicate the era in which you played the game, and be seated-

he sports a baggy uniform,

bats left, and favors

a closed stance in the box.

he crowds the plate, can’t hit for shit,

but bunts with reasonable accuracy.

good speed up the first base line,

throws left, although long range attempts

display a cork-arm's tendencies. 

he plays the position bequeathed

to him by Teddy Ballgame, and calculates

the arc of a high fly ball to a proof.

he was nearly beaned facing

Johnny Santos, "Espírito Santo" fast-baller,

and once shook the hand of Red Sox speedster,

Gene Stephens during testimonial festivities

at the close of the CYO’s ’59 Season

held at "Venus de Milo" banquet hall,

Route 6 West, Swansea, Massachusetts,

just over the Fall River line,–– choosing

the chicken offering over the fish offering.

art school.

                   the minor faults of man

––he was quick to defend his passion for the American-made bike,

the bike that had weight and occupied space, and he realized before

any of his grade-school pals that come-hither-eyed Virginia Fox 

was far more fascinating than "best looking" front-runner, Tony Coyte.

––later, he attended meetings reserved for "members only" and one invited guest,

and they say his father was once a committee vice-chairman, having a hand

in stage productions sponsored by the Italian American War Veterans

at the Sons of Italy Hall's main branch on Enrico Fermi Blvd.

––one fine day before the setting of the supper table he shook-out the change from

the old pickled-onion jar and discovered he had racked-up almost thirty dollars!

It's true. he’s known his share of poets and derelicts, attending many joint sessions

for discussions on how to convincingly define which is which, but let him be.

he’s not dissatisfied with these results, and yes. I said: "the old pickled-onion jar".

The early years with the passerby, Jake “Skinnyhead”

Jake "Skinnyhead" lived just beyond the billboards to the east,

then northward toward the city's landfill called "the dump" and a half-

mile or so west of the cemetery where famed acquitted axe murderess

Lizzie Borden is surely buried.

We remember Jake as having a compressed, tubular-

shaped head with big, protruding ears, and a flat sort-of nose

like that of a seasoned welterweight.

Jake was short of stature, slumped forward,–– a foot-shuffler,

maybe in his late forties. He was a real person, not one of those

character participants made-up for the sake of a story.

Jake was seen regularly, walking passed the ballpark, the Esso station,

and my earliest house, the only house in the neighborhood which stood

directly over the sidewalk behind the sewer that ate foul balls.

The drawing:

Charcoal pencil with brushed-white conte crayon highlights,

on a sheet of grey, standard art-supply, lightly textured drawing pad paper,

completed long after art school, but long before now.

I might know the original date of the drawing, but I might not.

The fun part, in part, was my journey through the process

in cobbling fragmented images gleaned from the bowls of memory

to make a face for Jake which I could live with and maybe, hopefully,

Jake "Skinnyhead" could live with, too.

Quequechan

                   -the rareness of beauty and a recollection of distress-

the midwest, the night was clear and you were cranky.

you went out with the girls,–– a night on the town, but

beforehand, I watched you dress, curious as to why

you consciously chose to be with me.

I was mesmerized by your attitude of not realizing

the beauty of your reflection, brushing your glistening, jet-

stone hair with a smoothness as if you were brushing

a measure of silk spun from the boiling of the worm.

I waited at the face of the television for your return,

and when you did, the evening and its anticipation lost its clarity.

we went to bed at the same time. it was late. you were drunk.

you stank of coney island wieners with meat sauce, and extra onions.

the sour stench came from deep within your stomach, upward,

beginning at your wormy intestines, and outward as you snored,

wheezing through the coagulated interior hairs of your oily,

coney island wiener, meat-sauced, and onionized infested nose.

I wanted an escape from you, to beat a fast retreat like a yellow-

belly under fire from a hyper active foxhole.

I wanted to be back in the "Spindle City" fantasizing over the young,

fascinating, and oh, so jewish, Joy Leibowitz, who I'd bet a million bucks

smelled really good when she went to bed.

looking at you in the dread of your immediate faults I wanted to be Laszlo Toth,

bopping your nose with a mallet just to keep it quiet so's I might get some shuteye,

but even under such distress, I cautiously went to sleep believing

your beauty would return to me sometime after the clean-up procedures

in the forgiving light of morning, and it did.

the coffee perked electrically, the eggs crackled in their olive oil bed, the mouse

with its prize of cheese was on the lam from the huntress cat, and as the turned

milk was poured into the sink's open drain, the romance came back to me,–– 

shuffling through the kitchen portal no more than half awake in pink fuzzy

slippers, and yawning, and yelling.

   

                   -The citizen-

last night I wrote Pablo Neruda’s “The citizen”.

the dream didn’t portray me in the process of writing it down,

but somehow implied my authorship of "The citizen".

at one point a gang of three came to me representing

a certain authority asking about “The citizen”—

of how I came to write such a poem.

one aggressive young man pulled-up a chair and sat

at my table, his sharp elbows indenting the oilcloth

and his little polished fists with their scrubbed-red knuckles

pushing into the sides of his face waiting to hear me address

the meaning behind the carpenter's implements of “The citizen”.

this happened as I sat waiting to be served inside a small beatnik-type cafe

at a table beneath a large wall poster of Nina Simone,— her full face

half-covered in shadow, and at the base in bold caps the name: “NINA”.

it was as if she was being introduced, as the juke began bopping:

"Mississippi Goddam"–– and when I woke-up, the vision of that poster

hanging inside the small cafe, and that voice from the back of her throat,

and "The citizen" running through the electrode-like vines of my brain

had me agonizing over what was true, and what, but a dream.

  

-Corrina, and a universally understood line from John Lennon-

“Please Sign the Book of Condolences”

reads the little note which is elegantly printed

on heavy milled paper and carefully folded

like a pup-tent upon a glassy desktop.

a long, tapered pen matching its heavy base is provided.

the book is open, and the last signatory 

to the solemn event has skipped a space

before she entered her name.

I’ll skip a space below

and sign the register having recognized

her name as somehow meaningful.

I’ll hang-around the desk for a moment

scraping a saucy-beef smudge from my necktie

with my fingertip, waiting for the elderly gentleman
behind me to sign his name into the Book of Condolences

before I move to the parlor to pay my respects.

earlier, I slipped a generous tip of folding money

partially below my coffee mug on the diner’s counter.

to be successful, one has to move deliberately,

adjusting for the right moment so she can see you do it.

maybe then her smile will mean something,—

something beyond the quick acknowledgment with the prompt

delivery of the steamed, saucy, meatloaf plate.

( It's a: "Go to a show, you hope she goes.." sort-of moment. )

ah! the gentleman has signed directly below my name

and "Corrina" glistens like a winding blue river between its banks

on the approach to the gateway of purple-scented Parlor No. 3.

                   

                     -Raga-

                     Translated from "Learning Experience" / Chloe Martinez / "Ten Thousand Selves" /                                 The Word Works, 2021                               

It’s the push from the moving train which caused you

to hit the concrete platform which broke your jaw.

The densely occupied car is probably replaced by now,

all new with better doors and appropriate warning signage.

At the least, one raga should be penned in honor of the occasion, but 

during the crack of your bones did you come to see your short life in review,

or fantasize the beauty of your unborn daughters?

With what, did you throw your dislodged tooth to the dirt of the tracks, pure rage?

And cursing the mad hand of God, didn't you simply hate India?

let’s say

you’re walking

in the park leisurely

to look around calmly

to see the birds clearly

to hear the kids at play

to stay in touch

to sit on a bench.

perhaps you’re

thinking about lunch.

maybe you remember

something while

piecing together

the fragments of a dream

seemed broken and senseless

the long night before but

now there are kites

flying nearby

colorful

zig-zagging

on currents of air and conned by the grace and guidance of man.

they soar and dive as if possessing an awareness of self––

make tactile sounds of their papers

stressed and strung to the armatures

call them bones

call them lungs––

they have tails.

the birds seem content to have their company

without direct contact and yet the birds fly close

and often into the suck of the intake engines of jetliners

causing grief among the families but otherwise

it’s a pleasant morning with layers of light and calmness

amid structures built for aesthetics and relaxation with river and bridge views

not quite three blocks from the cool-

blue womb of home which within the hour could hold the answers.