Ray / a self portrait of sorts (with compliments to Bill Saluga)

Call him

Procrastinator to the next step

Part-time rationalizer

Apprentice to the one who makes the thing.

Call him

Student of the daily recollected 

Jury-rigger

Know-it-all

The one who passed the test for certification.

Call him

Novice

Small Potatoes

Intruder into the lives of those
Who've chosen to remain anonymous. 

Call him

Star-gazer

Ringsider

Striker of the set

Amateur poet of the after-living.

Chisel into his headstone:

"Here lies

The lone assembler of the fragments to his singular life."

Now,—  you can call him Ray

Or you can call him Jay

But-cha doesn’t hasta call him

Know-it-all.

                            

-the two wheel rag-

to lubricate the chain

turn the bike upside down

remove the guard

lube the bearings at the hub

then lightly oil the chain's links

while spinning the back wheel

fast by the pedal.

this spinning is unnecessary

but fun to do, a tactile experience

impressing the girls

as a clever procedure.

we didn’t react to their interest

but we knew about bikes.

we knew about exposure.

the girls knew about attitude

and striking distance.

these natural attributes

would serve them well.

the boys will soon grow out of date.

they’ll have fallen behind

and the girls will have waited long enough.

that’s when they introduce themselves.

that’s what's happened, boy.

that’s what's happened, young man.

that’s what’s happened, old-timer.

                                     

-watching the airplanes come and go-

I went to the airport

to take off my shoes

to take off my socks.
they passed a beeping wand
upward then downward
across the opening between
the legs of my pants then squeezed

the material at the buttocks

like a bathtub ducky.

no squeaks.

no findings.

they opened my mouth

and poked-around

with the implement

of their fingers
draped in surgical gloves.

they mussed-up my hair

then spread my whatchamacallit

looking deeply into the dark situation.

now,—  some of you

may have moved-on from

Osama bin Laden.

but he still pisses me off.

                          

  

-across the street from the ESSO station-

my old house is dressed in vinyl.

It was dressed in aluminum before that

after it was dressed in wood.

It’s during the age of wood where I showed up.

now when I drive by on my way over the river,

across the big bridge which

wasn’t there during the time of wood,

when gasoline wasn’t sissified by the extraction
of its lead and doctors

smoked cigarettes during the examinations,

I see lots of vinyl.— pea green. sky blue.

even sunlight can’t help it.

here, the entries have entrances,—

little structures of their own leading to them.

God’s been vaporized

and I mean that in the good sense.

I didn’t think of God as vapor, in the time of wood.

backstops have been moved further from the plate,—

in my case, further toward Wall Street

beyond the third base line where a friend
lived with his family.

he was a good shortstop, a mariner later in life
and later still, dead of a fat-constricted heart.

four or five mills have burned to the ground

and four churches, too.

as I've told you, during the age of wood,
at the bubbler beyond the backstop, the water was a clear fall.

and I've said: one could see through the water to the other side

where the game would play-out— 

and I've imagined

it might have been the way baseball would be seen when played on another planet.

and that imagery could never be experienced in the age of vinyl.

  

-Waiting on the Troubadour-

I've chosen the audaciousness

Of personal preference

Over those whose performances

Are more skilled than my own;

Urlicht over Des Knaben Wunderhorn;

The tenacity of Rockland over fractured Airplane Dreams.

But two weeks in––

And still, nothing.

Then on the first day of the third week,

The day God seemed to like above the others

Late afternoon

Under the mailbox

In the dirt

Nearing mud

Behind the dense

Neck-high honeysuckle

On the south-

Side of the house where

The driveway winds to the road,

A small package sealed

But carelessly delivered,

Dropped down

Through a night of light

But steady rain

Is retrieved—

Is addressed to me

Under shrink-wrap cover

Shielded from the elements,
Is carried inside, is opened,
Is engaged and begins

As drenched as the water

With "Duquesne Whistle."

                             

-Steppin' out-

–––Let’s meet at the Grand Opera Diner;

We'll order from the menu's elegant penmanship,

Dressed appropriately at our seats.

–––At the diner down by the river,

The waitress calls me “Honey”

And I'll order the meatloaf plate, double-up on the mashed.

–––The guy at the steamer's hard-working

And meatloaf is laid-out one thick slice

Upon the heavy utilitarian plate.

At the diner down by the river,

One thick slice is the distance the stomach can run.

–––Let’s meet at the Grand Opera Diner;

Order from the elegant cursive gracing its page.

–––At the diner down by the river, the menu

Is slipped inside a sleeve of stiff, yellowing acetate.

It's been this way since the diner rose-up in stainless

Steel at the banks of the Taunton.

–––Let’s meet at the Grand Opera Diner.

The light is softly articulated.

Everything seems to be anticipated.

Let's meet at the Grand Opera Diner.

–––The diner down by the river is cranky.

The light slaps with a harsh fluorescence. 

Nickel-plated jukes at the walls of its naugahyde
Booths offer Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino,

And the Everly Brothers harmonizing a tough-strung "Bird Dog."

–––Let’s meet at the Grand Opera Diner;

order from the menu's elegant penmanship:

–––"I'll  have the Mezzo, Coloratura on the side, and...

Easy on the Vibrato."

                                                  

utilizing the new wheel

1.

when the poem stops

in the depth of its tracks

but the track of Venus is full-

bodied, and the clear

northeastern sky exhales its contents,

the poem’s resuscitated.

mouth of Earth moves

to the mouth of Venus — lips
like a drop of star !

2.

the deep exhibition sweeps

above the city farther than the neck bends

backward in its bones.

tonight it's the measurement of light

which sets the distance the eye can see.

if it all ends now I'd be

the first in the world to know.

                                  

                       

                                

-aftermath-

the winding two-lane country road
ends in violence at the trunk of a tree.
nothing’s remembered and everything’s moved

to another space where occupancy is transformed

redefining its bones.

––this is due to a fatal car crash at the junction of Routes 177 and 6.

tonight, they "Beat the Clock" at Imbriglio's Bar in Westport.

doors open at six. ––the first hard drink is full-price,
the second is half of that, the third's on the house.
the bar is busy stamping the backs of its frantic hands.
last-call bell rings out at morning's earliest hour, and

driving hard on 177 at the junction of 6, the dashboard radio's

romancing fever-pitched: "Be-Bop-A-Lula".

-maybe baby-

maybe she'd say:

—I’d understand clearly

if the thought of you

had crossed my mind

as the thought of me has crossed yours.

maybe she'd say:
––when was it we danced?

was it the Spindrift where you say

we learned the language of saltwater

and from the dance-floor the language of song?

this fabric you speak of,
that which unraveled at our feet,––

I don't know it as you do

and yet you tell me of how

we stormed the diners, the balconies

and the bench-seats

falling in the trenches for young

love’s sake,

laughing.

indestructible.

invincible!

irresistible.

maybe baby

had I the time reserved

would remember something

of your journey toward me ——

something of when you said the windows cranked-down

when the dashboard's radio tuned-in

and the chain-linked fences brushed

in silver passed the Portuguese

widows dotting the sidewalks in solemn black

forever in mourning.

was it then the rush of the swift
afternoon was at my face?

when did we feel the heat from the pistons

of your father’s flaming Roadmaster?

she might say.

-the poem-writer's last days-

when he's old — not so much

older than now

the age of his old grandfather

his old uncle

the older brother of his old father

when he's old enough

to fear another solid

penetrating the bowel

and water

softly splashed to his face

becomes a nightmare

when he's old and pisses
uncontrollably with the blank

expression of the animals

is spoon-fed unspeakable concoctions

by younger women applying a tepid

attendance

when he's old and barely

conscious of the brittle

bone ready to snap––

squinting at the written instructions 

lost at the face of the mechanism 

lost in the dust of the kids

running by in their lightning attitudes

when he's old — not so much older than now.

                            

-with the girl from Mount Saint Mary Academy-

Let's go to the mayfly.

It sits on the screen-door to the kitchen

If the door to the entry is left open.

Goo-goo eyed, the mayfly stares blankly

Into the face of the one day it has.

Mayflies covered

The outside walls and windows

Of the Carnival Drive-In on route 6

Sticking to the rims of its saturated

Paper-boat trays in deep-fried seafood.

There, at the farthest edge

Of the redwood picnic table

Where the great Watuppa Ponds

Of the Narrows split,—

Maureen Herron’s blue eyes veer

Outward toward the water

Across the southern pond,— the distance

Leaving a comet's tail of fatal ice.

Pinch the mayfly gently by its wings.

Look within to the frail and failing

Heart of the mayfly.

This is the barely beating

Transparent heart of man.

She said I should go without her.

She said she had found another.

The mayfly disappears long before winter.

                               Westport, Massachusetts

                                           

                            

-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