-It's been a cold, cold war-

1.

downtown. 1962 or thereabouts. I’m drunk on orangeade;

hopped-up on chow mein, here at the busy China Royal.

(in a booth the size of a red-leatherette continent after the movies

with friends, and more than a hint of tension in the air, talking about

the space race, arms race, mutual destruction race with the Russians,
who were kicking our ass with their powerful rocket thrusters which
had the look of powerful rocket thrusters;
fat, grey-black, thunderous, menacing looking things.)

now, walled within our half-moon booth, we're talking about the cold war;

of how long that flash of light will linger, of how the blast's burn

will blister our skins, of how the blood will boil in our veins, and–––

will we see it coming?

all the while feasting on chow mein, and orangeade with ice. (no straw)

on hot summer nights while drinking orangeade, I liked the ice
to form a cold, convex semicircle between my nostrils and upper lip.

2.

this happened not only on the night under discussion, but also
on a number of other nights during the cold war.

addendum:
regardless of the USSR's lead in the power ratings of rocket thrusters,
an accounting from within our booth regarding "total destructive capabilities",

overwhelmingly favored the United States, and although the "Ruskies"

had the ability to destroy the entire world 10-times over, the United States

had the ability to destroy the entire world 15-times over, the tabulation showed,

with one voting "present." 

3.

J.F.K. said: (when warning of the futility inherent in a nuclear war, that)

"the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouths."

whew! it's been a long, long night at the sweltering China Royal.

Myrtle,..set me up with one last orangeade.

no straw.

lots of ice.

It's been a cold, cold war.

-behind the fence in Vinton County-

the first family arrives at 10:55 PM.

the pickup truck slows rapidly from its speed,

the dust of Powder Plant Road behind it settles to the ground.

the driver pulls over to the shoulder leaving space

for the others he knows will surely come here.

another family arrives within minutes.

those waiting at the fence can see them coming.

now the third family comes, then the sixth family and so on through the night.

they line the fence as if witnessing a stalled cortège. 

Into the distance beyond the fence, there isn’t much to see.

not even the smoke still rising, but the skies

above the dark facility are a heavy, blood-red at sunup.

there’s something wrong with the air,––
the pungent residue in spent nitroglycerin.

they shuffle left and right along the fence allowing for newcomers.

there’s nothing to see of the grounds but flashing lights.

the multi-blast shockwaves shook the foundations of their homes,

the walls of their trailers, the bones of their backyard dogs.

then the howling siren, droning, fatal, one pitch is enough,

sends them driving hard through McArthur, Ohio

and there at the fence they wait in a solemn row.

nobody on the outside gets in.

nobody from the inside is allowed to get out.

an official count of the living is in process.

the dead will wait to be identified.
but these are not the recognizable dead,
those we've come to know laying neatly in the parlors.

these dead are the “Powder Plant” dead, identified

through the process of examination, of science, of piecemeal pathology.

but first, the living are counted, myself among them and from the count

will come the “unaccounted for” who are then presumed to be dead

and presumptions such as these are never wrong.

Austin Powder Company

                    -Agatha on the lam-

                   It was Agatha Pettruci who lived

                   on the second floor of the initial
                   three-tenement, brown-shingled beauty,

                   one floor beneath Ernest and Julia Carocelli

                   and one floor above us, the D'Elia family;
                   father, mother, the one set of maternal grandparents,
                   an older sister, me and a younger brother.
                   (pick the parakeet or cat from the drop-down
                   menu, now available to subscribers)
                   I was the middle child of the family
                   and one could say that Agatha was the middle child
                   of the house on Bedford, officially designated as 1017.

                   Agatha was as old as my old grandmother
                   and as young women might have crossed the Atlantic together
                   during the earliest years of the turn to the 20th century.

                   while visiting the first-floor one night,
                   and after coffee and anisette cookies,
                   old Agatha began asking questions of, then began
                   searching for "la piccole persone"––
                   the "little people" she believed were living inside
                   our first television set; fatso cabinet, small screen,
                   and with supplied antenna fully extended, looked like
                   what robots looked like in the early 1950s. 

                   It was my father who found the absurdity
                   of Agatha's heavy-handed exploration, humorous.
                   but as evening fell more deeply
                   toward the hour of anticipated patterns,
                   Agatha became increasingly agitated after several attempts
                   to locate the little people frolicking inside the set, failed.

                   as often happens with stories to be told, it's only now
                   occurring to me that Agatha Pettruci, second floor of three,
                   might have looked upon us as a legion of demons that night,
                   and had she been in better shape, killed us,––
                   then climbed the stairs to the third floor and once there,
                   because they had a television set complete with its own
                   "piccole persone" killed Ernest and Julia Carocelli, too.

                    Quequechan 1950.

                    1952? 1951.

                 -with Maretti, Pettrillo and Carocelli-

                 ––I fell from the tree while

                  batting-down sour green apples.

                  the broomstick, which earlier had lost its

                  severed head in a daring act of subterfuge

                  followed my sudden descent like a crazed disciple. 

                  my ankle seemed to be lightly sprained,

                  but otherwise my condition was good enough
                  to encourage a strong performance.

                  ––so I hobbled with an exaggerated limp

                  to the house and into the kitchen, where

                  my maternal grandmother, on permanent duty at the sink,

                  wiped her hands, sat me down and stripped my foot

                  of its sneaker and sock to take a look at my ankle.

                  cupping the heel with a firm hand,

                  she rotated the foot in a stringent visual examination

                  to determine the extent of injury, or.. to expose my routine.

                  ––outside, three friends carelessly feasted

                  at the base of the tree, the ground there
                  littered with felled, sour green apples.

                  ––my yard.

                      my tree.
                      my sour green apples.

                  Quequechan,  1953, 1954? 1952.

                 post script / a fess-up:

                 In Jack Kerouac's "Scattered Poems" (City Lights Books,

                 The Pocket Poets Series Number 28) 

                 he, Allen Ginsberg & Neal Cassady, collaborated on a few whimsical

                 poems, where closing dates were applied in interesting chronologies which

                 I've chosen to mimic here, as well as with a number of others of my poems.

                 this is not stealing! I have every intent to return the zany, magnetic arrangement

                 of these dates to the aforementioned poets when the proper time comes 'round.    

                 

 
                  

     

            -the americanization

                 of the sweet

             Japanese haiku continues-

                              1.

            at the sun's side of the window

                 the sparrow is singing.

            'could be two sparrows.

                              2.

            after subtracting one sparrow

                  adding another

            would seem counterproductive.

                             3.

            on the lawn's plain, the black
                  short-haired cat

            enjoys the sparrow's song ––

                             4.

            but as the cat enlightens the sparrow

                   to think outside itself

            the sparrow sings the cat’s tune, anyway.

            2010 / 2013 / No. 2, 2022

       

                    -Marilyn’s arithmetic-                                                                                                                          

                    there seemed to be fewer poems written

                    pertaining to the death of Marilyn Monroe

                    than I assumed there would be by the time I wrote mine.

                    don’t get me wrong.

                    I'd bet every tomdick'nharry in the neighborhood

                    had one to recite whenever you went over there for cheap

                    chardonnay and a platter of assorted cheese samplings.

                    but in the realm of post-death Marilyn poems

                    far from the houses of pesky neighbors,

                    there are fewer than I thought there would be.
                    ––there's Bukowski’s blunt-edged account

                    written in close to real time,

                    (he hears the earthworms pant for her bones)

                    and there's one by Sharon Olds

                    which cuts-to-the-chase, written long after the fact.

                    ––to close-out his poem, Bukowski holds a toast to her memory

                    a full minute with a glass of, I'll guess imported beer, whereas

                    Olds goes after the coroner's attendants.

                    she follows them home when their work is done.

                    It's an unpleasant situation.
                    Sharon says the "ambulance men"

                    attending to her body were never the same.

                    of one she said,–– even his wife and kids looked different.

                    (pity the poor attendants)

                    later,–– on the frontier reserved for unabsolved poets,

                    I found myself writing one inspired after another viewing

                    of "The Seven Year Itch" on television, contributing to the pool where

                    Marilyn's elegies from all sources,–– memorials, eulogies,

                   bad jokes on the Bedford and County Bus, like-minded poems, and

                   requiem masses are summed-up to be recorded for posterity.

                   requiem aeternam dona eis.

                  

                   

                                     

          -the sore shoulder and the distant dwarf-

          soon enough i’ll blame the dampness in weather.

          soon enough i’ll not be fit to work out the kinks.

          it’s the left shoulder, so i’ll cup my right hand over it

          and move my left arm in lame, shoulder-high revolutions

          like those of the distant dwarf around the frozen
          waistline of the Sun’s influence.

          this is one of the things that pushed Pluto

          toward disfavor among influential observers;

          the metrics of its sometimes awkward, unpredictable revolutions.

          we want our planets to revolve cleanly, or at the least,

          with imperfections which are scientifically excusable.

          my sore shoulder will soon be explained away by
          the fault of dampness in weather.

          the guests in the parlor will one day come to say:

          “well, it’s just the dampness, right Bill”?

          i’ll one day reply: “that’s right.
          it’s just the dampness”.

                    -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.

              The place of my birth was unchanged.

              

               -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.