-history in short bursts-

He grew-up with specific information at hand
Prescribed by parental prerogatives,

Local geography and the geography of the interiors.

He processed this information through the years
Of his early life, endeavoring to one day define it.

The procedure was unlike his formal schooling

With its constant crankiness and aloofness;

With its threats and prescriptions for neutrality.

The ancient mariner he had an affinity to

Was his Uncle Frank who took him to his smack

And they slow-motored across the muddy-

Bedded still-waters of Fog Land, then back to the banks

Where they dug for clams through the muck, ankle deep

With their bare feet.

But he liked the nonsense running through the corridors.

But he liked the interesting nuisance in the back row.

But he liked the stars at night,

The openness of the parks;

Hopping the fences for inspired reasons;

The immediate feel of the ball on the bat.

He liked the soft-

Brimmed fedora of his father on its evening hook,—

The keys and pocket ledger on the evening table and the closing

Exhaustion of them.

His school was not prepared for these elements.

He grew-up with the scent of gasoline all around him.

Gasoline from the overpowering nozzles

Of Whitey’s Esso across the street;

From the drag strip's wide-open carburetors of route 24;

Gasoline in the atmosphere from the greasy

Uniforms of the attendants sitting at the crazy lunchtime counters

Of the stainless diner at the base of the Avenue;

From the Junkyard when old man Rachlin

Emptied its useless tanks;

Gasoline from the old, tear-dropped Evinrude

Cradled at the stern of the smack on the dark
Standing waters of Fog Land.

Gasoline before it was sissified.

Inside his house, the sweet-

Acid scent of tomato sauces all but nullify it.

He should have paid more attention in school.

He should have been less easily distracted.

                                                    Quequechan

                             

  

-Diner song-

1.
Driving westward
To the foot of the Seven Hills
Closing in on the river,
The hills and gullies you can feel
Somewhere between your lap
And the walls of your throat,

Justly famous Al Mac’s Diner
Smokes from its sizzling grills;

A great American eatery

Rivaled in my recollection only
By the Fleetwood Diner of Ann Arbor.

Then from behind my leather-like booth,

A snazzy red and white color combo

With its benchseat’s obligatory tear
Dressed in X-shaped adhesive strips
In red of another value, a woman orders:

“I’ll have a Hamburger Sandwich and French-Fried Potatoes.”

The young waitress stumbles as if hit

With a solid punch to the stomach;

Seems to be catapulted to an alternate
Reality where people speak an awkward tongue.

She doesn't recover.

I slip a coin in the slot of the little juke
Under the window of my booth
Overlooking the still-life of the parking lot.

Volume’s cranked.

E-12 buttons are pushed and the little
Juke clicks and whirls to find its mark:

Tom Waits.

“Nighthawks at the Diner.”

“Burgers ‘n fries and what kind of pies?..”

2.

“I’ll have a Hamburger Sandwich and French-Fried Potatoes"?

Jesus Christ.

At Al Mac’s?

Fall River

-audiophile-

Rack 'em up.
To Play for time, Time is called
For the cranky hall manager
To scribble the start as to time begun.
At the soft break kiss of nine ball
The call is Safe.
It's elegant.
The balls clack like

The clacking sounds of trains

Rolling over the rails,— then progressing,

Drop into pockets, (the best

Are the pockets woven with

Intertwined strips of real leather)

And after the first ball drops, the others

Clack inside the pockets too.

Reaching up with the cue,

Tapping the tip to the long wire track

Threading the beads with the count
Of the drops and running them

Down with a swish!

This is not done with deference.

This is done with an arrogant attitude.

At play on the slate, one stays within oneself.

But when the cue-tip’s tapped at the wire of the beads

And pushes the beads down the wire with a swish,—

Well, like the sound of the train rolling

Over the rails to reach its destination,—

That’s music to the ears.  

-Columbus park proverb-

measure the beauty of the maple

from her leather flats
to the top of her head.

what's left is a tree.

-hill and gully riders-

from the steepest hilltop

ready the pedals

then push a few

around their hubs

coasting downward
faster
faster

pedals in line

with their wheels—

faces near touching

the handlebars

close to a kiss—

the spokes of the wheels

stinging the atmosphere

like hornets—

downward
the riser
upward the riser
downward
the riser again and again

the hill and gully riders
hold fast
to the grips— 
eyes to the bars
strong to the wind they make—
ready the pedals break

locking the drive-chains
fast at the rolls of the cuffs—

the tires rubber-striping the tarmac
of Snake-

Hill Drive—  the lancers
vibrating as if in a struggle for breath
the busy

cross-street cutting through at the drop
at the end of the run and we stop.

and then

and then at our sides

we walk the bikes up
for another run down.

-click here for archives-

the archives reported

note-worthy historical events:

the great fires igniting from the rotting oil-

soaked floors of the monumental

granite structures of the textile mills;—

the fires of the hill-topping steepled churches;

the priest’s proclamations and the testament's

prophesy of ashes to dust;—

the overpowering strength in construction

of the through-truss bridge

spanning the heavy water of the river;—

the laying of foundations for the brick

and mortar housing project where the dark-
haired island beauties would find
themselves behind its narrow windows;—
the steam-shoveled soil and stone

filling-in the pit of the slicing granite
ledge whose deep still-water sucked

the life out of some of us;— the hurricane winds

and rising waters

and the Narrows fresh-water ponds receding

to their bed-rocks at the face of the struggling

pumping station.

but no record of the bikes peddling

fast across its locked
iron doors toward the dense and beautiful
Reservation;

no listing of the fierce

spiked line-ups assembled against us;

not one pitch to be found recorded;

nothing of the base hit dribbled

between second and first advancing the base-
runner to third;

the stance on the bag as if routine

and nothing of the mouth of the girl

at the trunk of the tree

at the close of the ninth.

-First hurricane-

Carol’s floodwater moved upward.

Its rainfall was subsiding

But the sewers at the dip on Bedford Street
Between Oak Grove and Quarry 
Were not receiving, belching sewer-stuff

Adding to the slick of stagnating wastewater.

Inside, three kids are sitting in the middle
Of the living-room rug
Protected from shattering glass
Giving them a near uninterrupted

Line of sight to the over-filled candy dishes
Their mother laid-out on every available

Level surface of the house.

In drier times, Bedford was the street to cross
To get to the ballpark, the bakeries
And the always waiting-for-something church
Rising behind left field.

In drier times, Bedford was a rung on the ladder.
It made sense for us to cross it and for the drivers
Of cars to run eastward
And westward making their way to work
Or the unemployment office.

Street games were played on quieter Healy Street
Running parallel to Bedford
Which cut between the backyard fence
And Rachlin’s Junkyard.

But as Carol’s youthful exuberance became full-throated

The elders rounded the kids up to sit on the rug

In the middle of the parlor where crossing strips
Of masking tape covered the windows like lamb’s-
Blood warding off the wrath of God.

Outside, Carol died-down with a last

Lick of her tongue
And her water receded.


Inside, our father, struggling for better reception,
Pressed cocoons of aluminum foil
To the tips of the rabbit-ears as our mother
Contributed to the calming atmosphere
Readying pots of water for the stove and tending
To the near-emptied candy dishes.

                                                     Quequechan

   

-if you went to the little store-

If you went to the little store

the one on the corner

the one red-painted with bigger

windows than you had in your house,

where the sign reading "Cigarettes" with a big,

tubular, filter-tipped beauty

glowing red at its tip, veil of seductive

smoke, pure white, curling upward

intrigued every time;

the store where one day the kid from 1021
crossed the street from the park to ask
old man Marretti if he could use the toilet and was told
to "go piss behind the billboards like everybody else"—

the store where the scent of cold-cut meats
and vinegar permeated the air where the flies last landings

were preserved on the entrails
of a more contemporary application in amber
and compartments gleaming with packs of fresh Lucky Strike

longed to link-up with the fatal passions of your father;
"he said he'll pay you next week"—
but you're far too busy with the goings on
of your daily requirements with no time allotted
to consider such encounters in triviality as in "going to the store"—
well, this poem is not for you.

                                                       Quequechan

-the Port winemaker-

before you were measured for a new

suit of lacquered pine;

when your liver was still moist with medicine

and weighed overhead;

and the tubes were readied to flow

when the valves

opened-up to the stainless-

steel sinks

and the tapes rolled quietly

from the back of the room capturing sounds
of the final business of you—

and the guy in Kansas gets an eye

from someone else,

somebody a lot younger than you, old-timer

and nothing left is stored away in a vat
of smoking nitrogen

awaiting the time to come for you to paint
your masterpiece,— 
but only that which was tagged

with the name we gave to them,
the name you lived with now reserved
for quick disposition.

and the tag's removed from its tie around the toe

of the only foot you had left, Grandfather,

and that’s it.

-early east coast morning-

as to the outside and the inside

of still and running water;—

the movements inward and outbound;

finding stability in the back-step;

It’s what was expected

negotiating the crazy arithmetic.

let’s unfurl the sheets, turnkeys of the sensibilities.

let’s run the machinery.

the saltwater pulls toward itself

rushing from the heels of our feet;

It finds the sand-clenched toes; spits-up

at the ankles and licks the kneecaps

in its eagerness to return to us.

as to the river, it will run tomorrow

flexing its muscle;

choosing a mood for its face.

let's splash the night-skies across our dry eyes,
leaving tidbits of planets behind
for the astrologist to play with.

as to standing water on the inside and the outside,

it continues its relentless anticipation.

as to the west coast; it sleeps while awaiting its turn
to take a stab at it all.

                                           

The poem on page 1  DRAFT! work the second stanza !!

In 1917, an early year,

William Carlos Williams

Wrote "January Morning."

He died in Rutherford, New Jersey

In 1963, the year I entered Art School
In New Bedford, Massachusetts.

At the opening Suite of "January Morning, 

The image of himself is introduced

And runs in American plainsong

through Weehawken.

So through the portal of "January Morning,"

I’m reminded of procedures in defining

Whatever this place is;

Whatever it proposes to be;

Of whenever I come to walk through it,

Glancing its temperament,— or populate it

Attempting to articulate its proportions

Gathering the elements of its complexities

With myself involved in them,

To remain within reach;— one’s own reach
Readied for the Suite.

                                        Quequechan / Fall River