-a lament in strings-

the wood's blood

is drawn by wire from the moist

hand of god

knotted to clacking 

feet who seem to dance 

on hell's fire, and the mouth

is thinly sliced
to form its hollow 

syllables.

staple, tack and dowel, cap-

topped caucasian pink-

colored second fiddle!

christ,
you were doomed from the start,

dilly-

     dally.

                            

-from the room where we slept-

I entered noisily then stopped in my tracks;
gulls leaning on early avenues
when rhythms are glass-like.

Light's transparency draws 

to the shoulder's sweep—  the slow

knee draws in sweet exposition 

defining geometry from under its sheets.

At once the sunlight cloaks

like depth of water at its drenched 

beginning——

And the mouth of daybreak presents this evidence 

into the stillness so nearly shattered.

                                                   of all those places

                                                         

-for Justine Pinheiro-

Sky of Earth,

Earth and sky who rest at the closing 

Shape of the years,

Shape of the lasting

Etch at a mother's striking 

Face.

Singing, the star's
Crescendo spills its veil across a burning

Firmament.

                                   Fall River 

-with six on the couch-

the coffee's 

perked

the sil-

verish pot

up-on 

the stove

lit-up on top

to rhyme

say blast!

would blow 

a-part 

if it was 

glass 

to rhyme 

say ouch! 

who are 

the six 

kids on

the couch?

this poem was commissioned by

Tina Velasquez, age 8, Union City, New Mexico,

circa 1969 from a kid-crowded house trailer.

         

                 

 

1.

cold— the frozen 

bloodless lay.                              

                                           

bled-out

upon the prison grey.

                         

five-                                                    

hundred rifles 

to the fray who storm                                                                   

relentlessly.

order—                                         

loud its restless call—  requiem                                    

chorus                                        

sounds the wall.

cold—

the still, the bloodless                                        

fall.

its order 

done.

                    for Nelson

-the blonde and geo-relevance-

1.

She can't wake-up in the morning.

She waits the post-dinner shift in a restaurant 

Which bears the name of one once accused, 

But acquitted of matricide-

Patricide. But when the noon-sun springs, 

And her hand begins its quiet sweep across her hair,

That gold——

She is everything living 

As living should most clearly 

Define itself.

When questioned, she tells me my poems are vague,

And I sometimes agree. But—

She radiates blood to the vacuum-

Side of morning's brain like a deep, red- 

Shifter.

2.

It's that time of year when the cat hangs-out

At the base of the refrigerator,

Curled-up from the cold in the warmth of its motor.

That cat——

Once buried to its pink in the quick- 

Snow's drift,

Who ignored the calls of her kissing-

Sound lips—— Those lips,

That cat,

Whose awareness of life extended 

Only as far as the breath now breathed, 

Its history of life. But then——

Across the light of a noontime sun her hand 

Brushed back that gold...

And if you live in the West, in the South,

Immersed in the permanent dryness of heat—— 

In New Mexico, in Phoenix or San Diego,

You won't understand the habits of our poets,
Or our cats——

Of our killers

Or our women.

                               Fall River / 1978 / 2007

-in the 16th century briefly-

As evening defined its heart's failure to run

As once sweet waters dried earth-

Red like cold terra 

Cotta—

Once observer's Phaidon Renaissance  

Locked within two frozen

Hands—

Its glossy

Page absorber strikes to set in chiseled

Stone——

The tomb

The icy

Gates to the dead

Lorenzo.

                               Wellston notebooks

                             

-resumé-

1.

only the strongest

will can challenge this atmosphere—

that substance-filled night of terrible              

blades

who cut the moon to half its

shape—   

shape of the heart who beat upon 

that bed whose base was demon-

filled.

now i choose those roots,

seedlings of the sum-

total of myself.

to weave a quiet water

the substance is recurring.

2.

stars of the dipper 

bend its shape.

stones as old as pharaoh roll

beneath our feet.

-I've dreamed-

1.

I've dreamed of water

And of deserts—

Of death's cold angel 

And life's possibilities.

Once active

Once passive 

Once hunted

Once found 

I've walked on water 

Mimic of the Nazarene

Then fell like stone to a bottomless 

Space.

I've dreamed in winter of burning 

Aldebaran.

2.

Once in the city of Kansas City

Hieronymus crept beneath my sheets

Soaked in sweat, 

Holding me close in his terrible 

Arms.

3.

I've dreamed of all these things 

And then

I've dreamed of water

And of deserts.

                                  from the house of

                                 Tom and Marlee Joyce,
                                 Kansas City, Missouri  / c.1969 

                            

-The maple tree at Ruggles Park-

Saturday afternoon at Ruggles Park

And my Parish baseball team

Of the Fall River CYO league 

Is engaged in an extra-inning struggle

With its principal rival.

Holy Rosary 8

Immaculate Conception 8

Inning 12.

It's my first year of eligibility.
I could judge a high-fly ball with accuracy 
From my left field position, I threw left,
Batted left and hit a low average,

Maybe .230 or so, strongly favoring 15 points
To the negative.

But I could run fast and that made me

Holy Rosary’s designated bunter.

The situation of the game was irrelevant.

When I came to the plate, my Coach would

Flash me one of only two signs.

The “Take” or the “Bunt.” That’s it.

This Saturday afternoon found me at the plate

With one out and a man on second.

A base hit will win the game.

Coach Gino DiNucci gives me the Take sign.
Strike one.

Gino gives me the Take sign.
Strike two.

Gino gives me the Take sign.

This is my place on the team as I knew it.

One on, one out, no balls, two strikes

In a tie game and Gino gives me the Take sign.

The "Imac's" pitcher, who they called “Rigger”

Was firing strikes past the letters with an adroitness

Usually reserved for the assassin with a scoped 30-06.

No balls, two strikes.

The Catcher trots to the mound to chat with “Rigger”

And I know what he’s saying:

“Rig,” Let’s dump this little prick. Fastball by the head.

The Ump’ll call “Three” to speed-up the game.

Then we’ll deal with Tacovelli.”

The fastball was chin high, off the inside corner
And I backed off the plate from the hip. “Strike three” call.

It was announced unemotionally,

Without the typically exaggerated intonation:
"Steeeraaaahhhheeek Three" the Umps

Seem to glory in. No tortured torso twist, 

Or fist-punching animation.

No pomp, no ceremony. Just cold arithmetic.

"That's three. Sorry, kid."

Two outs and

I'm left standing at the plate with the bat

Resting on my shoulder in the quiet
Repose of emptiness, as "Pappy" Tacovelli
Walks toward the box, deliberately in his spikes, 

Closing-in on the plate where I stand frozen
Like half a Popsicle.

Ruggles Park was an open field. No fence. Just grass and trees.

People walked through the park's inviting atmosphere 

Just beyond the outfielders positions,

Reminiscent of baseball's early days when cows and bulls 

Roamed freely, careless of the count.

Off the right field line across the street stood Ruggles School,

A Middle school for the wayward in need of discipline.

The school of the Sword of Domiciles. 

“Keep it up and you’ll be heading to Ruggles, mister.”

Beyond left field rising on a slow hill,
Stood the ubiquitous row of three or four- 

Story tenement houses,

Activated by the inhabitants in the summer;

The yards, the porches and the street.

From center field lay a wide expanse of grass

And to the left in the distance, from the batter's

Line-of-sight stood a large, ancient, fat-trunked maple

And I’m at the plate with the bat in my hands as useless

As last Saturday's strike-out. And then..

At the trunk of the distant maple,

A young man has pinned his sweetheart

To the wood, the spiny bark of the tree.

I can see this clearly and it seems I'm the only

Player on either side who notices

As game moved on in its beauty without me.

But  here is the new outer movement,

The guy and his girl together,

Pressed to the tree out there,

Pressed in a vertical dance out there, the slow, slow
Pressure into the wood, I can sense

The sweat of her brow, the sweat in her hair,

Her arms, bared from the shoulders,
Loosely draping the sides of her dress in sweet surrender,
A flutter of wind in the universe they've made for themselves 

And me at the foot of the dusty plate,

The scars of three strikes on my soul,

Tacovelli moving in, swinging two bats,

Moving in, letting one fly away toward the bench,
Gripping the one at its neck, the one which

Knocks the clay of the earth from his battered spikes,

The look of determination etched in his eyes

And out there the guy and his girl at the trunk of the maple

Burning a love letter into its wood.——

Immaculate Conception 9

Holy Rosary 8

In 13.

                                           Quequechan, c.1958