-the curiosity of the girls-

The imagery gets more and more peculiar.

The Hugo A. Dubuque School

On Oak Grove Avenue sits three

Blocks east of our house, and two

Blocks south of the Cemetery where

Lizzie Borden rests in her family’s plot of ground.

I think she did it.

In the schoolyard during recess

When all of us ran around 

Like one hundred thirty six pinballs
Bouncing into one another,

Everything seemed natural. But,—

Whenever something was organized by the boys,

A stickball game, a fist fight, a foot race,
Planning the de-pantsing of the new kid,—

The girls stopped whatever they were doing,—
Tag, Jumprope, Jacks, 1,2,3, Red-Light,
Whispering things to each other,—

Gathering like early morning hunters,
Measured, lining the fence,
Waiting there in their dresses,—
Curious of our planned activities
But more distant than within an arm's reach.

At the time, I was unaware of this phenomenon.

Now I struggle to separate
Fact from romanticism,—
The imagery of them in the schoolyard,

What it was about them which sucked us in,
Made us pay attention to their presence
As we plotted an adventure and they mustered
At the line of the chain-link fence

Waiting for their time, baiting the hooks,
Casting their eyes to the unsuspecting
Even then,—
Hooking their boys,
Reeling us in.


                           Quequechan

-flight-

the plectrum moon
this snow-filled twilight

rises to stroke the untuned
wires wilting above it.

it continues its upward stroke
so I'll stick around. 

only time will tell.

across the street, the rooftop
warmed by the furnace of my neighbor’s house

keeps an attentive company

and darkness strengthens it
adding to the night's harmonics.
I'll stick around.

only time will tell, if,
when the Moon lifts its weight
from the stave of my neighbor's roof

it will end with an overture and the promise
of an encore.

                                  

-gallery-

It was raining a lot last week

And the cows were swimming.

When the pastures are flooded,

Something rises from the water.

Today it’s the light.

When light rises from the water,

The Painters come out.

                            for Erik Johnson

-Sincere Confessions-

Sure I'll race him.

He’s fat.

The slowest kid in school.

I could’ve run backward,

Backpedalled like Ginger,

Moonwalked like Michael

And got to the chain-linked fence

Separating the schoolyard from the woods

Long before him.

He’s fatso Freddie Dagada.

I’m a sprinter.
Fast as hell down the first base line.

That’s who I am.

The girls line the side of the tarmac

Like wallflowers;

Ladies in waiting; little maids in a row

To watch me run.
Ready...Set...and

The toe of my Red Ball Jet,—

The toe of the push-off sneaker, is resting

On an invisible drizzle of sand.

On the “Go!” shouted out by crazy Richard Carrier,
The kid who took it out behind the building last year
To a curious Michele Indigo,

I slip and fall to my face on the tarmac
Of the schoolyard bloodying my nose

As fatso Dagada waddles to the fence

Like a walrus pushing his weight

Toward the cow of his choosing.

The girls relax to their knees,

Returning to their game of Jacks
Which the race interrupted at twosies.

The knee of my corduroys is torn;

The skinned knee is dotted in bloody droplets like my nose.  

At home, I’ll tell my father I was in a fight.—

And that I won.

                          Hugo A. Dubuque

                          Quequechan

-the spit-shine-

Call it Kiwi.

Some-time ago the young sergeant sits

At the edge of his bunk

The bunk on the bottom

Unclothed save for teeshirt and shorts

In the open space of the emptied barracks

Socked feet on the floor

One hand

For the boot, pressed firmly inside it, 

The military issue, braced for a spit-shine.

Some-time ago

One boot on the floor is laying on its side

On a newspaper page

Waiting its turn, not yet unlaced.

Call it Kiwi.

Some-time ago the art student sits

At the edge of his bed

The twin not wide enough for two

In underwear and socks,

Feet on the floor,

Newspaper down like its a rule,

One hand for the boot, inside all the way

To the toe, in a fist,
Stretching the soft leather out,

One hand for the cloth, dabbed in black.

Call it Kiwi,

Circling the surface of leather

Near panting at the fingertips.

Some time ago the buffing brush
Slaps and glides across the radiance 

Like a yacht to weather over the water,—
One hand for the boat,—
One hand for the boot,—

One boot on the floor is on its side

Not yet unlaced,

Is waiting its turn for the shine of its life,

And its history recurring.

                                     

-utility-

Crap!

The old guy upstairs

Just got his Gas bill

And he’s at my door

Wanting to know

How much my Gas bill is.

Two hundred thirty five he yells.

He inquires frantically: You pay that much?

How much you pay? He insists.

He’s a pain in the ass.

But so's the Gas Company.

So I'll let him.

He’s got the bill in his hands

Threatening to shut off his own gas,

And it’s February.

He’ll do it too.

He’s nuts.

He spends a lot of time in the basement

Bopping things with a hammer,

And he builds and paints giant plywood cutouts

In Christmas themes;— little boys in their vestments;

In Surplice and Cassock, holding lit candles,

Their oval mouths wide as if singing 

Looking more like the vinyl blow-ups on display

In that dark little video joint on the corner of

Bedford and Eighth. 

Once in a while I hear glass smashing down there.

Now he’s sitting at the table in my kitchen

Ranting with a sticky string of spit

Exercising at the edges of his mouth
As I put the sharpest knives in the drawer.

I think he expects me to do something
About his Gas bill.

He’s married to an old lady who walks with a walker,

Who calls me on the telephone

In fear of a strange car parked across the street.
They're doing some drugs over there she says.

She asks if my smoke-alarms are beeping.

Do I have any batteries?

Can I make her some copies of Social
Security documents?
What's he doing down there she wonders aloud
Through the sweating earpiece.
I'm a-scared she moans.

Christ.

I’m done for.

                                           Fall River

-just me-

Hanging half-way down the sewer

As I'm the one called upon to retrieve the ball,

Less that I was willing to summon such courage
Than it was that I'm the one

Small enough to fit through the narrow opening

And light enough to be pulled back to the street

As my friends held fast to my sneakered feet

And the leather-like belt of my stiff

Dungarees.

It was always about the ball.

Scooped-up in time, dried-off fast, we’re ready to go.

The Columbus Park gang had little interest

And less to say about such moments

As we lunched at White’s Restaurant
Just over the City line

At the bi-monthly gathering
Of the “Over The Hill Gang,”—
Feasting on platters of meatballs and spaghetti
Topped-off with sickeningly sweet

Desserts dressed-up like twenty-bucks-a-blowjob
Hookers.

The presiding officer, elected by ballot
For a one-year term, began each luncheon

At the lectern reciting the Pledge of Allegiance,
A saccharine prayer, then listing the names
Of the recently departed members.

No mention of baseball, Ox and Pitch, Buck-Buck,—

Nothing about the Parks, the activity of the streets,

The schoolyards, the tenements or the treacherous
Sewers each of them knew so well.

The Columbus Park gang sitting at the big,
Food-filled circular table spoke of vacations,
Of retirement golfing and what

The grandchildren were up to
That made everybody in the holiday-
Filled houses beam with pride.

And the strength of their hands
Is pulling me back from the sewers
And the drenched
Baseball is in my grasp
And I think to myself as I listen
To the echo of ourselves:—
"Goodbye." 

                                        Quequechan

   

-three outs-

two a side.

the curbstone's edge is a blunt force

meant to rip a hollow, rubber "Pinky" in half at its seam.

sponge pinky's are never allowed.

the name of it should be changed to "Spongey"

in order to protect the integrity of the Pinky.

when hit, no one can predict where the Pinky will go;

one can only predict where one would like it to go.

Niles Bohr theorized: one can only predict where it might go.

the lifespan of the Pinky can not be accurately measured.

some live for a week. some for a day.

when fatso Freddy DeGata plays, one hit might be the end.

 

the curbstone's granite is roughly cut, home made,

but worn by time and weather.

the play is at the angles of the granite's protrusions.

when the Pinky hits the edge of stone like that,

you feel the hit, sense it nearly as the feel of the bat

in your hands when it meets the baseball.

this is the beauty of the Pinky.

its skin is sensitive to the touch.

its scent is inviting.

its pink hue sings of "stickball" and "three outs",

but strangely, like the ball in pick-up baseball,

only one Pinky will be brought to the game.

Samph's Variety on Covel Street just beyond

the Son's of Italy Hall has them hanging

high enough in a wire basket behind the crowded

counter where only he could reach them.

Quequechan

-Michele and the Arena Girls. A dream in one act-

the girls remained
unimpressed.

they seemed curious, but

involved with themselves

more-so than a desire

for an involvement with us;

unaffected and autonomous. 

we fought one another
courting their attention.

this noontime they gather
at the schoolyard fence
near the woods,—
their starched dresses reflecting

their attitude toward
the recess-scheduled fistfight
between two
fourth-grade combatants.

soon the vanquished

is dragged away at their feet
by his attendants.
the victor continues to be dismissed.


It's old Mr. Coyte who's left to hose

the tarmac of the bloody arena down.

Michele Sperling

is standing alone by the stream

of water,

its spent blood flowing

to the narrow strip of grass

at the chain-

linked fence where it

submerges into the soft ground.

then Michele is seen running

to join her friends

on the other side of the schoolyard.

                                  Hugo A. Dubuque School
                                  Quequechan

  

the minimalist's sanctuary                                              

It occurred to me this morning while listening

to Morton Feldman's "Rothko Chapel"

that the opportunity had again been offered me to embrace

the slightest measure of information and do something with it

(for the benefit of mankind, for fulfillment to come

to the vacant side of the nation, for the sake of the early kid

shanghaied by Priest into the bowels of the lightless sacristy,

 for blondies Dick and Jane to abandon their creators,

and run toward a higher calling,––

for the saints of the needle trade, my young mother among them

to be honored for their service) and this morning, Morton Feldman

comes to enlighten me as he travels in the silent space

between objects of his own making.