-pretending in order to justify the pretense-

I don’t know what to think about today.

I do know that it’s difficult not to think about

those experiences, the sensibilities derived from house,
neighborhood, playground, schoolyard...

but the primal sensation of rebellion,
the rite of passage for me

might have begun with the church,
still the overwhelming force of my early neighborhood,

in not wanting to go there anymore.

I woke-up one Sunday morning

with the thought of going someplace else
acquiescing to parental insistence to "get ready for church".

but the time would come when I'd go someplace else,

pretending to the home authorities of having gone to the church.

I told them that I "took communion", an unconscious utterance
which served to anchor the deception.

the prerequisite of receiving communion was the confessional.

that happened on Saturday.

strange,

that I would go to confession on Saturday, knowing

I wouldn’t be going to the church on Sunday,
let alone receiving the holy sacrament in the church
I would not be going to.

the plan was in place;

go to the diner instead, along with other conspirators;
the others of my kind.

strange,

that I’d go so far as to volunteer the receiving 

of the sacrament of communion as soon as I stepped in the house
and I think I’d like to think about that today.

                                           

-Listening-

1.

A flock descends into

the pentagonal garden.

I try to understand Takemitsu,

his residence of contemplation,—

the season in which

a flock of birds enter a garden space.

Then come the dragons air-breathing,

the boxes and pointed quads beating

with hand-knotted tails crossing the daylight
skies above the park of my earliest neighborhood.

I try to map their movements

from within Takemitsu's sensibility, 

at times rolling in atmospheric dance

then corkscrewing sharply downward toward the earth

in a wind's quick decision.

The papers crackled at their spars.

I fought the lines to hold them true.

2.
(Recalling the flying kites above the park

of my earliest neighborhood, listening to Takemitsu's
"A flock Descends into the Pentagonal Garden")

                                   

                                             

-Celebration-

The great Parade of the Fourth of July

Is about to begin.

I'm at the window.

I’m moody.

It’s six in the morning

And people are gathering on the sidewalks
Unfolding lawn chairs on the sweltering asphalt in anticipation.
The "box seats" of the festivities are lined at the gutters. 

The parade route:

Formations begin to the west

At the corner

Of Bedford and Quarry.

Parade will follow a route

Moving eastward down Bedford,

Passing DiSpirito Brothers Barbershop,

Marretti's Market and Chasidor Leo's variety,—

Passing the front of the house at 1017,

Whitey's ESSO station and Club Marconi

Where the sober enter and then

Zig-zag the pavement on their way home.

Parade will end at Oak Grove Drugs,

Corner of Bedford and Oak Grove Avenue.

Participants will disperse from the corner

Of Bedford and Oak Grove where Politicians

Will discontinue hand-waving

To their non-responsive constituents.

Floral floats will be driven northward

To the Oak Grove Cemetery on Oak Grove Avenue

As an offering to the dead for the bereaved.

One floral gathering per fist-full per family.

A minimal charge will be levied to cover

The cost of stem-snipping and handling.

Panhandlers will be ushered outside the main gate

According to police.

It’s eight fifteen in the morning.

The window's open.

Some houseflies fly out.

Others of their kind fly back in.

The first parade participant

Passes below the window:

Pat Marretti's sky-blue Henry J.— Nice.

The flatbed advertising "Rachlin's Junkyard" follows,

Exhibiting one of its rusted residents. 

I'll hop the junkyard's fence to visit it later on.

A dog, changing its mind at the hydrant

Sniffs the base of something else.

Here's Louie Gasparini's '57 finned Plymouth Fury.

Always a real crowd-pleaser.

"Vets Safety Cab" rolls by in faded red and black, beat-up,
But received with respect and warm applause.
Beverly Greenwood crosses Bedford.

Waiting...

Union Hospital Ambulance passes

With its rotating domelight turned on.

Good idea.

Just in case.

The Sambo's Diner "Black-Faced Tumblers"

Seem to be a no-show.

Too bad.

Everybody gets a kick out of the Sambo's Diner

"Black-Faced Tumblers."

Waiting...

Judy Johnson crosses Bedford.

Carol Sayward crosses Bedford.

There's a kid in the Park

Across the street, gloved and ready,

Standing between second and third.

I know this kid. waiting..

City dump-truck rolls by

Rocking its dripping cradle

To the delight of the children.

"Bunny" DiCorpo crosses Bedford.

City Bus is crowded with waving people

And the standing-room-only rule

Has been implemented.

Joan Reagan crosses Bedford.

Jeanie Tacovelli crosses Bedford.

Shit!

A crazy guy's looking up at the open window.

He says he’s gonna get me.

Bernadette Baker crosses Bedford.

"Hood Milk" truck with its door open

To the stagnant air of early July passes.

The driver looks sharp

In his starched-white uniform with matching

Garrison cap formed in tightly creased paper.

War heroes roll by to the frantic American flags

Waving respectfully on the sidewalk.

Cynthia Lanzisera crosses Bedford.
Edwina Mello crosses Bedford.

"Elaine's Donuts" delivery van passes slowly

Blowing its horn and smelling good.

Betty Ready crosses Bedford.
Red-haired Betty.

"Betty Ready, Full of Spaghetti."

Sheila Smith crosses Bedford.
Shirley Bertoncini crosses Bedford.

Waiting.

Now the smelly LaCava horses clack by

Un-corked, leaving a trail of spent hay smoking

In the heat.

"Free rides for the kiddies in attendance."

There are no takers.
Followers take notice.

Waiting.

Deborah-Anne Gardener crosses Bedford.

Waiting.

Betsy DiNucci crosses Bedford.

Waiting.
Waiting.

City street-sweeper trudges by 

Inhaling what's left into its mechanical lungs.

Waiting.

Nothing.

Waiting...

Nothing.

I guess that’s it. Short on floats.

More girls

Than last year, though.

                           City of Fall River 

   

-Carol Came to the Grotto-

It sat in the backyard

just outside the vegetable garden's fence.

there seemed to be five of them on every block,

and there was a real good one on Linden Street.

ours was destroyed by hurricane Carol
when it lifted and slammed the vertical bathtub
into the chicken coop built by my grandfather.
Mary, (the mother of God) went along for the ride.

my grandmother grabbed her rosary beads
to ward off the wind, but it was too late.

when Carol ebbed, the chalky nuggets 
of Mary's remains were gathered, briefly

examined by the men of the family, 
then respectfully disposed of, but not before I nabbed
a good-sized chunk for myself to grace the sidewalk

on Bedford with original drawings, street-side near the sewer.

I was too young to form conclusions from the forensics 

although the women of the family agreed that the bathtub
should have been set more securely into the ground.

the coop's occupants were spared the inevitable axe, succumbing
to Carol's insatiable appetite for my grandfather's chickens.

the great Intercessor lost her head on September 6, 1954,

but in the drying period of the following days, its surviving

chunk of plaster enabled my early hand to produced some fine

secular cartoons for the consideration of neighborhood passersby.

Quequechan

  

-today in Swansea-

he’s the friend of a friend

and they’re here to help me

move a couch into the house.

of the three of us, three

are over 65 years of age.

we huff and puff, lift and twist,

shouting instructions to one another in order

to gain the upper-hand in the knowledge

of moving a piece of heavy furniture

into a space too small for it to fit.

the blame is laid at the builders of the house.
In time, the couch is inside with minimal damage

and the momentary silence is palpable;

we stand there panting, looking at the couch
like milk cows at the fence when somebody shows-up.

struggling for common closure, we walk outside
to lean on the hood of the pickup truck.

but nobody smokes cigarettes,
so the group's pickup truck posture lacks authenticity.

the friend of my friend breaks the ice.

he says he has cancer.

my friend nods as if to confirm the diagnosis.

“what type"? I ask the friend of my friend.

“bone”. he says.

“where”? I ask.

“everywhere”. he says.

“is it curtains”? I ask.

my friend and his friend shrug their shoulders,

the internationally recognized pantomime of: “who knows”?

I lighten the somber atmosphere with a touch of humor:

“good thing we moved the couch today, huh”?

I've applied pressure to the cheekbone's bruise with a cold-pack

so the swelling should be somewhat retarded by morning.

                                                         

-Defining the time of the DiCarlo twins-

The term “Greaseball” must have been

Created by their mother.

And when the second twin was pushed out

With the same thick thud, the term stuck.

Then we see the DiCarlo twins sitting

At a leg-folding card table inside the stogie-smokey

Marconi Club on Bedford Street,

Playing cards, mouthing their double-ringer's

And drinking Bohemian beer from the bottle.

From there it’s a measured walk

Side-by-side west on Bedford

Stopping at Marcucci’s Bakery

For a half-dozen slices each.

Their twin-girth passes the billboards

Plastered with smiling young women

Smoking Viceroy cigarettes, then the bulbous

Gasoline pumps squatting at Whitey’s ESSO

Moving toward Columbus Park and the street-

Side of my house.

The DiCarlo twins dress alike

Sporting sharkskin suits like the one

Sinatra wore on television.

"Perry Como’s a stroonce".

At the corner of Quarry and Bedford

Across the street from DeSpirito Brothers Barber Shop

They stop-in at Cipolini's Macaroni Store

Collecting for the weekly “nigger pool” —

Then it’s onward to Tony LaCava’s place to tally-up.

It was there that my cousin Paul, with me
as tag-along, would knock at the door

And Mrs. LaCava would pay him for delivering

The Herald News for the week,

Always insisting she's paid-up for the month.

The DiCarlo twins are fat and smoke fat cigars

And Tony knows how to keep his mouth shut.

The entry stinks of cigar smoke and "Wildroot Cream oil".
Emma Taccovelli greets us on the stairs

Panting heavily on her way to the third floor.

Cousin Paul tells her: "we don’t know anything".

Politically, my mother and father

Wanted Stevenson,

But Eisenhower’s in the White House.

Now they tell me he built the Interstate Highway

That my father traveled every day hawking booze

To the bars and restaurants of Buzzards Bay

And points east to Orleans.

He'll use the same highway to find his way back home.

I don't remember ever seeing the fat DiCarlo twins
walking their way back from anywhere.

                                                               Quequechan

                 

-the time I love the best-

I woke up too damned early this morning;
nudged the cat awake for a measure of retribution.
self diagnostics find me half asleep.
the bedside lamp's turned on.

there's trouble in the bedroom.

slipping my left foot

into its proper slipper,

the big toe hits the side.
try again.

little toe hits the other side.
third time's the charm.
right foot slips in nicely.
cat patters to the box.
(hardwood floors.)

a bend of my knees
to get the body standing.

there are kinks to unkink.

shuffling into the bathroom,

left shoulder bumps the doorjamb.

it’ll hurt like hell

in the estimated fraction of a second
it takes for the brain to react to its receptors.
a fraction of a second is not long enough.

the torso of my body bends without notice

above the bathroom sink.

I splash my face at the faucet of running water.

my sink runneth over.

wait. no it doesn’t.
water's running freely down the drain.

the brittle, time-riven stopper rests chainlessly  
on the outer rim of the sink, the rubber of it
dry and cracked as the inner walls of my nostrils.

I towel-down and close the distance

to the cabinet's cold reflection, wide-eyed
and smeared in the blue-hued harshness of florescence.
I've seen better mirrors.

downstairs, the button

of true awakening is pressed.
light's on.
the heaven-scent is in the brewing.
mug is held at the grip.–– "the right hand of God".
I pour from the left,–– "Beelzebub's hand"!
It's too late in life to change the established way of things.

I'm nearly awake looking eastward
toward the river running southward
presenting for consideration
this prelude to the day ahead because
I woke up too damned early this morning.


Swansea

-October dawning-

From high-ground I saw the Sputnik

Arcing across a starlit October sky.

At my back, the ornate cast-iron south-

Facing gate of the Oak Grove Cemetery where

Lizzie Borden has a snazzy marker, set the northernmost

Edge of the neighborhood.

Further northward beyond the neutral-

Zone of the cemetery, lies a no-man's land

Of which almost nothing is known.

But to the west below the hill,

The red-bricked Housing Projects

Slugged their way into a spot of geography

And there, the Taunton River flowed southward

To Rhode Island Sound and the North Atlantic Ocean.

To the south by land, the second-city, the area called

the "Flint" was embraced as the line of demarcation

Ending the southend of my neighborhood.

It was the there where Chinese take-out was picked-

Up and delivered to the supper tables of the tenement houses,

And where we ate Coney Island hot dogs on the run.

It was southward where we rode our bikes

To the Strand Theater on Pleasant Street 

On Saturday afternoons and where,
Long before my time, the "Skeleton in Armor"

Was unearthed, deemed to be that of a Viking,

Later celebrated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Later still, the discovery was determined not to be

That of a Viking, but the remains of an early Spanish explorer.

Later still, forensic re-examination determined the find to be

The ceremonial dress of a high-ranking native American

Before the continent's invasion of the white-skinned European long coats.  

It's there, the examinations were called to an end.

Eastward, lay the two great fresh-water Watuppa Ponds
Enclosed by the dense woodlands of the sprawling

Reservation of the long-dispersed Wampanoag nation.

This is the lay of the land.

   

My father drove my Uncle Frank and me

To the northern high-ground in his Buick,

The black Roadmaster molded as beautifully

As sheetmetal could be for a common populace,

The heights a fitting stand for its stature.

The high-ground is getting us as close
To an unobstructed sky as the land would allow,

Leaving the city murmuring below in a blanket

Littered in yellow pinpricks of incandescent light.

We waited there over the churches and textile mills,

Over the steeples and smokestacks

High above what could not have otherwise been seen
Of the breadth of land and sky we called our home.

The Sputnik crossed in steady brightness

From the western sky to the eastern sky,

Slow to the eye and as silent as hypnosis.

The cemetery is laid to rest at our backs.

The Sputnik sinks eastward beyond the stillness.
The Roadmaster's engine is idling at the zenith of the planet

And the dashboard radio is rockin',––– but like a cradle.

Sam Cooke is singing: “You Send Me.”


Fall River, 10/04/57

  

-Dream-fisher-

Anybody see my oldman?

Pallid-skinned

Shallow breather,

Last seen

Below the saline's drip.

Anybody see him?

Smooth talker.
Corporal ranked MP

Ice boy

    Coal boy

        Milk boy

            Pin boy

Hair thick as raw cotton

Combed at the shuttle-
Looms.

Bundle-runner

Stickball wonder

Baseball shagger

Lanky speedster

Blood-tied

Close to home.

Close to heart.

Street-smart

Wise-guy

Church-goer

Ledge diver

Jury rigger.

You see him?

Camel to Luckies,

Pall Mall

To Chesterfield. 

Ladies man

Man's man

Soft-edged
Glad-hander

Corner-dweller.

Husband.

Father.

Honorarium certified.

Young man.

Sales-man.

Benchseat Romeo.

Backseat to nobody.

Anybody see him?

Gentleman.

Dream-fisher.

Fast as hell up the first base line.

See him?

Anybody see this guy?

Anybody see my oldman?