-forever in place- an early self portrait.

It's a steady, but cautious three step lead from the bag at 3rd.

the slender torso of my body drops to the distance between

its bend at the knees.

forearms are positioned waist high, slightly away from the sides,

lifting forward at the elbow-joints for the balance I need.

the fingers of my hands are spread instinctively

and I'm swaying rhythmically, like a caged pachyderm.

the play is at the plate in the game without spikes.

the pitcher, a southpaw from Ruggles Park,
a planet away from the sunlight, stares me down
from behind his right shoulder,–– peers beneath the slow,
convex arc at the brim of his Red Sox cap.

––his eyes are dark and cold; the eyes of the enduring,
relentless Portuguese.

I’ve cut the distance to 50 feet.

that’s all I’ll need.

the play is at the plate in the game without spikes.

––the southpaw’s an icicle on the mound.

I'm off the bag,–– the tension tightens its grip.

he's waiting at the portal in the time of his choosing.

I'm off the bag waiting on his motion to follow through.

there are two people in the world.

the play is at the plate in the game without spikes.

It’s an eternity, I tell you.

                         
Columbus Park, 1955?

                          1956?

-at Mahler’s Resurrection-

and the guy who clapped too soon

It was only one or two seconds in duration,
an awkward, hesitant applause
at a brief pause between passages
in the later moments of the fifth movement

as if the naked perpetrator didn’t realize
that applauding during the brief interlude was inappropriate.

but he began to applaud in the way of fast approaching
an amber-colored traffic light where the line of indecision is drawn;

that instant between accelerating or breaking, to beat
or not beat the light,
that breach in the fabric of time whereby the moment

of decision becomes a decision too late, or as it is now

in attendance as Symphony Hall during Mahler’s "Resurrection",––

yes, there,–– not on the road, that he fell through the breach, somewhere
between "Sehr langsam und gedehnt"
and something listed as: "O glaube, mein Herz.."

and he was wrong,––

too late to pull it all back,––
pull back his hands held outward, shoulder high, quickly drawn,
but exposed long enough to fall from Mahler's grace

only to arrive at the gates to the alternate universe he's made for himself,
there henceforth to dwell alone in his nakedness, the poor schmuck.

-Considering meadows and trees and sheetmetal and the sun-

Pastoral:

I went to the meadow.

It was a return to the meadow.

I'd been there before;
The romance in the meadow of my youth, the dry, yellow

Ochre blades cutting knee-high, and burnt,–– a place

Unpopulated but for the billboards calling my attention to bathing

Beauties hawking lotions, perfumes and long, long cigarettes

Standing guard at the perimeter.

It's my obligation to say something of such things.

I've seen my share of trees, impressive regardless of season,

Reaching for the clouds, being born to do this, and the sun

Which rises from the morning's east splitting the Narrows

Of the Watuppa, making a pathway for early salesmen on the road,––

And me, scaling the wire-crowned fence to give the broken hulks

Of sheetmetal in crisis another shot at a new kind of life,––engine hoods

The size of continents once sporting chromed ornaments of winged-

Women piercing the wind's oncoming rush, ornaments of rockets

Blasting-off toward the horizon, toward the beaches, the drive-in theaters,

The mad seduction of the quarter-mile pole, all undefined at the time,

Now seeming to be my only chance at some sort of preservation, or

Better said, escape.

-problems with my black hole-

Its existence was deduced as near certainty.

that in itself was close enough to have sucked me in.

now it appears they have art in glorious color.

It’s through my fault, the opening of its door

when I should have been dreaming with the rest of the saints.

but I recall my visits in vivid detail and once inside

I snoop around like any nosey neighbor or common poem-writer,

lingering on occasion without much concern for the outside universe.

sea cucumbers live like this and strains in protozoa, too.

my black hole isn’t working as prescribed as I travel from one

inhalation to another without being torn apart knuckle-by-knuckle.

In closing, my black hole remains deeply internal, hesitant to return

anything other than myself,–– and I fear the next visit will kill me. but if not,

what satisfaction will I have when I'm finally told the answer?

-the science behind the art of the squint with a closing nod to e.e.cummings-

squinting increases the lowest value in middle tones.

it's also engaged when reading the restaurant menu
at table 6 if Auntie Pauline forgets her eyeglasses.

the squint is also applied when one is quizzical,
as in confronting something nearly undefinable,
(see: Joan and Pataphysics) ––
and is a near requirement in the studios of just about every

art school this side of Jingles' East Sedalia.

applied to poems in print, squinting
compresses the field of darker text while lowering

the intensity of the brighter field of the illuminated screen.

we start at the screen.

like unmarked paper before it, the illuminated screen is good-looking,

and sometimes, with the assistance of a healthy dose of imagination,

reflects street-life behind us; the insistent joggers passing,–– and

panting dogs stopping on occasion for a quick sniff of the good stuff.

now, it's true I've been away for quite some time, and returning,

it seems that the application of the squint has become

something of a lost art as defunct as, well,–– e.e.'s "Buffalo Bill".

-Antoine has the day off-

Antoine plans a trip to the great art museum on Huntington Avenue.

there, he walks around slowly looking at the exhibits of paintings,

sculpture, hanging renaissance tapestries and heavy-looking, ancient

Egyptian jewelry laid-out in atmospherically monitored display cases.

Antoine takes the time to stop in order to look at things which catch his eye.

at the Contemporary Wing, he might shake his head in disapproval,

but frankly, not very often.

he's learned to understand that he won’t always understand.

In time, Antoine heads for home.

there, things are also displayed for viewing. for example:

here's a poster of three unadorned doves on the wing across a field of grey.
it says: "Georges Braque: Galerie Maeght Sur 4 Murs, 1956".close by we have a  small, artificial Rembrandt: "The Artist In His Studio", darkly varnished by commercial industry replete with convincing hairline cracks.in the hallway we find Goya,–– with his famed killings at the wall; unframed $30.00. framed: $50.00. Antoine opts for Goya, framed,

and in the living room there’s an end table holding a hand-crafted ashtray, hardened in

fired terra cotta, hand- painted by first niece Penelope when she was eight years old.

now married with two kids, Penelope's ashtray is long considered a household treasure,

colored in yellows, greens and reds, albeit in a perplexing Mexican motif, a sombrero
with its high central conical protruding upward from an extra-wide brim.
he recalls her sweet instruction on how to balance the burning cigarette
within the conical's ample indentation.
Antoine's in a reflective mood as he examines young Penelope's ashtray

then places the beloved piece back upon the table with care, knowing

nobody smokes in the house anymore.

nobody stops by to look at anything in the house anymore.

  

Introducing the all new

“Dotard's Rocket Man Heavy Roller”!

Stick both of them together with library paste

and seal 'em tightly with a few rounds of bubble wrap.

Let the kids play with it for awhile,

snapping the bubbles to their little hearts content.
Watch as it squirms and wriggles, no batteries necessary. 

Watch, as they push it to the floor only to have it pop-up again!

Watch as they roll it across the backyard and possibly

through the tree-line, into the river!

Mom and Dad? Not to worry! the “DRMHR” serves as a fine

floatation device as well! (Non Airline Approved)

And the kids will have fun, fun, fun, ‘till all the sane

people take their “Dotard's Rocket Man Heavy Roller” away!

Next up:

How to properly dispose of  “Dotard's Rocket Man Heavy Roller”.

-when no one’s around-

1.
I’d walk to all the familiar places

but nobody’s around.

I have money in my pockets

but not much.
two dollars and thirty five cents would be a close call.
the scent of the bakeries has long faded.

Whitey’s two-pump Esso Station is closed

and the little shack where he sits, listening
to the radio between each dollar's worth of regular, is locked-up tight.

this is the little shack where he sobers-up, unconsciously.

it's a short walk across the street, and at the door,

I cup my eyes to peer through the nicotine-stained window

to see if he's laying on the greasy floor

in a pool of blood and vomit.
one phone call from my house and I'm a hero.
or a fink.

the Marconi Club is closed since midnight, yet stinks-up

the surrounding atmosphere in stale Bohemian beer and cheap Port.

the park’s empty–– empty and quiet, perpetuating
the usual early morning anticipation of rejuvenation.

the art of the overpowering center billboard of three
between Whitey and Marconi is terribly torn by weather or vandals.

the tear looks like an icy stalactite, one jagged point

hovering over a cigarette smoking blonde's big blue eye!

maybe something new is going-up.

maybe it’s the end of its existence.

just beyond the roof of my house, the once
complex mechanisms of the junkyard rest in peace

without the nuisance of their ornaments

being crowbarred and ripped from their hoods

like so many gems of the mine.

2.
prime examples of physical and metaphysical industry
will soon reclaim themselves.
the Diner's stainless frialator will begin to crackle and spit.

the Church, having absolved its weekly sinners
at Saturday confessionals will begin to toll for their communion.

the early Sunday morning Sun is inching its way above the fresh-
water ponds of the Narrows, glinting the great Watuppa, but as of yet
nobody, and I mean nobody's around.

let’s say..1953. Quequechan

-left-handed jews had it easy-

"he ascended into heaven

and was seated at the right hand of god"––

so that means the left hand sits for Beelzebub.

and so it went from early on. 

Nonna! Nonna! don’t squeeze

the pencil into the hand of god

when the hand of the devil yearns

to crayon a spiked yellow sun upon
a waxed blue sky!

it's the devil’s hand smudges the pencil's soft lead
(here, "lead" refers to the heteronym noun: a blue-grey
metallic substance used in pencils
before it was considered poisonous and graphite
was developed to replace it)

as it moves across the page after her announcement
that "neatness counts"!

impossible writing paddle’s bolted in favor to the right hand of God!
and so I’m born to fail at letters. Nonna! Nonna! 

pick-up those beads and sing the prayer of absolution meant only for me.

-A black-tie affair at the “Sons of Italy Hall”-

No formal invitation is forwarded to 1017 Bedford

or any address in the neighborhood for that matter.

Word spread from mouth to mouth,

from the corner across the street from his house,

to the folding card tables at the crazy “Marconi Club”

where the old-timers drink port just beyond the billboards,––

to the counter at the “Columbus Cafe” waiting for “grinders”

of sausage and peppers, and inside "DeSpirito Brothers Barbershop"

tucked beneath yet another grouping of Saturday morning crewcuts.

snip, snip, “Yeah, my kid nephew’s going”! snip, snip, “Seventeen already”!

Lou Gasperini and his wife showed-up for supper again

and the four of them sat around the kitchen table talking, finalizing their plans.

“Who drove last time?”

(The “Sons of Italy Hall” sits two blocks east of 1017)

They’ll rent tuxedos from “Robert’s Formals” on Bedford––

Shoes and all, corner of South Main.

Their wives will pluck their “gowns” from the rack at “Cherry & Web”

half-block south of “Robert’s Formals”. Shoes, too.

Once a year.

The “gowns” and their matching shoes will be bought to own. 

It was Gasperini who said: “What the hell. Once a year? It’s worth it”.

                                                                    Quequechan

the true value behind the new and improved hurricane

it's in the way it takes to the phosphorescence.

it's in the way it takes to the character limits.

it's in the way of the rising point-spread as expected

from such a capricious audience far from the fast-
rising slick of putrefied waters.

now, patron saint of foul weather!

         (she prepped the stilettos at the full-

          length mirror, didn’t she?

and didn't she spin the spear-headed
toe-tips inward, heels up, palming the silky

material at her thighs?)

you nabbed another gold ring before its flight,
didn't you, old man. wheels off the ground.

                        

                              

                             

-all the faces are watercolored-

I walked inside after arriving out front

before the door was unlocked for business.

It's a small, narrow gallery

with two walls hanging pictures for showing.

on the wall to the right, small paintings

of what appear to be representations of various totems.

colorful oil paintings.

on the wall to the left hang the faces

of men and women, arrested.

neither their names, nor

the charges filed against them are noted.
only a series of numbers identify one from another,
same as convicts locked-up at Walpole State Prison.

hanging:  mugshots of people whose faces

are watercolored.

watercolored mugshots taken from public records,

police blotters from who-knows-where,––

from all over the place it seems, now mugged in an artist's hand.

viewing these pictures in a single row across a bleached-

white wall was visually stunning and all-consuming.

I don’t remember how many, but I’d say about twenty,

hung in a line before my eyes; mugshots of those arrested,––
strangers, far removed from one another in life and yet here,
on this wall of misery, poverty and surrender, are gathered
as in a wretched family's outing, a panoramic reunion keepsake.

                uncle Joe,–– always a problem child.

                cousins Tina and Larisha,–– headed down the wrong path.

                and there’s Kip! straight “A” student. what a waste..

guilty as sin, the lot of them!

the judge should throw away the key.

now I see myself as Guardian ad Litem to the "Arrested".

yes! I'll rehabilitate two of the mugs
to hang on a wall in more comfortable surroundings.

a pleasant sort-of purgatory. easy time. a wall with a view of the water.

                I’ll take: #061317TW /Arrested!

                I’ll take: #120916V  / Arrested!


for Dick Dougherty
New Bedford, Massachusetts / 5 September, 2017

  

-a few easy steps on how to make it better-

think it over.

check your supplies.

collect what’s necessary to begin the project.

perhaps a light rainfall, or snowfall,

or children playing jumprope, or
maybe a catastrophe of some kind.

think it over.

go easy on dashes and hyphens

of which I am supremely guilty.

go easy on embellishments.

go heavy on the salt of life.

not so heavy on the imagery.

let it breathe on its own without

snazzy comparisons.

lastly

you could say: "there’s a silence to the breath of the poem,

                          even at the end".

you might add: "especially at the end".

-Requiem for Frank Leo-Davis-

Wiseguy,–– justifiably incorrigible back-row "boogie",

involuntary isolationist, lunchtime eater of mayonnaise sandwiches
wrapped in waxed-paper pulled from a brown paper bag

neatly folded for yet another tomorrow.

8th grader, 8th streeter, self-preserver,

non-participant whose "brand-new shoes"
are timeworn at the outer edge of their heels.

This one,–– who stands alone
outside the active circle of glassies

whose name is ridiculed inside the harsh
florescence of their bitter, nicotine-stained lounge

       who's passed from one of them to another of them

              snuffed as if an ashtray's punch-out at the bell
                     whose name is Frank Leo-Davis.



archives, the James Madison Morton Junior High School.  City
                                     

-the early morning whip-poor-wills-

the two whip-poor-wills chirping dueling songs

which mirror one another in pitch and meter

perched in two trees half-a-front-yard between them

during an overcast, sweltering August morning

has become intolerable.

it’s been this way for nearly fifteen minutes,
maybe more, maybe less, but who can tell

when faced with such complicated arithmetic?

calling, repeating, calling, repeating..

above the lay of grass beyond the road, behind the stone wall,

across from the time-consuming joggers and alongside the automobiles

accelerating their occupants northward toward Interstate 95, and

whatever it is available to them in that direction.

I can’t locate the whip-poor-wills due to the cover of leaves

which are dense in the extreme at this time of year,

and I’m anticipating the usually intrusive lawnmowers

to roll from their garages to blot the chirping
whip-poor-wills out; the tense, metallic cranking of the oily motors,
the little pistons agitated by internal combustion,
the blades whirling in horizontal rotation beneath
the rattling housings, the sweet exhaust of spent gasoline

embracing the succulent fragrance of grass, sliced to perfection

across the neighborhood yards adjacent to my own
where I believe the whip-poor-wills are plotting to kill me.

   

-August 22- DRAFT DRAFT

The eclipse of the Sun is one day gone

and the medieval engravers are long dead

after doing a good job recording the event.

At the walls of caves in what will be known as France,

evolved neanderthal painters explained the imagery

at the wall, to the kids squatting around the control of fire

in a language I would have liked to have listened to.

Yesterday, the people peered
into the daylight sphere of darkness
sporting snazzy, fail-safe eyewear.

I didn’t go outside.

I stayed in the house eating a sandwich,

occasionally hydrating with drinks rich in electrolytes.

But the television was broadcasting the event.

On the balcony of our collective house, the President of the United States

was news-reeled squinting toward the Sun with naked eyes.

Well, my son, there are none so blind,
and Happy Birthday anyway.

-At the "Museum of This, That, and the Other Thing"-

It's off to the MOTTOT!

I enjoy visiting the gallery of “This” at the MOTTOT.

It has all “This” stuff in there.

And “This” is terrific stuff.

At the MOTTOT I enjoy the gallery of “That” as well.

It’s a wonderful collection of all "That" stuff.

And I like “That”.

I particularly enjoy the gallery of the “Other Thing” at the MOTTOT.

But the “Other Thing” is a fatal temptress –––

Like "Eve" in the garden, or "Lulu" at the opera.

Epilogue: 

“This” can never be “That” or the “Other Thing.”

“That” can never be “This” but can often be the “Other Thing.”

  The “Other Thing” is never “This,” but is certifiably “That.”

-taking off Donald Trump’s clothes-

 with an apologetic nod to Billy Collins and Emily Dickinson 

first, there’s the full length mirror to adjust.

It has to be tilted in a way that reflects

his shoeshine and the top of his fool's gold head.

ask him to take one step backward.

maybe another one. just one more.

take a stance behind him grabbing the lapels

at his suit jacket.

It’s lighter than you’ve imagined.

nice material. expensive.

let it descend naturally from the long-sleeved arms.

you’ll notice a slight swish against the silken

sleeves of the shirt as it falls expensively.

this is not your father’s shirt,

not even from behind the plywood lectern at the semiformal testimonial.

funny, how Donald Trump exaggerates his posture

during this de-jacketing procedure; how the head swivels

upward from the neck elasticizing the jowls.

the weak mouth bends downward like the strand of a worm.

you might wonder what it is he sees in there.

unloosen the knot of the bright red necktie.

the skin there wobbles like the wattle of a turkey.

pull the red necktie over his head preserving the knot.

be careful!

one flip-top to the back of his hair and it’s curtains.

overcome your curiosity.

work quickly now. 

unbutton the shirt, slipping it across his shoulders.

(there are long, grey hairs matted there)

tug the shirt downward passing the upper arms.

there’s a bit of a struggle here.

loosen the belt.

unbutton the button.

un-zip the zipper.

tug the trousers downward avoiding the ass as best you can.
let the waistline fall below the kneecaps.

that’s far enough.

you can step back, now.

it's only the cruel hand of God makes him naked.