-love stories for two early baseballs-

the first story:

choose-up, and moving as fast

as sound permits, call "no chips"!

we'll rub the cowhide down

long before the time when we realized

why it was we were doing such a thing.

treasure the ball, and when the daylight's done,
walk it home as one would walk a little sister,––
in the palm of your hand.
this is the namesake of the game,
its summer days rolling fast up the middle,

dropping into the gap at center, slapping
into the riven pocket of the catcher's mitt, sailing

in the knuckleball's stillness toward the batter's knees,
waiting on the day when bounding
on the pavement beyond the right field fence, the sewer
comes to drink her down.

the second story:

under the porch keeping company

with webs long abandoned by spiders

lies an old Diamond D at permanent rest. irretrievable.

its cowhide is washed-out by weather and water,
its workings exposed in the brown, spiny filament
whose struggle for space ended years ago.

now its seams are torn at the gut like the fatal
wounds of war, its stitches seen in the quick
slip of daylight through the lattice are stilled,
but for an instant under the spike of the Sun, still blood-
red as twilight dropping westward beyond the backstop,

setting below the waterline of the river.

                   -to Isabella Howsenauer comfortably ensconced in New York, New York-

Isabella,–– 

Do you remember that small, rectangular

(Chardinesque wannabe) still life: “Items On A Table”

I painted in Ann Arbor, and when you came home

You told me you “Liked' it, and this, long before

Social media took the measure of our collective sensibilities,

And as such your "Like" seemed sincere so I gave it to you

And later when I visited you in Manhattan 

It was hanging on a wall (adjacent to a narrow hallway

Leading to the bathroom) above a tastefully upholstered

Divan in the cramped studio apartment,–– as I recall,

Somewhere on The Lower East Side?

Well, somebody told me it isn't there anymore.

Was the painting eventually binned with the required recyclables,

Or trash-bagged for the standard weekly street-side pick-up?

I need the info to finalize its provenance.

            

              "Blastoff !..to Pluto and the Moon"!

so, it’s not my intent to dwell upon my demise
regardless of how imperative the subject may be, but ––

I've recently penciled-in preferences to finalize the end of my time.

also preferred: the remnant ash to remain inside the retort.

now they tell me they don’t allow nesters;

something to do with adverse mingling with the residue

of others of my eternal kind.

O, ye mongrel ash!

a fast Epilogue:

at the cookout jamboree,

it’s preferred that the dead among the once-loved
not be extended invitations for cause, nor introduced by name.

It’s true, there might be room for them in the endless eulogies, but ––

I doubt there's room enough to accommodate the once-loved-once-lived
across the backyard plains of the here-and-now.


this poem's snazzy title came to me by way of "Captain Video" and
"Video Ranger Third-Class", Edward Lillywhite "Ed" Norton.

  

                   

                 I have no memory of sleep save for the dreaming parts, but

have I awakened this morning from a dreamless sleep?

setting my feet to the floor

I rise with caution to insure stability.

at times sleep retreats slowly like a conquered 19th century army;

at other times, it scoots in a mad rush,–– 

like an unjust monarch on the run from his just beheading.

sleep is only as mortal as its dreams; its borderless pathology

hanging by its fingertips at the portal through which

running water delivers its fatal wound.

but even the passage of time can't always clarify

the always restless, always uncharted roadway of the dream

                    -when stranded at the borderline-

why shouldn't I lay in bed through the light of day?

why change the status quo's punctuation before sundown?

maybe the middle-ground can be breached before darkness

sets its own determinations upon the face on the world.

first interlude

after the cat died the mouse had a family again.

they hid behind the gas stove until I assured them

it was safe to come out.

soon afterward the poison took effect.

I scooped them up with the dustpan and shuttled

them as a family group into the woods.

that’s a ceremony.

the trashcan isn’t,

and although they have their mother’s eyes

the little ones resembled a joey of opossums

before the interstate would bequeath to them

the deaths they were properly destined for.

second interlude

It's true. I may have read too many poems,

and that's a situation which can’t be good for anyone.

but inconsistencies proposed by lack of sleep continue.

I could be dreaming. it’s only an hour to sundown.

                    the north-end of town

 

                     afterthought

concerning the poet Ocean Vuong.

not of the poems specifically,

but more about the substance of his soft-

toned alto when reciting, and I thought:

I could never speak this way nor write like this,

certainly because I’m not capable, but more so

because nobody can.

nobody should. nobody would

dare to try, I thought.

Vuong was “invited” to spend

an hour alone inside Emily Dickinson’s room,

the room in Amherst where she wrote her poems

and bound them together with a common string,

in an uncommon tongue, and placed them, fold on fold

inside the chosen compartment of her dresser.

Vuong tells us of this experience, and tells us

he couldn’t bring himself to write anything during his time

in Emily's room, telling us her living presence was palpable.

instead, for his hour in paradise, he simply sat quietly, and listened

to the stillness, and to the silence of the window overlooking Amherst.

who else can grip one with that kind of mystery but Emily?

nobody can. nobody should. nobody would

dare to try, I thought.

so I’ll continue to write in my approach, fractured as it often is,

content to be a part of the existence; counting outbound

from the 3rd planet of the yellow dwarf revolving in concert

within an outer barb of the pinwheel; a pinprick of residence

in the star-glistened galactic island's community. like her.

like him. like you. like everyone. like everything.

                   “fair-skinned”

from the archives of the Hugo A. Dubuque School, Fall River, MA.

the debate inside the smoky teacher’s lounge

centered around Frank Leo-Davis, a 6th grade student.

over fatty lunchmeat sandwiches and thermos soft drinks,

they debated whether Frank was racially black or white,

or more accurately considering the times; “negro” or white.

It was a casual discussion, as if centered around rye vs. pumpernickel,

but lacking any hint of potential retribution for Frank or for that matter,

of common sense for themselves.

the resolution found a middle-ground

among the lunchroom debaters, which was:

Frank adjudicated as “negro”...but “fair-skinned”.

Frank Leo-Davis was decidedly not

the kid he used to be after the debate, but not as

questionable a kid as he was perceived to be before the debate.

writ by his friend, William, an American of Italian-saturated

family parentage, and according to the parameters set by

the lunchroom gang of 1953...60% one or the other.

                    Antoine at the Public Lieberry

At the Public Lieberry,

Antoine pulled “The Big Book of Certain Things”

from its stacks.

It’s a dusty mess

and heavier than he expected.

The Lieberrian says

he can’t take it out because

it doesn’t belong to the Lieberry.

She said

somebody left it sitting on the counter to the front desk,

then disappeared into the night.

She described this person as a thin-

haired, youngish white guy wearing hand-

scissored short-short cutoffs in denim material

smoking an unusual brand of cigarettes.

The Lieberrian went about her business

leaving Antoine alone at the counter to the front desk,

strongly indicating she'd be okay with him nabbing

“The Big Book of Certain Things” and skedaddling.

Under normal circumstances this would seem reasonable,

but Antoine wanted no part in this drama and walked out

into the afternoon empty-handed, but not entirely empty-headed.

at the Fall River Public Library

 

 

                 

another poem written during an unsettlingly mood

I'm amused by the goings on of the world,

although I must say it’s not funny.

these days I seem to be spending a lot of time

lurking between what is commonly known as "this and that".

but certain revelations have come to my attention

allowing me to gain a sense of what people are up to

on the other side of the table.

so I have things to say as do all blabbermouths,

but as it stands I'm more of an exhibitionist

than I am a presenter of opinions for public consumption.

day-by-day, the aging MacBook loiters in lazy mode,

and I can’t write poems in longhand with a pen, scratching

word groups bloated in adjectives across a sheet of paper.

they don’t come out right; they're lopsided, like a top

toward the sickening end its spin, or Saturn.

I’ve tried the A.I. approach to expression, but I was quickly

terminated as the pink-slip stated: "due to a lack of understanding".

I thought I might squeak by like I did from the 5th grade to the 6th grade,

but unlike the modus operandi of my youth, my old-timer charms

have been mostly ineffective.

but as a head's-up, and a sign of respect to one and all,

fragments of yourselves may still be found in my notes,

and I'll fish them out if you allow me the pleasure of your company.