-first the hamper-

in the morning

in the middle of Healy

in the middle of Bowl-a-Wicket,

a street game played with pinkies,

broomsticks, empty cans

of every description, but

about the same size,
10 per team, stacked in pyramids,

3 guys on a side
and with chalk-drawn circles of the same
diameter around the cans. but,
stay with me,

the open window at the first floor

of my house, facing the backyard street

whose line was empty of cloth, distracted

so as to make me lose my concentration

to the  immediate detail of the game

that had me standing at the home-end
of the cans, broomstick ready,

at the west-end fence of old-man

Rachlin’s Junkyard, facing,
about 60 feet away, the same array
of stacked cans on Healy toward Quarry

at Rachlin’s open gate to the east,
and 3 opposing players.

simply, the pitcher throws the pinky to the hitter.

the hitter hits the pinky.

now here’s the thing:

once the pinky is hit,
the hitter runs to the opposing

stack of cans as the other team
shags the pinky.
stay with me.

as they shag, the hitter-turned-runner
tags-up at the chalked-circle of the opposing
stack of cans,
he can't knock them down,

and runs back toward the stacked
cans of home.

a good hit means a run back
to the opposing stack,
tag-up in the chalked circle
and run to the cans of home again,

repeating as often as the runner has the chance.

each tag-up to each circle chalked around
the stack of cans, is one point.

It’s the job of the opposition
to retrieve the pinky

and as the hitter-turned-runner runs,
relay the pinky

to his mates, one of them throwing the pinky,

breaking the pyramid of cans stacked at home
before the runner
can tag the circle of chalk, thus
ending his run of points.

here’s the thing.

earlier in the morning
I was told to take my dungarees

off an put them in the hamper because
she said: “They’re filthy.”

they were.

but they were also broken-in, light in weight
and playable

because they’re runnable.

the new dungarees she had me wearing
were stiff,

unyielding and blue as a waxy Crayola.

now I’m up.
across the street,

the window’s open to the line.

half my eyes see emptiness.

half my brain is at the open window of the line.
half my desire is dying with me in the hamper.

a good hit has me running
to the cans at Rachlin's gate.
I'm fast. but not this morning.
this morning I'm running
like fatso Freddie Dagada
in dungarees more suitable to standing tents
than to running legs.
half-way back, the cans of home are hit
and spilled on the craggy-tar face of Healy Street
with force by the pinky, thrown fast
by the ear, and then

through the first floor open window,—
the screech of the pulley;
the push of the line at the hands of my mother,
the wave in the wet, the pinned soft material,—
stay with me,— and the longing
for tomorrow waiting on the ropes.


                                     quequechan 

-Couplet for Angela and the Egg-man -

Tenement living.

First floor tenement living.

The benefits are transcendent 

And the benefits are transparent.

The stairs are there for visiting upstairs.

The upstairs neighbors visit
By descending them and knocking at our door.

The kids are always screaming for their way.

Their mothers are reluctant to give way to them.

The water’s heating on the stove for something.

Then something is prepared with the water.

The pots of water are poured in the tub

Or else, the stiff spaghetti is dropped in the water.

She stirs the spaghetti

As she stirs the heavy soups
And thickening polenta.

Nothing is needed to stir the bath.

But the same pots are used to heat the water.

Outside, next door, Angela has hung
Her wash to dry in the sun

And she feels them

By walking along the line

Grasping the material, releasing, grasping,
Along the line as it catches its breath
From the weight of the water.

She walks the line of material from window to pole

Testing material hanging on the line
Drying in the sun.

This is something that can only be done
When testing the wash of the first floor.

Inside, the egg-man delivers two dozen
Then climbs the stairs to the second floor.

                                                        Quequchan

-after the rain-

the rain came fast and

the heavy winds from the northeast

had it angled sharply to the southwest.

it was a downpour

and everything was drenched.

it lasted only a minute or two

but that was enough to ruin

anything outside that belonged inside. 
then the floodwaters rolled

into the swallowing sewers

and the rush of crap passed in a line

pushed by the river of the gutter,

trapped like flotsam at the transom.

the natural shingles

of the street-side wall

of the house across the street

was blotched

in large areas of wetness.

I looked long and hard at this house

inventing pictures in the contrasts

the way lovers do with cumulous clouds

laying on their blankets at the picnics
so I mapped-out the face of Jesus.

first the long matted hair, then

the closely-placed eyes, the long nose
and then the narrow mouth,

then the scraggly beard, a crown of thorns

and lastly, the little drops of blood.

maybe the pilgrims will follow

walking on their knees

to the wall where jesus showed-up.

but I saw it first,

just after the rain.

-history in short bursts-

He grew-up with specific information at hand
Prescribed by parental prerogatives,

Local geography and the geography of the interiors.

He processed this information through the years
Of his early life, endeavoring to one day define it.

The procedure was unlike his formal schooling

With its constant crankiness and aloofness;

With its threats and prescriptions for neutrality.

The ancient mariner he had an affinity to

Was his Uncle Frank who took him to his smack

And they slow-motored across the muddy-

Bedded still-waters of Fog Land, then back to the banks

Where they dug for clams through the muck, ankle deep

With their bare feet.

But he liked the nonsense running through the corridors.

But he liked the interesting nuisance in the back row.

But he liked the stars at night,

The openness of the parks;

Hopping the fences for inspired reasons;

The immediate feel of the ball on the bat.

He liked the soft-

Brimmed fedora of his father on its evening hook,—

The keys and pocket ledger on the evening table and the closing

Exhaustion of them.

His school was not prepared for these elements.

He grew-up with the scent of gasoline all around him.

Gasoline from the overpowering nozzles

Of Whitey’s Esso across the street;

From the drag strip's wide-open carburetors of route 24;

Gasoline in the atmosphere from the greasy

Uniforms of the attendants sitting at the crazy lunchtime counters

Of the stainless diner at the base of the Avenue;

From the Junkyard when old man Rachlin

Emptied its useless tanks;

Gasoline from the old, tear-dropped Evinrude

Cradled at the stern of the smack on the dark
Standing waters of Fog Land.

Gasoline before it was sissified.

Inside his house, the sweet-

Acid scent of tomato sauces all but nullify it.

He should have paid more attention in school.

He should have been less easily distracted.

                                                    Quequechan

                             

  

-Diner song-

1.
Driving westward
To the foot of the Seven Hills
Closing in on the river,
The hills and gullies you can feel
Somewhere between your lap
And the walls of your throat,

Justly famous Al Mac’s Diner
Smokes from its sizzling grills;

A great American eatery

Rivaled in my recollection only
By the Fleetwood Diner of Ann Arbor.

Then from behind my leather-like booth,

A snazzy red and white color combo

With its benchseat’s obligatory tear
Dressed in X-shaped adhesive strips
In red of another value, a woman orders:

“I’ll have a Hamburger Sandwich and French-Fried Potatoes.”

The young waitress stumbles as if hit

With a solid punch to the stomach;

Seems to be catapulted to an alternate
Reality where people speak an awkward tongue.

She doesn't recover.

I slip a coin in the slot of the little juke
Under the window of my booth
Overlooking the still-life of the parking lot.

Volume’s cranked.

E-12 buttons are pushed and the little
Juke clicks and whirls to find its mark:

Tom Waits.

“Nighthawks at the Diner.”

“Burgers ‘n fries and what kind of pies?..”

2.

“I’ll have a Hamburger Sandwich and French-Fried Potatoes"?

Jesus Christ.

At Al Mac’s?

Fall River

-audiophile-

Rack 'em up.
To Play for time, Time is called
For the cranky hall manager
To scribble the start as to time begun.
At the soft break kiss of nine ball
The call is Safe.
It's elegant.
The balls clack like

The clacking sounds of trains

Rolling over the rails,— then progressing,

Drop into pockets, (the best

Are the pockets woven with

Intertwined strips of real leather)

And after the first ball drops, the others

Clack inside the pockets too.

Reaching up with the cue,

Tapping the tip to the long wire track

Threading the beads with the count
Of the drops and running them

Down with a swish!

This is not done with deference.

This is done with an arrogant attitude.

At play on the slate, one stays within oneself.

But when the cue-tip’s tapped at the wire of the beads

And pushes the beads down the wire with a swish,—

Well, like the sound of the train rolling

Over the rails to reach its destination,—

That’s music to the ears.  

-Columbus park proverb-

measure the beauty of the maple

from her leather flats
to the top of her head.

what's left is a tree.

-hill and gully riders-

from the steepest hilltop

ready the pedals

then push a few

around their hubs

coasting downward
faster
faster

pedals in line

with their wheels—

faces near touching

the handlebars

close to a kiss—

the spokes of the wheels

stinging the atmosphere

like hornets—

downward
the riser
upward the riser
downward
the riser again and again

the hill and gully riders
hold fast
to the grips— 
eyes to the bars
strong to the wind they make—
ready the pedals break

locking the drive-chains
fast at the rolls of the cuffs—

the tires rubber-striping the tarmac
of Snake-

Hill Drive—  the lancers
vibrating as if in a struggle for breath
the busy

cross-street cutting through at the drop
at the end of the run and we stop.

and then

and then at our sides

we walk the bikes up
for another run down.

-click here for archives-

the archives reported

note-worthy historical events:

the great fires igniting from the rotting oil-

soaked floors of the monumental

granite structures of the textile mills;—

the fires of the hill-topping steepled churches;

the priest’s proclamations and the testament's

prophesy of ashes to dust;—

the overpowering strength in construction

of the through-truss bridge

spanning the heavy water of the river;—

the laying of foundations for the brick

and mortar housing project where the dark-
haired island beauties would find
themselves behind its narrow windows;—
the steam-shoveled soil and stone

filling-in the pit of the slicing granite
ledge whose deep still-water sucked

the life out of some of us;— the hurricane winds

and rising waters

and the Narrows fresh-water ponds receding

to their bed-rocks at the face of the struggling

pumping station.

but no record of the bikes peddling

fast across its locked
iron doors toward the dense and beautiful
Reservation;

no listing of the fierce

spiked line-ups assembled against us;

not one pitch to be found recorded;

nothing of the base hit dribbled

between second and first advancing the base-
runner to third;

the stance on the bag as if routine

and nothing of the mouth of the girl

at the trunk of the tree

at the close of the ninth.

-First hurricane-

Carol’s floodwater moved upward.

Its rainfall was subsiding

But the sewers at the dip on Bedford Street
Between Oak Grove and Quarry 
Were not receiving, belching sewer-stuff

Adding to the slick of stagnating wastewater.

Inside, three kids are sitting in the middle
Of the living-room rug
Protected from shattering glass
Giving them a near uninterrupted

Line of sight to the over-filled candy dishes
Their mother laid-out on every available

Level surface of the house.

In drier times, Bedford was the street to cross
To get to the ballpark, the bakeries
And the always waiting-for-something church
Rising behind left field.

In drier times, Bedford was a rung on the ladder.
It made sense for us to cross it and for the drivers
Of cars to run eastward
And westward making their way to work
Or the unemployment office.

Street games were played on quieter Healy Street
Running parallel to Bedford
Which cut between the backyard fence
And Rachlin’s Junkyard.

But as Carol’s youthful exuberance became full-throated

The elders rounded the kids up to sit on the rug

In the middle of the parlor where crossing strips
Of masking tape covered the windows like lamb’s-
Blood warding off the wrath of God.

Outside, Carol died-down with a last

Lick of her tongue
And her water receded.


Inside, our father, struggling for better reception,
Pressed cocoons of aluminum foil
To the tips of the rabbit-ears as our mother
Contributed to the calming atmosphere
Readying pots of water for the stove and tending
To the near-emptied candy dishes.

                                                     Quequechan