First light / Divertimento for Hildie

Morning

Breaks to Clingstone on the Dumpling, then —

The bitter seed which lies in wait

Within the grape's confection 

Kidnaps the sweetness.

Light

Navigates to wood and glass

And blood-red paints

The craggy
Core of the icy peach

As the fault in the grapefruit

Goes unlearned until

The harsh
Introduction of its formula
Stings the naked eye.

Morning

Skies drape

One salt-weathered house; one

Woman sleeping.

Newport, Summer, 1977

-the shopping cart inquirer-

once, there were two plungers in the house.
today, one is missing.
the other one has never been any good.
it begins by plunging acceptably,
but during the release, the rubber continues
to fold into itself causing a wet mess.

so it’s off to “SmartRite Super Store” for two plungers.

the toilet downstairs has always been a problem.

It’s a weak flush, is what it is.

It’s busy at the “SRSS” this morning.

but the plunger department is easy to find

with a nice presentation and a good selection.

I’ve noticed that most are fitted

with long yellow handles.

handles such as these used to be something of importance to me;

sawed from its rubber bell, the yellow stick makes a fine-
looking stickball bat.

but my stickball days are far behind me.

here’s a shopping hint: always pick the plungers

toward the back of the row.

nobody’s manhandled those babies!

I have pride in my selection of two

outstanding plungers, one fixed with a semi-gloss black rubber,
the other fixed with a muted red rubber, a sort-of oxblood color,
a nice terra-cotta look to it.
there'll be no more mix-ups between the upstairs
toilet and the downstairs toilet.
I think the muted red will be best downstairs.

there's no need for a shopping cart.

but even the speedy "12 Items Or Less"

register aisle is long and slow-moving.

what’s this?

two carts toward the register, a woman

appears to have more than 12 items.

looks like she’s trying to pull a fast one

by hiding a bunch of stuff under a coat in her cart.

I may be a poet of ill-repute, but I can spot subterfuge

from the end of a long line with the best of them.

they’ll nab her at the register.

there’s the coat.

there’s another sleeve of something else.

there’s a blister-pack of D-cell batteries.

I’m spotting many different colors
of cloth and blister packs edging their way
from beneath the coat’s parameters.

a rough count already has it at eleven items.
she's at the edge of compliance.

wait a minute!
that's her coat inside the cart!

It's all so obvious now.
she took it off to walk around the “SmartRite”

to be free of its winter’s weight.

she puts the coat on at the register, one sleeve at a time
like any normal "SmartRite" customer.

“this is mine” she tells the harried, blue-vested young woman

tapping keys for a living in order to reach an ending, which,
by-the-way, is also what I do everyday.

           -Tombstone territory-

            An introduction and requiem
            with cameo appearances.

            Here is the stone,
            Chiseled in the name of Frank Toni

            Cobbler to the southend of town

            Tender to the riven steel-toed

            Boots of the working man,

            Savior to the broken espadrille strap, the forlorn
            Lady’s last chance at one night out,

            Glazer to the Snapjacks

            Of Jean deBerry D'Quesne,––

            Frank Toni,
            Heart like wading Christopher

            (Long before he was speared in the back!

            Et tu Cardinals in red-feather frock,

            Flock of Pontiff, a Legion of Doom is what it is)

            And Frank, such as he was,––
            Seamster of heavy leather,–– the blood

            On his hand is the nub at the wheel. The pinky-

            Fingered badge-of-honor recipient,––

            The man who said:

            “They’ll be ready by Friday”

            But they’re racked at pick-up,

            Tagged and glistened by rouge on Thursday.

            Frank Toni, husband, father of three, soup-slurper ,
            Third number on the rotary dial, Fogland clam-digger,

            Cobbler to the southend massive, dead
            Near five decades now.

          -facing the place of falling water-DRAFT DRAFT

           the Sun sets in the west in the town of my birth.

           looking eastward from an important window, the small

           city is rising above the Taunton, with its splash of houses,

           in the complexities as any of its three stories, glinting on the landscape at twilight,

           what a sight !

           It’s cool tonight and by this time, the Sun

           has changed its effect, a warmer tint across the city,
           also called: the “Spindle City” or the “Granite City”.

           best, is an early Wampanoag designation:"Quequechan",
           which translates to the language of the Longcoat as: "Falling Water".
           the place of falling water.

           I lived across the river, an old-timer
           scratching the dryness, tapping keys for a word's sake.

           

           I'll consider what it is I've forgotten;
           what it is over there which is being withheld.

           and now’s as good a time as any to scan beyond its banks.
           that’s where the kid who has my eyes lives and he's got my poems.

           the Sun rises in the east here in my town;
           it slips over the rooftops, the steeples and smokestacks
           and from across the widening river, when I've a mind to,
           I can hear myself waking up in the morning.

           and what a crazy thing to say. but what a sound it all makes.

           and what a sight it is to behold.

           Fall River, 1951-1959 / Swansea, 2018

-"Scout"-

I’ve known three people of note with Vitiligo.

one was an older gentleman who roamed about
my earliest neighborhood,
graciously asking for a cigarette handout.

"would you happen to have a spare "Old Gold""?

another is present day, my son’s girlfriend

and for the sake of Jenny’s right to privacy,

her name will not be used herein.

the third was a neighborhood friend

who I’ll refer to as "Barbara";

Barbara D'Cicci of 313 Chavenson Street,

who we affectionately nicknamed: “Scout”,–– a name

lifted from the great Jay Silverheel’s beloved horse, which

was in fact a "Pinto" pony and therein lies the connection.

Barbara enjoyed the nickname when used by her friends.

Barbara did not appreciate others snickering “Scout”

through the narrow "smells like the gym" corridors of school.
dare to call her "Pinto" and there's an after-school fistfight at the dumpster.

as to the gentleman whose higher calling was to bum cigarettes
with a troubadour's timbre, I don’t recall a nickname ascribed to him.

If so, it likely would have been an affectionate nickname.

as to "Jenny" who resides in.. let's say "Los Angeles"

with my son, Josh, who I’ll refer to herein as “Antoine,”

well, she’s not okay with Donald Trump at all.

-on the beat with Joe the cop in '53-

walking with my father around Columbus Park

but outside the fence on a Sunday morning after mass
at the church where I was absolved of sin the day before,

we ran into Joe the cop, and my father and Joe stopped to talk for awhile.

Joe was in his uniform, navy blue with silvery
smears in ironing sheen from last night's board.

Joe was walking the beat around the neighborhood

and for me it was a rare cop sighting close-up at the right field corner

and while they talked I was eager to express an innocence of any wrong doing.

“uhh...we just went to church”.

It didn't matter to me what it was they were talking about

and I've noticed Joe on occasion, walking around.

he wasn't an afternoon fixture in the parlor like the Petrucci’s,

or the wacky Nazzoné clan, or the always anticipated paternal

aunts, branching outward from my father's bough of the tree.

could be they called him “Joe the cop” in a calculated friendliness

so they’d get a break at the overdue meters downtown.

"ya know Joe the cop? he's a pal o' mine."

in about 10 years it would also be to my advantage:

"oh, was I speeding, sir? umm..my ol'man knew Joe the cop!"

I'll bet they all knew "Joe the cop."

-epitaph for the common daydreamer-

what if he'd been voted most likely to succeed

what if he'd bought "Winnebago" at 6 from the floor

what if he'd been the guy John ran into at the Woolton fete

what if God really does have the biceps of the 16th century

and what if: "Hey! What the Hey"? was reinstated into the social vernacular
and poetry was never to be the same.–– and can we get an amen and amen.

  

-the "man-about-town" looks into art history.

 this episode: a swatch of Raphael, with a last line contribution from Bob Dylan- 

so I cut a small swatch out of a glossy Phaidon reproduction,

this one from a chubby cherub's forearm in a good-looking Raphael painting.

I set-up outside at the wall near the road for a "man-about-town" street survey.

the question posed to passersby who took the time to stop along their way was:

“what color is this”?

mind you, these were everyday folks tending to their own affairs

on their way home from work or by the looks of some of them,
from foraging for who knows what, and suddenly they're thrust into

the first quarter of the 16th century and this, before they've had their suppers.

––well, as you might guess, a few commuters weren’t very happy,

what with the bottleneck in the flow of homebound traffic, or

their disappointment with the expectation of refreshing, dime-a-pour iced lemonade,
but instead being harassed by a glossy Phaidon swatch cut from the forearm

of a chubby putto, reproduced from a painting birthed by the hand of Raphael.

"What color is this"?!

by-and-large, I’d say the survey's results were instructive. most of those responding
as to the color of the swatch said: "Pink"––

while a few others answered: "Beige" and after a short period of contemplation,

an old neighborhood chum decided on: "Khaki".

––but one guy in a fancy new Jeep responded by saying: "Flesh"!

which caught me off-guard and got me to thinking....

"whattaya do about Willie Mays, Martin Luther King, Olatunji...."

-preamble to the days ahead as the planet continues to flatten-

1.
I don’t visit the elderly, (my contemporaries still among the living)

thereby relieving them of the daily requirement of anticipating my arrival.

and the young don’t visit me, not that I'd mind, and no one is turned away.

but I find myself in the enviable position of not having to expect anyone

freeing me to pursue my common procedures without outside annoyances,

meaning, I don't feel obligated to straighten-up the mess in the kitchen,

or feather-dust the knick knacks under an impending threat of company.

this affords me the opportunity to write non-fictional stories, arranging them

(with concentrations on syllabic count and how accents are pitched)
into narrow columns which I like to call: "poems."

2.

still, the elderly continue to consider bodily functions

far too often which is a source of discomfort for me,

and the young keep busy manipulating their thumbs upon

illuminated screens, and apart from the beauty of the process,

I find it unsettling, given my shortcomings in that arena.

in closing, I should say that friends and relations display
an affection toward me when they do show-up, although

the documents they leave behind are always in need of examination,

and revision, leading to my inevitable penchant for tattletaling

as displayed herein.

-I know-

To the closest of relations, now dwelling on the other edge of the continent

I know your day is long, each hour folding over

the hour before it making adjustments

to the tools of another man's trade. Impossible!

and when it’s time to go home, the air outside is thick

with barbed particles and you're thinking about the music,

about that chord, the missing chord to make the bass-line work

but the 101's a frustrating slab in sheetmetal,–– the traffic
sticks to the windshield like a mad collage 

and the last thing on your mind should be an ongoing sense

of responsibility to read the poems and I know it's as if you've

left one job at the end of the day only to travel to another job

at the end of the same day and yes, I know, believe me, I know,

but I'm asking you to find the time to read the poems unless
that's the time assigned to having fun with Jenny
and if that's the case, well, of course,–– screw the poems.

-threnody to the drowned-

before my time and during my time they came;

fishers of the drowned; fishers of summer boys

one dive and done laid waste beneath the foot of stone,

where a newer language of water is defined;

fishers toiling at the waterlines tethered to smacks

by knotted rope, who gather there to pull them out.

here are the glistening, strange forms in violet, held
in the cradle of the harness where the drowned are retrieved

from the stillness of their waters.

senseless for Priest to admonish the bereaved at solemn prayer:
“from dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return”

of those unrecovered––– the drowned eternal.

pulled from water, the drowned recovered will dry again soon enough.

returning to the Beattie Street Quarry.

Quequechan 

-untitled which becomes the title-

vignette 1.

she smokes a long cigarette at the counter and orders coffee.

she has white cotton gloves on her hands, wrist high
which she doesn’t remove.
a bracelet decorates the left-hand glove, too many baubles 
for the lunch counter at the "5 & Dime". 

he’s late.
now he's too late.

his wife has uncovered what’s what.

vignette 2.

our lady of the pillbox hat

smeared in the blood of man,
sips coffee, takes a puff and stares without interest

at the wall of the endless menu behind the counter.
she tamps the butt out with a heavy hand.
the cork tip is rung in a taught, violent red.
she's no shrinking violet, this one.
a hard-hearted Hannah like the Vamp of Savannah, she is.
she longs for another drag, but it's too late for that, too.
one more errand to run, and then
she'll hitchhike to Hyannis Port for tea and sympathy.

-just before daybreak / for "once my young wife"-

my wife no longer, but once my young wife,
will be getting out of bed soon.

she’ll begin to put into place 
the many moods of morning, conning

with the tips of her middle fingers, the residue of sleep 

from the inner junctions at her eyes,–– examining
her early reflection with an unemotional response,

testing the water with an apprehensive hand, a narrow

breach in the penguin-patterned curtain is enough.

and then, clean and nearly dry, she’ll drink from a mug,

most likely not the same mug as when she was once my wife,

“World’s Best Teacher” –– a seasonal gift

from her grade school students nestled at the western
foothills of the Appalachian Highlands of southern Ohio.

we’re older now, both me and once my young wife.
and the world turns in favor of both of us,

and I rose from my bed this morning,

and she rose from her bed this morning.

-proof of the influence William Carlos Williams' "Pictures from Brueghel"

had on the writing of D'Elia's "Annex at Lincoln Park"-

1.
In the foreground grouping at Lincoln Park, four members

of a family,–– the young wife is long-striding toward

the "Clambake Pavilion."

her man is suited in grey, walking alongside her.

they are flanked by two kids we assume are their own,

ages about five and seven, adorned in festive red

vests and straw hats commemorating the adventure.
we see the kids struggling to keep up.

the young wife and mother of two is most interesting here,
leaning into the atmosphere, her flowing dress advances from behind.

2.
to their left, a bald-headed man seems to be considering something.

his arms are folded just above the belt-line and he's alone.

we don’t know if he’s waiting for someone.

he could be deciding on another exciting amusement ride.

he could be deciding between the fried clams, the clam chowder,

or the clam cakes before entering the chattering "Clambake Pavilion".
our interest in him should end here, but we linger, awaiting his decision.

3.
It’s Sunday.

how do we know this?

because the men are still dressed-up

in their suits worn for church, including those
who almost never wear suits; the cobbler,
the factory worker, the unemployed and the unemployable,
the stern fisher and power-loom mechanic.

the women seem always to be dressed-up for one thing or another;

church, social get-togethers, funerals, the dishes in the sink...
common situational television has also taught us these lessons.

4.
clearly the central figure here, although not centered in the frame,

is the woman in a black dress, inverted tulip, a dress racked
more for late evening cocktails or bereavements than for amusements.
the hem drops half-way between the knees of her legs and the ankles of her feet.

she stands gracefully upright in profile as if posing for a photograph

where no photographer can be seen.
we are not sure why the picture-taker stands so far away from his elegant subject.
panoramic camera lenses for public consumption have not yet been introduced.
maybe to him the distance is good enough.
I'm assuming the photographer is a man, her husband, her lover or such like.
for him, the development of the scene will serve as proof that they were in attendance.

her untold story is of interest to us.

this one will take some time and a poem of a more detailed narrative

to reason her into a romantic existence, tragic existence, or reason her away.

the 1950s

-the importance of raspberry jam and our early understanding of water-

I’m looking at my two and a half year old son

snacking after his feeding of nutritious food

prepared by the hands of his mother.
I've provided the snacks and now

his hands and face and hair are sticky with raspberry

jam and what appears to be cake frosting, although

no trace of cake can be found anywhere in the house.

his mother is in another room and seems content
to have left him in my care.

I don’t mind and my immediate concern is to find a way

to wrestle him from his passion for sugar and to clean him up
before I'm nabbed in the act by his mother,

but I’m too intrigued by his singular dismissiveness on being such a sticky mess.

It would drive me crazy.

everything he touches from his tray sticks to his hands.
his hands stick together, finger to finger.

his hair (Monica Vitti blonde) is matted in tufts of deep-red raspberry jam.

when is it, I thought, being a sticky mess like this becomes a nightmare?

I wouldn’t last a minute.

when does that instant of enlightenment come to us

when we look down at ourselves and the mess we’ve made of ourselves

and reason: “I need a warm running water”.

Ohio

-It's been a cold, cold war-

1.

downtown. 1962 or thereabouts. I’m drunk on orangeade;

hopped-up on chow mein, here at the busy China Royal.

(in a booth the size of a red-leatherette continent after the movies

with friends, and more than a hint of tension in the air, talking about

the space race, arms race, mutual destruction race with the Russians,
who were kicking our ass with their powerful rocket thrusters which
had the look of powerful rocket thrusters;
fat, grey-black, thunderous, menacing looking things.)

now, walled within our half-moon booth, we're talking about the cold war;

of how long that flash of light will linger, of how the blast's burn

will blister our skins, of how the blood will boil in our veins, and–––

will we see it coming?

all the while feasting on chow mein, and orangeade with ice. (no straw)

on hot summer nights while drinking orangeade, I liked the ice
to form a cold, convex semicircle between my nostrils and upper lip.

2.

this happened not only on the night under discussion, but also
on a number of other nights during the cold war.

addendum:
regardless of the USSR's lead in the power ratings of rocket thrusters,
an accounting from within our booth regarding "total destructive capabilities",

overwhelmingly favored the United States, and although the "Ruskies"

had the ability to destroy the entire world 10-times over, the United States

had the ability to destroy the entire world 15-times over, the tabulation showed,

with one voting "present." 

3.

J.F.K. said: (when warning of the futility inherent in a nuclear war, that)

"the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouths."

whew! it's been a long, long night at the sweltering China Royal.

Myrtle,..set me up with one last orangeade.

no straw.

lots of ice.

It's been a cold, cold war.

-behind the fence in Vinton County-

the first family arrives at 10:55 PM.

the pickup truck slows rapidly from its speed,

the dust of Powder Plant Road behind it settles to the ground.

the driver pulls over to the shoulder leaving space

for the others he knows will surely come here.

another family arrives within minutes.

those waiting at the fence can see them coming.

now the third family comes, then the sixth family and so on through the night.

they line the fence as if witnessing a stalled cortège. 

Into the distance beyond the fence, there isn’t much to see.

not even the smoke still rising, but the skies

above the dark facility are a heavy, blood-red at sunup.

there’s something wrong with the air,––
the pungent residue in spent nitroglycerin.

they shuffle left and right along the fence allowing for newcomers.

there’s nothing to see of the grounds but flashing lights.

the multi-blast shockwaves shook the foundations of their homes,

the walls of their trailers, the bones of their backyard dogs.

then the howling siren, droning, fatal, one pitch is enough,

sends them driving hard through McArthur, Ohio

and there at the fence they wait in a solemn row.

nobody on the outside gets in.

nobody from the inside is allowed to get out.

an official count of the living is in process.

the dead will wait to be identified.
but these are not the recognizable dead,
those we've come to know laying neatly in the parlors.

these dead are the “Powder Plant” dead, identified

through the process of examination, of science, of piecemeal pathology.

but first, the living are counted, myself among them and from the count

will come the “unaccounted for” who are then presumed to be dead

and presumptions such as these are never wrong.

Austin Powder Company