-to each on his own-

that's me

standing on the corner

across the street from the house at 1017

leaning against the chain-

linked fence of the park

looking around, exhaling the forbidden

cigarette smoke from my nostrils

waiting for somebody to show up.

It’s early evening

the approach to suppertime

when we’re usually expected

to be inside.

my parents left in mid-morning

traveling to Narragansett, Rhode Island

and the wedding of a niece.

my mother left "supper on the stove";

macaroni and cheese.

and not the packaged shit.

home-cooked elbow macaroni,

strained, multi-layered with cheeses,

baked in the oven

forming an amber crust.

It stays warm on the stove.

my teenage sister has escaped
to the Linden Street tenement

of the fascinating Edwina Mello

and my younger brother, seizing the moment

is rummaging through

the drawers of her bedroom dresser.

he doesn't know what it is he's looking for

and he won’t understand anything he finds.

that's me across the street

standing on the corner looking around,
leaning against the chain-linked fence at the right field line,

finger-flicking the smoldering butt, forming a slow-
burning arc to street-side as adroitly as the best of the seasoned smokers,

waiting for somebody to show up.

                                                     Quequechan, '57?

  

-Birthday greetings, Mr. Crumb / from under the fingertips of Martha Argerich-

Listening to Chopin this morning

I’ll slow the pace of what I’m doing on occasion,

call them interludes, as when hearing
something in the music unnoticed before.

At other times I’ll pause whatever the occupation

in anticipation of something known.

Take the closing of the Largo

of Piano Sonata No.3 in B minor, those two

spatially distant chords dissipating in the way

exhaled smoke dances into the atmosphere,

the sostenuto pedal fully engaged.

I'll move-on to the task at hand in a moment,

but listening to Chopin this morning
regardless of heightened concentration,
it's as the sage "Mr. Natural" once confessed:

"I’m just passin’ thru".

8/30

-the punchline-

have you heard the one

about the kid who cracked-up his bike

on the Avenue near the cemetery's gate
who never asked to be excused from the table
who'd sneak-a-peek
inside the forbidden bedroom drawers

who confessed to disobeying his mother

and his father five times every week
and only five times every week
who cursed ten times a week
and only ten times a week

who poured from the altar more wine than water

two-times more wine than water

who confiscated a quick Lucky Strike
from the old-man's napping pack

who lied to priest about everything

who learned slow dancing from a stiff-
arm's length at the Sons of Italy Hall

and who saw the big twin-handled pot

heating water on the stove panting for spaghetti
but got a stove-hot water bath instead?

hahaha...

-Brockton-

one morning in the life:

the courtroom is oversized, considering

the few participants in attendance this morning.

sitting behind a utilitarian banquet table, the magistrate

shuffles papers with the assistance

of a young assistant sitting beside him.

the lids of their laptops are open to the digital
information of the morning's docket.
It's as quiet as a roman catholic wake.

the courtroom seems to be waiting

for something else, something bigger,
maybe a snazzy triple-homicide,

but that's not happening today.

today, the man wearing football jersey #12

lists heavily in his chair waiting

for his actual name to be called.
the charge against him has been loaded to the docket.

somebody said he did something wrong.

an entity said. the laptops say, the furniture store said. 

he didn’t do something he was supposed to do.

he didn’t pay-up.

now he’s on his own, in the universe of courtroom
C-15, docket 17-12564.

In short-order his name is called with the aid of unnecessary
amplification through the mic of the able assistant,
resonating through the space of capricious jurisprudence, 
equal justice under law, the court in session to hold him accountable.

his name is common man, everyday guy,
the guy of the work-a-day world who finds himself
lost in the cold, florescent sterility of the here and now.
“Richard LaCava”?!––

and he rises slowly, like the Rabi

standing accused before Pontius Pilate.

but Richard promises to pay the balance

in four convenient monthly installments and is set free,

passing quickly toward the swinging doors
with the glossy effects of a newborn. 

“William Dee..De-liar..Dell-iah..”?–– and up he rises

like Ahab, lashed to the flesh of the breaching Whale!

-late December, 1958-

good morning, comrade.

let’s have something to eat.

we'll have a quiet talk, hit the trail, take-over

the infested train and kill some Batista.

later as the women dance around the campfires

we'll cut the throat of a pig in celebration.

In time you’ll run the rifle-strap from your shoulder,

rip a roasted leg from the crackling carcass

and pick your woman from the chorus.

the tent is being warmed and readied.

the sentries are nosey but vigilant.

your beard is greased

in the fat of the pig and stinks.

you’ve shit in the underbrush like the buffalo

and smoked the last inch of the cool night’s cigar.

down the mountainside,

and thirty miles to the north, Santa Clara waits.

                                                          

                                                               

-Jocelyn-

I saw Jocelyn last night,— she didn’t see me

and we passed one another each with a measured purpose.

In the beginning with "One Summer Night" in play

she'd pivot on her leather flats to meet me and with unified

movement we pushed and pulled ourselves into the first, miraculous

steps of the dance.

Thrust of destination,–– as young as the song's beginning

the sweat of her brow at my mouth, the sweat of her mouth

on my neck, forward into the crowded plain of the dance-floor

navigating between and through the others of our kind,––

brushing against them as they brushed themselves against us.

And I saw Jocelyn last night,—

grey as I am grey, heavy as I am heavy, into the sharp florescence,

clinging to squealing carts, drifting one from the other,

widening the distance between "One Summer Night" and the canned-

goods aisle promoting pitted black olives and pickled beets.

-under the porch-  DRAFT

under the porch with its permanent stench,

the stagnant primordial pools of who knows what,

the threat of tuberculosis hanging there, the secret stash

of all the best stuff; the yellowing Chesterfield punch-out nabbed

from the oldman's pack three nights before, the gritty girlie magazines,
stiff and crinkled with whatever it was which couldn't be evaporated,
colorless pages stuck together, eye-popping, portly 1950’s pinups,

posing in garters and girdles, imagined images of the meaty aunts 
who came by for a visit from my father's branch of the heavy
D'Elia family tree, the low-hanging fruit; Alma, Livia, Eva,
a peach and a plum and an apricot or two, all the beehive blondes,
spray-fixed perfectionists, more French than Italian, who'd sit
on the couch cross-legged, as I'd stake my claim of observation,


silken grey, the thick-seamed nylons pressed on the musty pages
of the underworld's forbidden art, all the hose snapped in place
at just the right time and when they'd come for a visit, I'd sit in place,

a frame of reference for observations same as the frame-of-reference
under the porch.

 Quequechan, 1951 / 1953? DRAFT!

                                                             

                                                                                        

        

-The tub has the feet of the gargoyle-

Up the Highlands,
Down the Flint, then cross to the East

To the Narrows and then to the West

To the Projects and the River down there.

Close the shades
Open the shades
Pull-in the clothesline

Pull the chain down and sooner or later
I'm gonna get it
You're gonna get it
We're all gonna "get it".

The tub has the feet of the gargoyle, the

Right hand's for Jesus, the

Left hand's for Hell and they told me
She's "Nice" and I told them
She's "Nice" and it meant how she looked and we don't

Twirl spaghetti

With assistance from spoons 'cause 

Sicilians do that and

We’re from the North.

                         

-notations from the survivors-

1.

we breathed into our lungs the spiked
particles of asbestos

suspended in the air from the shingles

of our houses and inhaled the exhaled
tar-thickened smoke of our fathers and our uncles.

some of us didn’t make it.

for those of us who did, they put mercury

into our teeth and lead in our pencils and although

most of us survived the fickle wheel of fate
there were many among us who didn't survive.

2.
doctor practitioner said thalidomide would lessen

the symptoms of her morning sickness.   

he told her:

“just get a good night’s sleep”.

our mothers would come to quietly admonish
those of us who made it of the impoliteness in gawking 
at those of us who didn’t.

-"Pumpsie"-

July 21, 10:18 AM ––

passing the stone wall approaching the house,

an old man wearing a faded baseball jersey
designated as number "12", walks his dog.

due to multiple machine washings

and numerous trips to the ballpark under the season's sun,
the name of our hero is bleached-out

so it’s not clear to me who it is number "12" represents.

who knows how far down the road they’ll go,

this old man and his side-dog companion,––

or if they’ll reach the banks of the bay expanding southward to the open sea,––

or at least step to the line of demarcation as far as public access allows.

I don’t know if the dog's had its piss yet.
It seems to be inclined to wait it out for the right sniff. 

who knows what else the dog might have in mind.

and who knows what it is old number "12" is thinking.

certainly not me.

                                            

-waiting for my girl at the entrance to the Clambake Pavilion-

I waited for my girl at the ticket entrance to the open-air Clambake Pavilion

"No Ticket No Chowder" in the frantic amusement park

when she walked to the "Ladies Rooms" to pee and freshen up.

I waited a respectful distance from the tense line of women who had to go,

the line ready to snap into chaos at the slightest provocation

and although we had no intention of slipping inside the thick, unsettling

Clambake Pavilion without tickets it's as good a place as any to meet-up.

waiting there, the monotone drone of slurping clam chowder broth,

(New England style, it should go without saying) augmented by undertones

of deep murmurings of ecstasy, seemed to be the functional exercise of a well-

oiled apparatus. after a slow, painful passing of time, I spotted her negotiating

the density of the crowd milling around the grounds, none of whom, save the little kids,

seemed happy to be there and as she drew closer I raised my arm, waving my hand

in the universal pantomime: “Hey! I'm over here”!

she spurted her way through the burning mid afternoon crowd as if she'd been buttered,

her busy legs on the move beneath the strict, flowering structure of crinoline, the inevitable
rhinestone-speckled sweater, breaking the rules of commonplace with a sweltering performance.

the men palmed their cream-oiled haircuts as she passed,

they adjusted the waistbands and sucked their beer-bellies into them.
one guy walked into his wife knocking her to the ground in front of the whizzing,

screaming "Tilt-a-Whirl". but outside the open-air Clambake Pavilion

where the sounds of spoons-full of clam chowder  closed-in on two hundred

slurping mouths, my girl and me sat on a wooden bench watching and listening

to the people inside and we did this for a long enough time before leaving
and we didn't even think of going in there.

Lincoln Park, Westport, Mass. c.1959

                          

                          

-A plausible alternative to findings in the obit pages-

My childhood friend, Manuel Bento-Sousa

Was born on this day, as was Marcel Proust I see,

Whose literature I’ve not read a word, but––

Neither have I read the writings of Manuel Bento-Sousa.

I understand he might not have written things down

As he came across them, but of this I can't be certain.

My reasoning here is fundamental.
Simply because I haven't read Bento-Sousa
Doesn't mean he didn't write things down.

He might have been as attached to his father’s

Chevrolet as I was to my father’s Buick and
Kept a running account of his daily observations in verse
Secretly bundled in dresser drawers like Emily Dickinson.

I’d like to have read those poems.

Maybe his first true love was the girl upstairs 

For whom I had more than a passing fancy.

The first love of my life was reserved to my bike
Always willing and able,

Leaning on the wall in the entry, first floor, a kinship, we two

And I pray accounts of which are not now perceived as saccharine. 
I remember ––

In the junkyard with the rest of us ––

Bento, breaking away, busy with curiosity over the blue,

Sheet-metaled bubble of the bruised and battered Henry J Coupe

As we engaged in the postmortem of the long dead fat-cat's

1940s Cadillac Eldorado hood ornament, almost no rust, and I thought:
How foolish of Bento to ignore such a spoil as this.

Nothing I see on the obituary page about that.
It's an insult to both our sensibilities that singular enlightenments
Such as these are historically ignored by the column-writers
And our own aging populations.

Bento died before me, I'm now informed.

Says here, he was living in southern Ohio,
Not far from the Appalachian foothills where I once lived,

But not during the same six years.
A retired school teacher, it says.

I'd have never thought it possible of Bento.
He leaves me behind to speak of things no one else can,

Or has a mind to.

He leaves behind a wife, I'm here told in cold print;
Maybe the girl upstairs I’m now left alone to romance
And I’d like to have read that poem, too.

                                                  7/10

                                                

  

woe is me

Istanbul, June, 2016

the latest terrorist bombing presents some problems.

prior to the bombing, the finalized poem just recently

out of draft status which addressed

a spate of bombings over recent months

was readied to be published, and damn it! now this.

I'll have to commit to largely altering the poem
if I decide for this latest bombing's inclusion because

it presents a new set of difficulties;

difficulties as to the dense syllabic count of its newly-

bombed airport, which can't be cobbled cohesively

within the established syntax of the completed poem,

which would necessitate an overhaul to its entire structure.

the alternative is to let it be, and wait it out for a bombing

better aligned with the syntax of the originally intended poem.

christ, the last bombing should've been enough to tap out a permanent

pathway to an exposé of certain terrorist activities, but now this! woe is me.

woe is me with the intrusion of this latest bombing into my creative life!

damn. damn it! woe is me! I say: woe is me!

-January intrada-

1.
twenty minutes awake.

ten minutes into sunup and

the rooms of the house accompany the stillness.

pausing to look outside across the landscape,

Schubert's Piano Quintet

introduces its palette of atmosphere
to the light of an overnight snowfall.

the kitchen microwave continues
wafting its noxious veil of fish

the morning after warming

a late-night snack of leftover haddock.

the microwave spun my pant for fish,––

that once sweet, moist captain’s cut,

the true catch-of-the-day from the stern-

trawler's nets of New Bedford, that salty, lamp-

oiled town of whale-hunters turned fish-nabbers,

to a rubberized, simply dead late-night snack. 

2.
when the roads clear,

when the Sun warms the pavement

I’ll drive to the beach,––

the great beach eastward where

the towering heathlands yield
their pounds of clay to relentless tides, where

only those who claim

a right of kinship dare show-up.

                                    

                                

                                      

                                

-The attendant / An April yard sale, Dartmouth, Massachusetts-

Articles less personal than those held back, 

belongings of her grandmother, are placed atop the dry-stone wall

facing the neighborhood's lightly-traveled road.

Backward, the yard opens quietly descending toward the Slocum River.

Items are neatly arranged by category 

in relationship to those placed adjacent to them.

TABLEWARE:— Linen. Silver. China. Glassware.

JEWELRY:— Rings. Necklaces. Bracelets. Broaches.

Within these categories individual items can seem to be as different

in application as plastics are to fragrances.

But common bonds between them have long been formed.

––The planets act this way.

A strand of pearls ranging from large as a cat's-eye to rest below the neck

to the small-as-a-pebble found at the clasp is examined by a newcomer to the wall,

running the strand through an open hand, questioning: "Are these pearls authenticated"?

––There's no necessity in tagging descriptions nor compulsion to address personal attachments as gatherers drizzle-in, each like a pinch of salt to an open wound.

––Storm clouds forming westward beyond the quiet Slocum keep conversations

to a minimum and maybe everything will come to an end with the rain.