-the published poet, the unpublished poet and the kid next door-

I’ll read some George Bilgere poems during the early

evening slow-down, the first stroke of darkness when

interior table lamps are reconsidered.
out there, beyond the north Swansea wilderness, route 6 traffic

is culled by time as workday tensions exhale from their necessities.

tonight seems right for Bilgere. he knows how to stick an ending.

(earlier, I witnessed the kid next door strapped-in with muscular dystrophy

struggling to make it up the ramp to his house, the agonized machinery whining
for the want of its battery's charge, his broken torso slumped head-first,

low and pleading as if confronting a dense atmosphere.)

I left him to his own devices.

I'll start with Bilgere's volume, "The White Museum" and the poem titled: "Trash".

It opens with a quote from Pablo Neruda:

"Each morning I place on my writing table

        a carnation and a hammer".
imagine writing such an introduction to the day ahead.

as for me, there are times when I'll question the work in progress,
"sounds like somebody else" but I'll pass through a measure of time

and exploration before entering the crowded platform with reasonable assurance.

as for this entry, the lines in parenthesis beginning with: “earlier, I witnessed.."

ending with:  “as if confronting a dense atmosphere"— well,

I've assured myself at least for the time being that for the most part, are mine.

                                                                    

-or so now I sing

I was fascinated

by the sound made

when stepping on a slightly

lifted bubble of kitchen linoleum.

It was a tactile experience

whenever an area of linoleum

lost is ability to adhere.

the best was when it stuck

to the floor for a moment

then clicked away, setting

itself up for another run.

I’d spend time

in the corner of a room

pushing plier handles inward

again and again, staring at the space
which wouldn’t close.

when Miss Pollard's chalk first tapped

the blackboard script between each word,

that, was a fascinating sound.

and then the initial morning arrival

of Bernadette Baker

shuffling her starchy dress

across the edge of my desk on the way to her own.

what a sweet breeze she made

when she spun to sit behind me.

she smelled

like ivory soap.

she smelled
better than Norena Ferreira.

she was like

an anticipated popsicle in June,
better than hopping the fence,
cooler than a dive into the red
algae-tinctured water of

"Musical Beach".
she had an irresistible attitude about her

like anything tumbling uncontrollably.
she had a calling.

she had blonde hair and eyes of blue.

or so now I sing.

                  -sing-

I was fascinated

by the sound made

when stepping on a slightly

lifted bubble of kitchen linoleum.

It was a tactile experience

whenever an area of linoleum

lost is ability to adhere.

the best was when it stuck

to the floor for a moment

then clicked away, setting

itself up for another run.

I’d spend time

in the corner of a room

pushing plier handles inward

again and again, staring at the space
which wouldn’t close.

when Miss Pollard's chalk first tapped

the blackboard script between each word,—

that was fascinating sound.

and then the morning arrival

of Bernadette Baker,

shuffling her starchy dress

across my desk on the way to her own.

what a sweet breeze she made

when she spun to sit behind me.

she smelled

like ivory soap.

she smelled
better than Norena Ferreira.

she was like

an anticipated popsicle in June,
better than hopping the fence,
cooler than a dive into the red-
tinctured water of "Musical Beach".
she had this attitude about her.
she had a calling.

she had blonde hair and eyes of blue.

or so I sing.

-then the fish-

to set myself up
in playing this game

I’ll read them blindly.

approaching those recognized

I’ll move to the unknown.

the sites utilized are professional

and regularly visited.

I know the gender of those
who reside on the shelves.

there are those

of whom it can be said,

should seem obvious
to be one
or the other. —

the wind is placed thusly.

the room is heavier here.
here the sunlight is hotter, somehow,

at the hand of woman.
or is it at the hand of man?

immediately the hooked

great fish is recognized.

it is examined
and documented through eyes
of uncommon sensibility,
beauty and strength.

I know this one.
but I don’t move-on to another.

and so ends the game.

                    after one by Elizabeth Bishop

-bury my heart at the sour-apple tree-

there’s a sour-apple tree

standing in the junkyard

inside the rusted wire fence

close to where we nabbed a chrome-

plated hood ornament

from the fat Desoto.

It’s a small tree

and it looks like it barely clings to life.

It’s the only tree standing

inside the junkyard's fence and

it’s bearing fruit,— those small

green apples so sour they’d

make you aware of your tongue

turning it to sandpaper.

we left it in peace.

as for that cancerous Plymouth
sitting behind old man Rachlin's
broken shed, we'll leave it in peace, too.

this didn't make heroes of us.

Plymouths yielded but minor fruits for our labors.

-at Quequechan Pond-

the freshwater pond

blanches the skin,
reddens the eye

and dampens

the granite foot

of the textile mill

at the banks above it.

there, the water takes

on its color of quarried

stone, the rust-tinge of iron

adds to its weight.

the boys and their girls

restrain themselves here —

different here than the active
attitudes covering
the saltwater beaches around them.

It’s quarried stone,
the age of iron

at the water's banks

which lends itself

to the weight of silence
in a place such as this.

there are things to consider
while walking into standing fresh water.

                                  early in Fall River

-nearer to route 6-

deep in standing fresh-water

we navigate the cattail reeds
stiff with base nutrients

absorbed from the silt.

above the banks
the textile mills are fixed in granite
mined from the obstinate
walls of the city's quarry.

plumes of smoke struggle
through the throats of overpowering stacks,
billow with freedom, expand and slowly
break-away into the shimmering overcast.

sometimes our heads break through

the stillness of the surface to the nostrils
breathing outward, agitating water,

our eyes drenched,

bloodshot with irritants —
the skin of our blanched finger-tips
numb as crumpled paper
and with the girls who show-up,

who show-up for a reason, we

come together under the water

pliable as the clay which made us.

sometimes we swallow the water

in our haste to breathe inward

and later we’ll think about polio

asking questions at the supper-tables.

                                      Quequechan

-into the eyes of Elaine San Marcos-

navigating the drenched corneas 

the pupils of her eyes are black.

there’s a silvered corona circling

these black pools which are deep,

translucent, which are salted,—

whose salt is outwardly transported.

I imagine sailing alone

black pool to black pool,—

uncharted, weatherly, the one star-

gazer left on the water.

-let’s go to the movies. better, the drive-in-

there weren’t many grown men

at the Plaza on South Main

on Saturday afternoons.

but at the low wall
behind the last row

the swinging door read “Men”.

we'd go inside anyway.

the state of the urinals were
what one would expect

in a house such as this.

not a mother in sight to help straighten-up.

whatever could go wrong

had already gone wrong at the Plaza.

the south-end girls

were as frequent there

as the east-side girls were

at the Strand on Pleasant Street.

It’s just that the Strand

was cunningly underhanded,

while the Plaza was an asylum—

a training ground for the absurdities
in extreme juvenilia.

a little later in life while watching

“Psycho” with Bernadette

at the “Westport Drive-In” on Route 6,
the palm of my hand
was where I thought it belonged

when the film split at the fourth
shriek of screams
behind the curtain's waterside
and the towering screen flickered and died.

immediately, the horns began to wail,
demanding a resolution.
first, four or five,
then twenty to thirty or more

and although bernadette was preoccupied

with fending me off, the brake

in the film's momentum caught her off-guard
and the cacophony of the impatient car dwellers
frozen at the precipice of their slopes was enough
to distract her from my advances.

It was only for a moment, before her
defensive fortifications were reestablished.

but it was unlike any moment of frenzy at the Plaza
and certainly unlike any moment at the cunning, sleepy-eyed Strand.

                                               Fall River

                                  

-one in every port-

to thee I sing

the dear departed

to all the living departed

to some among
the old relations

to one
gas station proprietor

three
variety store proprietors

the scowling
school teachers
the young
cousin draped in the silver
holiday shift
split at the hem
high enough above
the knee
to keep the dark
night's interior lit up 
no boss

no politician

no principal
no priest

every pet
Brinkley
more than Huntley
one salesman on the road
one hat-
band stitcher,—

to those who wore the five-

fingered glove

to every girl

through every dance

most every woman

most every friend, —

to all
the incorrigible
boys leaning
the schoolroom chairs
against

the coatroom walls

and to all the young
bike riders
who can still be heard
from beyond the fences

to thee I sing.

-the "no school" post script-

It wasn’t simply

not having to go to school.

It was not having to sit

through arithmetic—

not having to sit

through geography—

not having to be

confronted by Antoine Leo

for my lunch money.

It was not having

to beg Virginia Fox

to keep her mouth shut, —

not having to raise my hand

to simply be allowed to take a piss.

it was not having to humiliate myself

for the sake of social communion 

in volunteering to beat the chalk

out of their damned erasers.

It was about being free
for one sweet day under snowfall
of the requirement to call them

Miss or Mrs. or Mr.

all through their wretched day.

                  under snowfall / Fall River Public Schools

-another one for the one true Joyce-

it might be true

that I walked 

across the street

to the ballpark.

It could have been

that I danced

the crowded floors
at the connector of Franklin

and Anawan.

it may also be true

that I passed

the tangled grapevines

on my way to the fence

and the junkyard's
fascinations.

sure,

I may have

peddled my bike

to the treacherous

cliffs of the granite quarry

crossing the meadow 

growing fiercely
behind the billboards.

but I went to the river.
It’s true

I went to the river.

I travelled

east to west

to get there passing
everything I knew.

I peddled
below the hill
swiftly and westward

so I’m saying

I went to the river.

                       Quequechan