-beyond the backyard decks of summer-

                    1.

                    of the backyard decks of summer,

                    some are adjacent to swimming pools

                    but others overlook the landscape.
                    we have one of those.

                    come by for a cookout, why don'tcha.

                    ––we’ll play croquet and badminton, or two-hand-touch football

                    like the Kennedy’s of Hyannis Port.

                    now, Jackie’s long dead and Jack’s been shot in the head

                    on the never ending newsreel loops although the pace of its violence

                    has slowed somewhat with the passing of time.

                    2.

                    as still-frames go, I've always been most intrigued by the imagery of No. 312,

                    where the brain is jostled to be sure, but remains encased within the cranium.

                    in No. 312  she leans-in, cherry pink and apple-blossom white.

                    in No. 312 we're left waiting for the punchline.

                       "There's a signpost up ahead..."

                    3.

                   during a mid-winter afternoon as a far, far younger man,
                   retreating from the sea-silvered shale of the Newport coastline,

                   a Lincoln limousine approached slowly on the magnificent

                   winding avenue of Ocean Drive, and from the plushness of the Lincoln's

                   backseat, Janet Lee Auchincloss waved a gracious gloved hand

                   in greeting toward me, but––

                   by the time I could react her limo had passed into the greying distance

                   and from that moment to this day, I confess to a longing to have had the time

                   to return the greeting toward the mother of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy,

                   believing it would have been in some way gratifying for her to see,––

                   speaking to the passage of time.

               -Leslie Van Houten in Fall River-

               1.

               Each time Leslie Van Houten knocks

               at the damn door it’s after midnight.

               It’s a good thing I don’t work for a living.

               Leslie's nocturnal,–– like a vampire bat

               which might explain the excessive amount of blood.

               2.

               It was still dark when she got up to pee
               and wash her face.

               Leslie Van Houten whispered a farewell note to my ear.

               She was gone by sunup.

                “William, I've decided that you’re no "Piggy"".

                                                               your pal, L’Van

               -with once my girl and the near death experience-

               we’ll stop by to pay our respects;

               wear clothes not too often seen by others.

               the line is long, moving at a measured pace

               but its tension is foreign to our sensibilities.

               the bereaved, sitting silently in a row along the wall

               receive us with grace and unfeigned smiles of recognition.

               I’ll say: “sorry for your troubles.”

               you'll follow, simply saying: “sorry…”

               (the word evaporates at your mouth before its end)

               we’re young enough not be seen as rude if we don’t stick around

               and in lieu of lighting-up a couple of smokes on the mourner's front porch

               I’ll say: “let’s get outta here and go to the bar.”

              (we have other friends there and like us they're among the living.)

               you'll nod in silent agreement and through the murmurs of those

               remaining there we'll leave that place.

              

                Fall River / 1970-'73?-1971 

-Thursday, January 4th, 2018-

6:33 AM, Swansea, Massachusetts.

Severe weather forecast.

Life threatening weather the advisory says.

Heavy snow. Wind gusts upwards to 70 knots.

Deep cold. Chill factor to 15 below.

Some say 20...

It’s “Bombogenesis” they say.

They say: “Bombogenesis” is coming!

I’d have laid that moniker on Aunt Levia in a minute

Had I known the term, that time long ago;

My brain was still growing they said,–– back when

Levia would come to the house for a quick visit 
In a dress too tight for the plumpness of Levia.

The hem rides high on the couch...

Wednesday, January 3rd, 2018

Got me some rock salt and bottled water.
Got me some toilet paper; 12 roll pack. Double ply.

Got me a couple of 6 packs, too. "Sam Adams Boston Lager".

Got me a stack of one's from the bank who says I'm "family".

In the here and now, in the time of heavy weather, it's 7:47 AM

And counting... 

"Pride of the Marines"

The carpenters are intrusive 

Scurrying about their routines of the day

Invading the tacky linoleum of the pantry

Foraging for, and finding the food and water

They’ll lay claim to.

On the kitchen counter, one seems meditating

At the altar to the crumb of something,

Frozen in the ecstasy of its quiet benediction.

My young mother, most-often gracious and understanding

Sprayed it in the face with a can of "Raid".

“Get ‘im in the eyes, Mom! Right in the eyes!”

At the crumb of something,—

Mountain of sustenance to the carpenter ant,

It curled to a crackling fetal position and was surely dead.

Clearing the battlefield

With a swipe of the kitchen dishrag

Across the green formica, hard-hearted

As the steel of the carpenter's nail,

My young mother pushed onward,

Defending her house and its stores,

Into the theater of war at 1017 Bedford,

First floor above the sidewalk sewer which drank foul balls

Expansive ballpark, church, and gas station views

Rent, $15.00 payable on Fridays by the close of business

Heat and hot water included.

Quequechan

-the salesman on the road and the common utilities of the working class-

time was he paid the gas bill for 1017 Bedford, first floor
at the company's local headquarters downtown, across the street
from the "China Royal".

it was particularly eventful during snowstorms when he'd

travel down there by way of Buick regardless of road conditions because

it was the day after he was paid, and the gas bill had arrived in the mail.

the electricity bill was paid "down the Flint" section of town

a couple of blocks to the south on Pleasant Street at "Pleasant Drugs",

and he paid the druggist between prescription refills in-full, with cash money.

(I should mention that paying the Fall River Electricity bill

was referred to in the truncated vernacular as: "Paying the Electric".
and I should add that he paid the gas bill in-full, also in cash money.)

note: no one, including this poem-writer realized

the irony of a pharmacy called: "Pleasant Drugs" in 1953. 

“expert textpert choking smokers” / John Lennon

1.

––The petition’s been signed by ten thousand.

It might have gone to ten million.
It's been going around like strep throat.
all it takes is one, then another.

Regardless, it will get its measure of play.

––It says in essence: “not suitable.”

Priest signs the petition calling for "not suitable."

2.

––Yesterday, from someplace out there, a guy with a gun in his mitts
shot a young woman walking her dog at the tree-line to his property because

she looked like a deer walking a dog and not a young woman walking a dog.

––The night before her death by gunfire, she listened to

“Tristan und Isolde” on the radio broadcast from the Met,

dog at her side as she considered the merits of added grains in dog chow.

3.

––The petition was presented in protest to a Balthus painting hung

for the public good of a cat lapping milk from a plate alongside a seated

adolescent girl, one leg raised far above the hem of her dress exposing her

underwear, daydreaming through the earth-tinctured atmosphere of a silent interior.

4.

––It was Barenboim, a Jew, who under fire brought “Tristan” to Jerusalem

in an effort to slap some sense into it.

5.

––When Andres Serrano piss-dunked
the star-crossed Nazarene for the sake of its exhibition,

observers from the jurisdiction of the "Holy See"
saw themselves as pissed upon by Andres Serrano,
dispatching a representative to bop its glassed enclosure
with a ball-peen hammer causing some shattering.
––As for me?

I'm fully inoculated. My papers are in order for the most part.

I was fast up the first base line, and I don't hold any grudges.

-the cat drinks the Christmas tree water-

the cat drinks the Christmas tree water,

obscured due to the tree’s decorative density,–– but

I can hear her lapping.

the sound is captivating and lovely

running through the pine-scented atmosphere

when something else tells me something's not right with this.

but the ethereal head’s-up doesn’t carry with it

the sternness often associated with the fierce voice of God

and is dismissed as atmospheric static from common swamp-gas.

last night she slept under the tree, (the cat, not the God)

pine needles like dropped pick-up-sticks lying across

her black fur coat during a silent snowfall in the morning.

Season's Greetings to all, and to all, a goodnight!

-the Christmas gift-exchange tradition debunked- 

what if the three Magi didn’t show up,

misguidedly tracking Sirius Major instead? or Swamp Gas.

suppose one of the wise-guys decided to take a shortcut
camel-trotting into a gang of pesky, old testament Amalekites?

and what if this was the Magi holding the myrrh and the other two guys                

fell prey to reasoning they somehow needed the myrrh.

suppose, while waiting for the myrrh, the two remaining Magi came to                        

exhaust their food stores causing their camels to make revolt against them.

sure, the child might have been born nonetheless,

justifying interior evergreens to be trimmed;
to be pop-corned, tinseled and bulbed, but
that would have been the extent of it.
hence, the Christmas gift-exchange tradition is debunked.

Season's Greetings! / The Mezzotesta Family.

-squeeze me. I’m Italian-

prelude:

I was young, but old enough

to cross the street on my own,

when I’d be sent walking with cash in hand

to Marzilli’s Bakery for two "Italian" breads.

the path went this way:

leave the house crossing Bedford at Whitey’s Esso Station,

pivot left, crossing Stinziano and walk the length

of Columbus Park

from the right field corner, passing the infield

from first base to home plate to the backstop

and the water "bubbler" behind the backstop at Bedford and Wall.

landmark!

cross Wall street at the bubbler, a direct shot

to Marzilli’s door and step into paradise.

the oblong beauties were escorted from three, large brick ovens
carried on wide wooden peels with long handles

coated from the flour sprinkled from Marzilli’s hands, Maestro! and shoveled onto
waiting wire shelves where they'd rest, cooling their young, hot temperament.

when cooled enough to carry, they’d be bagged in paper,

always one loaf per bag, the fat, rounded noses
of the pane exposed as if testing the open air for the first time.

I’d follow my tracks back home, cradling the loaves
in my arms as one would carry infant twins,

with the scent of their warmth circulating around me.

the incident:

some time before a Bedford crossing on my own was authorized, 
while the family was sitting in the parlor watching television,
I grabbed a fresh loaf from the kitchen counter before supper,
the loaf still warm from the ovens and instinctively began squeezing it,––

gently at first, but enough to crackle the sand-colored crust covering the warm,
moist dough, then increasing thumb pressure with every crackle

'till the crust crumbled in my palms, releasing the sweetness within the loaf's belly.

I found myself incapable of stopping, pressing my thumbs for the want
of its moistness, well beyond the point of no return.

the addiction:

the tactile sensation was overpowering, the crust, like a communion wafer  
at my thumbs, its crumbs falling at my feet, the aroma released
into the kitchen's atmosphere of tomato paste, garlic, olive oil and nicotine.

I squeezed the heaven out of the molten, crackling loaf,

Its oblong shape redefined to sustenance from the gods.
it was a sweet death.

the closing in the kitchen:

(when confronted, deny everything)

"It was like this when I came home!
 Ya gonna get another one?
 I don’t know what happened"!

and then I began to feast upon the softness of the belly of the pane.

-heading westward away from water-

quite a journey.

my poke is not heavy

with burdensome uselessness.

let’s see here:  sheathed, open-blade knife,

coffee, salt-pork, a nice rip in day-old, emergency  
pharmaceuticals, beans, tobacco, papers and matches.

three nips of ol' "red eye".

canteen’s full-up.

got me a good horse.
got my eyes peeled.

the journey's faster nowadays.
on the way, it's a quick stop at the Howard Johnson's
off the interstate for two sunny-side,

three links, home fries, buttered rye toast and coffee.

just as easy now to get bushwhacked, though.

got me a fast car.

tank's full-up.

got my eyes peeled.

(watched a late-night cowboy movie on television last night)

(read the newspaper early this morning, too)

  

-Out there on the watery side of Earth-

-So, it's true. I snoop-around.

Had I not landed on poem-writing to record

my daily observations, I'd be formally charged

with “invasion of privacy” or at the least
its snotty little cousin, “peeping-tomism."

I snoop-around because poetry insists on my busybodiness.

-Between sets, I'll be reading some poems by Tracy K. Smith,

a worthy prize-winner who has returned from her trip to Mars

with her findings in hand.

Admittedly, I've never been to Mars, opting for the shortcut

of mentioning the angry red planet on occasion.

-So that makes me lazy, you might say.

So I stay put, that's true.

-Nabbed a two-footer with sweet peppers to travel

late last night, and put a six pack in the fridge

for the football games on television this afternoon.

Pre-game banter starts at 6:00 AM, running unopposed

and non-stop to kick-off, scheduled at 1:00 PM.

-Meanwhile, the remarkable isolationists

are pumping-out poems, dwelling at the borderlines

of dry anonymity far from the watery side of the world,

and wait a minute... Listen!

––The dead talk back to me you know.

-waiting on the songbird-

the house in Swansea will soon be emptied,
(save for myself) of its occupants;

a sister and two stop-over houseguests,

who will then travel together

to another house in Westport,

filled with people known to them and loved.

first, four pies will be made and baked in Swansea.

you know which pies.
the pies are specific to the Autumn occasion 
and “coconut balls” as they are called here,
enough rolled to feed a large family of porcupines.

I’m astounded at how many cans it takes

in order to make four “homemade” pies.

this is not a cannery or a patch or a bog;

it’s the house which will soon be emptied, save for myself,

as I wait on a call from the songbird of Boca Raton.

when the call comes, it will come from Fall River,
from the house of her parents as she stops by for a visit

and the two of us will drive to Newport and there,

we’ll eat and drink in snazzy, sea-themed surroundings

in complimentary musings about the ocean views, 

but until then, be as it may, it’s Thanksgiving day

inside an empty, (save for me and the anticipations
of the arrival of the songbird of Boca Raton ) house in Swansea.

-the unofficial alternative to understanding time-

the day was done, but time in its deliberate attitude

hung around at the table tidying-up, leaving trace amounts of itself

which confessed to its presence.

there's something inherently wrong with the persistent nature of time.

it appears at the front door disguised as a guest.

it waits long after the joyous wedding reception for the pre-doomed

bride and groom to tear asunder the promise of the document.

and since its beginning, it decomposes everything in its wake.

one should approach time with caution.

it holds grudges, imposing severe penalties when disrespected by waste.

but in the here and now, time belongs to me; it stays by my side.

it lives here. it will die with me. it's personal. it has my eyes.

in time I retired to bed leaving notations for a poem on the table

for my early consideration.

in the light of morning I read what I jotted-down the night before

and although the table was otherwise orderly, the poem left upon it

was a disorganized mess and it was left to me to put a permanent end to it.

time said.

-Before Bach's "Saint Matthew Passion" there's Mahler's "Resurrection"-

1.
I’ve become increasingly uncomfortable

within gatherings of people coming together in the same place for the same reason,
and by this I don’t mean two hundred thousand people as in a pilgrimage,
but say, ten to thirty people, which is a reasonable range, ten to thirty,
because it covers the usual numbers congregating at backyard cookouts,

house parties, snazzy inboard rides to the Bay and the average numbers

found attending pain-in-the-ass funerals of the faithful departed.

It’s becoming clear to me that these apprehensions for the most part,
cover gatherings of people I know, such as relations and pesky neighbors,

as opposed to people I don’t know, as say in attendance at Symphony Hall.

2.
Reviewing the concert schedule for the coming season, I find anticipated
performances of Bach's "Saint Matthew Passion" in mid-October
tapped for a three-day weekend slot, and before that, Mahler's "Symphony Two"

is on tap for three performances in late September.

So, according to the calculous, that'll be a total of 5,400 people
gathered within the same enclosed space for the same reason,

for approximately 4.9 hours, (both performances) and

of the 5,400 people attending, besides myself, I won't know any of them.

                     

-the tale of two big telephones-

considering a man
and he's on a big telephone
talking to a buddy about the game last night

and on the big telephone extension upstairs

his wife's waiting,–– waiting
for the line to clear because
she wants to call a friend to complain about it.
she's glancing through the pages of a magazine 
as if sitting in a waiting room to be seen by a dentist.

It’s a nonchalant sort of waiting,

as in a routine checkup,–– routine,

as in there's no abscessed molar

causing her discomfort,–– routine,

as if nothing’s loose or tainted

green at the gum line.–– she's just waiting upstairs
in a small chair, adjacent to a small table
leafing through the pages of a monthly, coffee-table endorsed

magazine with the big telephone extension echoing the joyful

madness downstairs, waiting for the line to clear, waiting for

the end of the busy line where the game is being dissected like the body

of another man, in another town, in another State, who

dropped-dead in his snazzy red jersey late last night of cardiac arrest

in the bottom of the 10th after a walk-off cleared the bases for the team

of the guy draped in a snazzy blue jersey on the big telephone downstairs.