-Requiem for Russell Silvia-

1.
Russell Silvia was our friend,
near two years our elder,
near full-blooded Portuguese,
living among the nearly full-blooded Italians
in what amounted to a small city three block area.
Russell hung around the corner very well,

better than most and with a convincing attitude.

He knew how to lean back

against the ballpark's chain-link fence

and at the same time lean

his torso forward, street-side,
without the procedure looking
in any way calculated or forced.
He was a natural.

His cigarette smoking technique

was beyond reproach, igniting

the head between two, tightly cupped hands
regardless of weather.

This is what he would teach us.

Russell’s first drag of smoke was impressive.

What he did was..he'd press the Camel cigarette

to one side of his mouth, drawing its torrid smoke

deeply into his lungs while exhaling the residue

of smoke through his nostrils.

The process was unique in that it was done
as the flame was still burning the head of his Camel.

Now, it's true, that occasionally a trickle of smoke

may have drifted from the other side of his mouth,

but this was deemed to be an acceptable byproduct 
of the complete procedure.

Lung cancer would claim Russell far earlier than death
of any kind would claim any of the others of us.

2.
We took a break from the viewing

walking outside to the Funeral Parlor's expansive back porch;
a cold night, a brushed-yellow Moon reflecting on the river under riven,
Albert Ryder skies–– and gathered there

we smoked 'em the way we wanted to smoke 'em without any

of the technical bullshit impressed upon us by Russell Silvia.

Quequechan

-no school in '52-

awakened to the dead

of winter snowfall 

the side of the green

opaque shade's drawn,–– the space
heater's warmth drifts outward.

you can hear it
you can smell it

the heat of sheet metal pinging,— the scent

of sweet kerosine on fire.

it’s dark at winter's
early-morning hour

when school closings are reported
by the weatherman on television,

table-lamps are switched on

kitchen voices are muted

and the warmth of fuel folds
over itself in its slow approach

and you hear it pinging and know its scent,

when half-asleep is still asleep
and you lie there smiling

and you don’t have to do anything

or go anywhere.

                    

                                     

              

-George again / charcoal with smudging-

It was George again, now drawn in charcoal, smudged

for effect,–– clean, but for the effect in blurring the line.

I'd see him in the clouds every day,––

every day from my desk in the 4th row

and as the years progressed, every day

from another desk in another row of another year.

George in the clouds, under glass above the blackboard, spelling:

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

It’s George in the clouds, hovering there

gull-white,

white-haired bauble,––  gull with a wooden

beak who could not speak nor blow his glossy nose.

So now comes the time for George to be drawn once again,
resurrected in his image as I know him at his best, this time

a brand-new face, a charcoal black,

a scribbling of cloud with its smokey effect.

There’s George again,

drawn by my hand, which could be proclaimed

the new hand of God. 

1.

Nancy in the Moon / a correspondence 

2.

What drove you to throw

your Brandy Alexander

into my framed etching

hanging

on the wall to the hallway

leading to the bathroom?

I did something.

3.

It's when dressing

for the evening's wedding reception

for the wealthier brother

of a wealthy friend, and you lost

one of your black high heels.

We couldn’t find it anywhere.— We

looked all over the apartment, under the bed,

in the drawer where my socks rested,

out the back-porch window

toward the neighbor's howling beagle,

in the box under the sink

where we kept the hammer and that useless sconce.

We were running out of time

so you slipped your feet into the glossy

white high heels instead and we ran

downstairs to the car and drove to Westport.

4.

In the great tent erected on the sweeping lawn
rolling toward Buzzards Bay and the pearly,
violet strand of the Elizabeth Islands,

the plump, already married jewish ladies frowned at their tables

beneath their starchy hairdos, pressed into too tight dresses

and raised their thick eyebrows at the sight of you

as if you were Palestinian — and they, with the distant,

scud-missile-weary eyes of their older cousins

sheltering somewhere in Gaza.

All this over the choice of shoes you made on the run.

You electrified the giant tent that night

with your black leather miniskirt and white high heels

as glazed as the faceplate of the Moon!

5.

In time, something I did disturbed the slender balance

of the natural order of things causing you to throw

your Brandy Alexander at my etching.—— christ,

I remember the process it took to get it to what it finally looked like.

6.

A mono-print intaglio on light-green hued heavy stock paper,

Pulled from the plate, 33 x 25 inches.

Three horses forward, mid-plane, two fanning away from the central horse,

All three with riders cloaked in what appeared to be a stance of war.

Beneath them two horizontal panels containing figures dressed

In the medieval garb of the peasantry, holding straw-headed brooms
And pitchforks cut from wood.

In the far distance a fierce battle is being waged.

Variances in color intensity permeated the background.

These variances were the cause of liquified white-ground,

Atomized over the zinc plate's surface before its acid bath,

A deep, Dutch Mordant etch to be flooded with ink.

As subject matter the mono-print made no historic claim.

But visually, so said my contemporaries, it was a real knockout;
Signed by me and dated 1967 at the base, far right corner in pencil

And presented to you on your birthday years later and,

You threw your sticky Brandy Alexander smack-dab into it

Shattering its glass enclosure like a mortal sin attacking an already

Blemished soul.

The end

                           

                                 

-I think I might have the answer-

It’s all in the comings and goings. 

the young pass through time navigating

year to year without a sense of delineation.

and the old? well, for most, (they) slow-down

nestled into more calming periods,––

the years becoming deliberate, reflective,
allowing for the sorting-out of the accumulated.

(they) hang around at the borders of commotion

often grumbling at the activities of others, forgetting

that commotion was once once reserved solely for (them),

–– now (they're) left to consider chicken broth, encroaching

visits of priests, and fading recollections of long lost memorabilia.

and if they want you, if they call your name, if the kids

are a nuisance, if the broth is too cold, the old-timers

will grunt a phrase of sorts while shaking a hand up and down

from a limp wrist to emphasize the problem.

and by the way, you might be able to force them to do it, but

the grandchildren don't want to kiss (them).

-after the event- DRAFT!

after the event,

people began to rise slowly from their chairs,

sorting their belongings for the ride home.

standing behind the back row of chairs,I watched with interest

a heavy-set woman performing this triage of outer garment selection,

beginning with items to be worn closest to her body to those worn outside:

first the sweater, then scarf, then coat, and lastly a large purse,

holding bare necessities and duplicates, just in case.

out of nowhere, a skinny man, 40 or so, walked across the stage,

eventually yelling into the standing microphone:

“There Are Pamphlets On The Table

 In The Corridor On Your Way Out”!

and then he pointed the way to the table

standing in the exit corridor against the back wall,

with four short stacks of pamphlets on top,
and in front of them, others were fanned-out
with a keen sense of imaginative pamphlet table-setting.

It's one of those long, cheaply veneered leg-folders

usually found at neighborhood testimonials for the presentation

of awards.

(earlier, I'd noticed about twenty of these tables,

(legs folded) leaning against a wall in an otherwise empty room,

before entering the hall to pick the chair with the most character.)

the guy on the stage has become increasingly animated
and his head is now tilted sternly, while jabbing his exposed 
index finger into the air emphasizing the way to the pamphlets,

and of course, his authority to do such a thing.

and now for the goings on at the folding table in the corridor:

maybe I’ll hang around to see if anyone takes a pamphlet.

“pardon me, ma'am. but what in hell possessed you to take that one”?

-riding on the wind, or to call upon the wind.

I spent a portion of my morning

listening to an archived recording

of Elizabeth Bishop reading her poems.

the venue was the "92nd Street Y",

New York, on October 10, 1977.

the attendees were well behaved.

reporters weren't clamoring to meet

deadlines, hunched over their frantic typewriters.
nobody's swaying iPhone light above their heads.
no one's screaming toward the set for personal
recognition from Elizabeth Bishop.

her voice is closely amplified, although

her mouth isn't crowding the mic.

she has a frog in her throat, and apologizes

for its persistence.  

I can hear her breathing.

(she asks for water, quietly, as not to disturb the atmosphere.

she pours the water from a bottle into a glass and drinks.

she exhales a hushed "ahhh".) she continues.

Elizabeth Bishop's breathing, and with her breath

ride the words and the lines they reside in;

opening then moving outward,–– like a morning,–– lingering,

then evaporating as I pour another cup.

                                                       

-hand-me-downs-

a permanently stained pair of pants

but she said the stain’s at the crotch

so nobody will see it,

two thread-worn, button-up sweaters

woven with images of bears

with side-pockets so shallow and weak

they couldn't hold anything and

sneakers without space inside for another

drop of sweat.

the shirt's too big and yellow as nicotine.

these items, and others, were stuffed inside
a damp corrugated box

carried by my aunt Olympia, called "Lee"

from next door, through the yards and

into our kitchen, then plopped

upon the table's oilcloth which is where we’d eat.

my brother, near three years my younger

will have to wait for his hand-me-downs.
this dank, dreary box of goods is mine. 

to be fair, my mother would soon sort through the items

and with a keen eye, preserve what was decent
while disposing of what was wretched.
this triage was performed with speed
and adroitness and the procedure with which she
trashed the un-reclaimables was noteworthy.

my sister, near three years my elder

will be driven downtown to the fancy
"Cherry & Webb".

It was a neighborhood of hand-me-downs.
my older cousins and their friends

handed the ballpark and its corner

of Bedford and Stinziano down to me and my kind.

they handed-down the spoils of Rachlin's Junkyard

waiting for us through the backyards

beyond the grapevines to the fences on Healy Street.

they handed-down their surplices and cassocks,
freshly laundered and hung inside the sacristy's closet
waiting for the young, naive new shipment of altar boys .

leaving the great department store

with a bundle containing sundries and a new dress,

her hand slipped neatly into her mother’s

and with an appearance and attitude handed-down
from someplace in the distance I could never reach,
my sister walked briskly toward the open backdoor
of her father's Buick,–– yes, that Buick, waiting at the curb
with its mighty engine running, ready to go home.

Quequechan

-Poem to extend the lives of our early dead-

1.

We weren’t among the faithful departed.

We weren’t among the heartless living.

From the writing table's point of view
I've determined we were simply lucky.

Sixty years past and nine years into his life,
Angelo Taggllio  "got bumped”–– which is to say,
Run-down by a fast moving Nehi Grape Soda truck.

Soon afterward, Delores Smiley, too, "got bumped."

From the darkness of the years to come,
Thomas Imbriglio would drown after diving
From the precipice of the quarry's ledge, and Sandra D'Adamo,

5th grade, one row to my right and two desks down

would be vandalized by leukemia.  

These early dead should have received more play;

One more day. One more breath.

Sure, the poems would be proportionately longer, but

I’ve learned to make those adjustments.

A longer line shortens the column, but

The column widens at the beam.

2.

There’s something to be said of you

When the Nehi Grape Soda truck runs you down

When leukemia suppresses the innocence of your blood

When the granite ledge leads you to final water

Whenever I show-up to fill-in the column reporting your death
With the only part of you which is living.

Quequechan 

  

-good morning-

did the passion for deviant sexual behavior 

drive Priest to his priesthood?

It’s okay with me if it did.

after-all, it was deviant sexual passion which

drove me to pedal fast toward Angela DiConcini’s house.

it’s always some-thing or some-one which

drives us to our callings.

first, it was my father who drove me.

then I rode my bike

then I took the bus

then I drove there myself.

with Priest?

It's every kid for himself.

In Italy, the elders of his kind rode girls' bikes

because their cassocks were as long as dresses.

baskets filled with freshly baked breads

were strapped to the handlebars

and the Priests rode with their backs

in near perpendicular to the length of their bikes

like wide-brimmed, black-sheathed planks of wood

bobbing over the cobblestones.

they always seemed good natured

when riding their bikes from the bakeries.

Priest drove a black Mercury sedan.

he kept the motor running at the curb

as he looked out for our best interests

whenever we played basketball in the little park

across the street from the rectory, three-on-three,

shirts against skins.

Quequechan, USA

-At the Hugo A. Dubuque School-

1.

The turtle is turned on its back

Upon the asphalt of the schoolyard.

The turtle inverted has four useless legs

And its time is running out.

This is the age of death's exploration.

The killing of small creatures

Was a rite of passage for the boys;

Grasshoppers to the webs of the poisonous widows,

Toothpicks through the ladybugs,—

Squishing caterpillars beneath the soles

Of our sneakers,— tossing

Hornworms into the wacky throngs of red ants

Climbing over one another for a taste,

Tattle-tailing, waving their antennae
as many a breadwinner kneeling before the god
of phosphorescence, knocking heads,—

Displaying their intelligence.

The wackiest kid

Got his hands on a magnifying glass

And any slow-mover

Was doomed to the needled-ended

Spike of the Sun.

On their knees at the carnage,

The boys laugh like lunatics

Elbowing each other at the first

Crackling spit of bug-smoke

As the girls, their delicate arms folded

Just above the waistlines of the crisp

Day-dresses, lean against the high

Chain linked fence, separating the schoolyard
From the sharp-edged meadow,

Blank-faced and anticipating the end.

2.

There’s a famous 1940s photograph

Of a drowned man sprawled on the beach

At Coney Island, surrounded by a semicircle

Of grey-faced onlookers in high-waisted

Bathing-suits as a few attendants fail

In their struggle to release him

Back into the sea of the living.

His young wife, kneeling in the sand

Next to his dead head,

Realizes the still-shot camera at the ready,

And smiles broadly as the shutter clicks

To document the scene.

She smiles because it’s instinctive for her to do so

Whenever a camera is poised in her direction.

The schoolyard girls observing the brutality

Of death at the fence near the tarmac

Are as engaged, but colder;

Austere at the moment of the truth.

3.

The Maypole stands for the school's

Mayday festivities

And the alternating boys and girls,

Dressed-up,

Starched and serious are walking

In a slow circle around it.

They hold in their hands, pole-attached strips

Of crepe paper;

Red white and blue, marching like benign

Circus creatures,

Corkscrewing the pole, delighting the audience

Of parents and teachers in attendance.

From the open doors of the red-brick building,

Down the granite stairway, each flight worn in the middle,

The electrical extension cord winds its way outward

To where the appropriate fanfare trumpets upon a folding table

From the portable record player.

                                                    Quequechan