feels like minus 15° when calculating into the equation the wind-chill factor

early morning:

the young meteorologist

has an announcement to make.

she says it’s cold out there.

It’s an old house built in the '30s.

new storm windows were added in 2011,

but the insulation is sub-par. she says it’s worse than cold

because she's calculating into the equation the wind-chill factor.

It’s not just the cold, but the wind-chill factor.

when the wind comes in off the Bay at, let’s say,

20 knots, it dilutes the inside heat of the furnace.

It’s a tepid heat on its own, but accompanied by

the wind-chill factor it feels like -15° like she said.

It’s the combination of temperature and wind-chill factor

which overpowers the furnace; the big, fat metal-green

contraption squatting down there is cranking like a Model T,

and its gas is hissing down there. I can hear it up here.

blue flames ignite, and strengthen, straining to achieve maximum output.

It seems constipated.

In the kitchen, the oatmeal thickens rapidly.

If I sit here, my left side is colder than my right side.

If I sit over there, my back is colder than my front.

If I sit on the toilet, both hemispheres will come to know the wind-chill factor.

early afternoon:

the young meteorologist hasn’t changed her mind.

she says it’s cold out there.

she says to bundle-up. she advises the layering of lighter clothing.

feels like minus fifteen she says like a cracked 78 rpm.

she looks fantastic, but not so much that it warms the interiors.

she palms the digital radar map with a clean sweep, tapping the information

she knows I'll need, what with the cold and the wind-chill factor.

she's emphasizing high and low pressure developments.
precipitation intensity is noted by color ranges from yellow to green to red.
the radar imaging proceeds frame by frame in near comic sequence, but

the intensity of the colors is convincing, and my position on the map

is deep red which the young meteorologist is telling me is not a good thing

considering the cold, and calculating into the equation the wind-chill factor.

first writ: Swansea, early March, 2017.

jazzed-up: Fall River, mid December, 2022.

                   could be Ben Martinez is in the hoosegow

he’s unresponsive.

the screen’s straight-lining.

could be he’s enjoying a self-

imposed isolation, scheming

a new Picasso situation.

could be the infatuation’s

grown too dear and moved

too close to the edge.

why couldn’t Martinez

leave the old Spaniard to himself?

isn’t that where the dead belong?

no. not for Martinez.

he’s got a rare sort of penmanship.

his tinfoil’s the best I’ve seen.

could be he’s roaming the Italian landscape

as we wait his return when the scent

of the pane is pulled from the oven.

                   of the afternoon I came face to face with Joan Gasparini's bullet bra

It’s the early 1950’s, and Joan Gasparini shows up at the house

in a creamy, zip-down sweater.

She seems to be a satellite friend of my sister, three years my elder,

because she’s not seen around the house as much as the others.

That’s a shame.

If she did show up with the same frequency she might stay over.

She might wear that sweater again which points the way to my dreams.

Maybe she’ll take a bath before bed. Most of them do. I’d hear her splashing.

I'd find a way to be outside the door.

I was a master of subterfuge while approaching the forbidden zones

whenever my sister’s friends stayed over: Joan'll think

I'm looking for my lost sneaker. She thinks I'm as sweet as "Beaver" Cleaver

and me, lurking on the wrong side of the wall, the bauble known as

Joan Gasparini running in circles around the planet of my thirteen year old head

and who's not to say even now?

                   a citizen's guide to yawning including one indelible experience 

yawning is best performed indoors

away from the sightline of busybodies.

in the presence of company,

a yawn will be considered rude;

especially while visiting their house during a family vacation slide-show.

(something about having fun with their kids on the Vineyard.)

in 1997 I yawned during the wake of an uncle while burdened with a young

cousin's lamentations,–– but never while listening to the final movement of Mahler 6.

advisory:  don't yawn during the adjudication phase

of your case before the bench. harsher dispositions will follow.

and remember, yawns can be fickle. why, just last month

I nearly yawned for no apparent reason;–– I didn't, but

the "close-call" yawning incident haunts me to this day. there's more,

but I dunno. maybe later when I'll likely have even more time on my hands.

                   -le quickie- / another in the series:

                  "I may not know much about art, but I know what I like".

when doctor dermatologist

told me I'd been stricken with “hives” I said:

“oh, no! not hives! not me!

tell me it isn’t true, doctor dermatologist”!

but it was true. I had ‘em.

I might have responded the same way

had he told me terminal cancer had invaded my lungs, or

I inadvertently voted for the entire Republican ticket.

this should not become a more detailed account of a circumstance.

it should stop in its tracks the way

Marcel Duchamp hit the breaks after his singular big hit.

but Duchamp didn’t break-out with hives

when he laid down his oily brush, still thick

with the skin-tone of his claim to fame. 

nope. no hives for Duchamp.

now lounging around in paradise with others of his kind,

Monsieur Duchamp might think he shits ice cream.

but that’s okay if he does.

I should be so lucky when time demands I hit the breaks,

or when time decides to hit the breaks for me.

I hate the hives, doctor dermatologist!

love the painting, though, Marcel.

                   why we should exchange gifts on Thanksgiving day.

for one thing it would give us a Thanksgiving eve.

for one thing it would steer our attention away from

the ridiculous Pilgrims.

for one thing it would be good for the Indians.

Whitey could present a new array of baubles to the Indians

and the Indians could give us, let's say.. Greenland.

it works out well for all the communities:

white, and nowhere close to being white.

for one thing people would be able to inquire:

"whatcha get for Thanksgiving"?

and "what’d you get your wife for Thanksgiving"?

men,.. picture her face as she opens the door

expecting relatives, but there sits a low milage,

almost no dents 1998 Toyota Corolla in the driveway

with a fresh roasted turkey tied-down on the roof with all the fixins!

that’s what I’m talkin’ about, guys.

everybody gets laid..in the end.

finito

                    holiday gift suggestions for consideration. Josh D'Elia take notice

my slippers are torn at the heels,

the left more-so than the right,

and who knows why.

and that ballpoint pen I like?

the one with the mermaid

(now you see them now you don't)

floating in the barrel?

well, its ink has dried-out, and poetry

hasn't been the same since.

I could use some Band-Aid

plastic strips, too.

I’m down to three, which

like my father before me

I keep in the toolbox in his memory.

see if you can nab a pack or two

marked: "Flesh-Colored".

and listen,––

if you can swing

a couple of dozen batteries

for the flashlights that'll be great.

the packs will be marked "D".

make sure they say: "D"!

oh..and when you have the time,

please send instructions

on how to navigate Google Maps.

I keep walking into the wrong apartment.

                  -the morning mirror-

I approach the viewing with a degree of trepidation

walking on tentative feet, themselves new to the day.

my hands grip the terrycloth's sash yanking with the strength

it needs to knot one side to the other.

this is how the continents shifted their positions on the planet.

there’s a switch on the wall at the entrance to the morning mirror.

it ignites the atmosphere with the fierceness of the Sun.

my expression is contorted as if pierced by shards of light.

elapsed time since the rising: eight seconds.

the good news is Lazarus took longer.

I stand reflected from the sloping shoulders, to the balding head.

why do I move closer? what's the sense? what's left to navigate?

here is the visual assessment of the new status quo, an external

examination to affirm my existence, a confirmation of that which is

already known, a call to gather my goods, to reconsider what was once

thought to be considerable, and above all, to make it snappy.

                    Who?

The old-timer in 306 died two days ago

of natural causes somebody said.

They carted him off during the dark, early morning hours

as if it was scheduled to be that way.

He was unknown to me as an "is,"

and unknown to me while carted off as a "was"

but at that time of morning I'm usually asleep

two floors closer to paradise in 503, much the same way

I sleep through the process of stars going nova, or

after an exhausting acceptance to the day’s results.

It serves to warn me that this is where they'll find me,

here on the final frontier with those whose lives are long in the tooth

and I still have plenty of work to do. But––

it’s hard to concentrate, what with all the internal commotion.

epilogue:

I've supplied the space below for up-to-date commentary

or when time deems it appropriate for closure and condolences

and don’t be a wisenheimer.

 

 

                 two acknowledgments and one note of appreciation

I’d like to thank those among the dead

who've left something behind of themselves

so that I, a humble documentarian

might take advantage of whatever it is.

I’d also like to thank those semi-condemned to purgatory

for doing their time by keeping their mouths shut and not whining 

incessantly about not being able to... "see the face of God".

and finally an appreciation to Kim Addonizio 

for wearing that (whew!) flimsy red dress when we met

at Wong’s Café for coffee and day-olds late last night.

(the last stanza is inspired by Addonizio's poem

"What Do Women Want" in the volume: "Tell Me"

which should be required reading for boys stepping into puberty.)

 

 

                   -nothing to confess, with exaltations lifted from A. Ginsberg-

my introduction to cigarette smoking

was initiated through stealth.

we can set the early scene thusly:

there is a function of sorts at our house.

everybody smokes.

the men smoke Camel, Luckies, and Chesterfield.

the women smoke Parliament recessed filters, and filter-tipped Viceroy.

Uncle Joe smokes filter-tipped Viceroy, too, but

I’m too young to realize something’s up with Uncle Joe.

the toilet is refreshed with pine-scented aerosol. 

the kitchen speaks of leftovers and wakes.

the bedrooms address the fascinating stacks of coats and hats

always made ready for departure.

the hallways lead to all places great and small.

the parlor is a goldmine of forbidden smokes.

laid upon the armrest, Joe’s Viceroys are easy pickins,—

a soft-pack with three beauties sticking their corky

tongues out from the torn, silvery maw,

ready to be sucked like a french kiss in the sacristy.

               Holy! Holy! Holy!
               Sacristy is Holy!
               Priest is Holy!

               Uncle Joe is Holy!

Holy is this child of the tenement's holdings!
deceptively he ties the laces of his sneakers, his concentration temporarily

diverted to young cousin Celia’s delicate feet drenched in nylon,

cloaked in slingback pumps. Holy! Holy!

“hey, uncle Joe! I think my father’s calling you.”

and before Joe's ass clears the recliner, fingertips

swifter, surer than any surgeon's, pull the leading Viceroys out and
with a nudge to the pack, con another three to expose themselves.

elapsed time: 3.4 seconds.

“hey! your old man’s not even in the house!” and Uncle Joe

sinks into his recliner complaining about one thing or another

while I'm halfway to my room with my stash.

poor bastard never knew what hit him.

Quequechan, circa 1952

  

                  -after the event-

what if the Sun

became wet after dropping

below the waterline? 

this is a reasonable inquiry.

just last week

everything seemed

to be moving along

at a pace between

a trot and gallop,

but if the Sun gets wet

we're in for bad times.

God won't

wring the Sun dry

to help us out.

God's too busy

bobbing and weaving

avoiding direct contact

with the children's wing.

I'm well within the realm of reason

to ask the question:

"what if the Sun

became wet after dropping

below the waterline"?

for Joe Rachlin in paradise

the population of his junkyard

changed its identity over time.

the old 39 Hudson became the old 46 Nash

becoming the wrecked 53 Desoto.

Hudson begat Nash who begat Desoto.

the old testament side of Rachlin's Junkyard.

but we grabbed what we needed from the once-

working machines; the once metal-gleaming beauties;
envy of neighbor, relation, beauty queen and cop on the beat,

with not a thought to the dead, egotistical prick once at the wheel

of his Cadillac Eldorado, who thought he owned the open road,

who passed on the right because he thought he shit ice cream,

who yelled at my cousin for standing too close, who parked diagonally

across two parking spaces at the beach causing great distress, now surrendering

the glittering ornaments of his once prized machine which now belonged to us.

 Quequechan