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MICHI

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3 01405 1985

 

 

 

 

This is to certify that the

thesis entitled

FLINT

presented by

Timothy M. Lane

has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

M.A. . Creative Writing
degree in

 

Major professor

Date gjlg /qb

0-7639 MS U is an Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Institution

 

 

 

LIBRARY
Michigan Sitate
University

 

 

 

PLACE ll RETURN BOXto mnwothlo checkout from your noord.
TO AVOID FINES Mum on or baton duo duo.

DATE DUE DATE DUE DATE DUE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MSU to An Afflnnotlvo Mon/Equal Opportunity lmtttulon
mm‘

 

 

FLINT
By

Timothy M. Lane

A THESIS
Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1 996

 

 

 

ABSTRACT
FLINT
By
Timothy M. Lane

This manuscript, which is divided into four sections, is an assemblage
of poems forged from the industrial, blue-collar experiences and
observations of my adolescence. My primary concern has been to discover
and/or construct a sense of beauty, sensitivity, and humanity in an urban
setting which is generally regarded as ugly, mechanized, and sterile. The
first section of this manuscript foreshadows the themes of later sections,
focusing on the experiences of a teen in an industrial environment. The
second section focuses on the observation of blue-collar men through the
eyes of sons and grandsons, while the third shifis to a transformation and
celebration of the drudgery of everyday life. The final section contemplates
the inevitability and loss of death, or the fear of a stagnant existence.
Combined, this work reflects my vision of an industrial landscape, an urban

voice, and a sense of localism.

 

Capyright by
TIMOTHY MICHAEL LANE
1996

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Grateful acknowledgement is made to the publications in which the
following poems first appeared.

 

The Red Cedar Review: "Flint"(the long poem), which won first place in the
Jim Cash Poetry Contest judged by Ed Sanders;
"Letter to Ivan Lendl;" "The Blue Shield."

The MacGufifn: "Twenty-five German Shepherds Abandoned in a Boarded
House on Churchhill Ave.," which received an honorable mention

in the 1995 Poet Hunt judged by Jack Driscoll.

"Fastball" won first place in the 1995 National Poetry Competition
sponsored by the Chester H. Jones Foundation. The contest was judged by
Edward Hirsch, Alan Shucard, and Diane Wakoski; the poem appeared in an
anthology published by the Chester H. Jones Foundation.

The author is grateful to the Michigan State University English Department
for a Flatt-Ruble fellowship which contributed to the completion of this

manuscript.

Bl

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Slug of Hot Steel
Flint
Letter to Ivan Lendl

Tornado Season

Watching Matt Montpas Break-dancing at a
High School Dance

Young Punks Drinking in a Wine-colored Cadillac
behind J erry's Sunoco

After the Westerns

A Description of M)» F ather's Car which I Drove
when I Was a T een-ager Aspiring to be a Star

Brother, Stray

Anybody's Father
'72 Buick LeSabre

Dad Takes Me to See a Documentary of Bigfoot
at the Capitol Theater before it Closes

V

10

ll

12

14

16

19

20

22

 

 

 

 

Sk

Lost

The Fear of Unemployment
Young Man

Dreaming of Meat
Solidarity

The Blue Shield

Flint

The Holler and Dance
Rust
Cerberus Accepts a Position with the City of Flint

A Poem Written for the Waitresses of Angela's
in an Attempt to Balance a Debt

Shoveling Snow
Gusto

A Woman's Perfume

Skywriter

Irresistible Collision

Lost Child

vi

23

27

28

29

32

35

36

37

39

42

46

50

52

55

56

What Roared Out of a Storm Sewer in the Side
of a Hill at Kearsley Park

Twenty-five German Shepherds Abandoned in a
Boarded House on Churchhill Ave.

Smelt Dipping
Beauty Unemployed
Fastball

Boarded Windows

vii

58

6O

62

65

67

 

Slug of Hot Steel

Fl

 

of
be!
wh

abc
oft
and
whj
glea
besi
und:
factc
Whil
and
in th
tire 1
Whil

at m
We b

andi

Flint

In the bruised afiermath

of an industrial sunset,
beneath the vapid summer heat,
while the radio antennas
blinked in overgrown commercial lots
above abandoned billboards
of the silky Black Velvet Lady
and the Marlboro Man;

while new cars

gleamed in the parking lots
beside the river

under the sterile

factory lights;

while beer cans rusted

and bottles sank

in the mire of

tire ruts;

while the retarded deer
bumped heads along the fence
at the old tank plant,

we blotted out the sirens

and the labor of freight trains

(continued next page)

 

pl'

al

at
at
01

011.

the
def
like

with our stereos.

Far from apathetic,

we drank our fair share

of beer to boost

the economy. We purchased
lottery tickets even

though we were young with
promise-

a fiiture writer,

an actor,

a rock star,

A a teen-age cult figure.

Our fathers were tradesmen;

our mothers were nurses.

Our graffiti crisscrossed the musty,
crumbling stairwells of parking ramps,
the plywooded windows of boarded warehouses--
defiant strokes of spray paint

like Egyptian hieroglyphics.

We were the oldest,

the educated,

the first to enroll

in college.

In the winter,

we wrapped their expectations

(continued next page)

of

HC'

{16‘

me

oft

like presents and set

them under the Christmas tree.
Our heads were full of scripts;
our eyes full of cameras.
Cracking cynical jokes

when we drank,

we contemplated

the curves and underpasses
on the expressways,

as if we might crash;

the sidewalks below

the gooey rooftops

of buildings,

as if we might jump;

never veering,

never jumping,

angst-ridden martyrs,
melancholy and drunk.

Amid the billowing smoke

of factories and

junkyard fires--

the massage parlors, the palm readers,
the bars, GM‘s displaced-

we wanted to be immortal,

to live fast

(continued next page)

and die tragically.
We wanted to be
remembered for more than spark plugs

and automobiles.

 

 

yc

5P

M-

M

8C

asl

and

you

“’her

Letter to Ivan Lendl

Who cares about Wimbledon? Throughout a troubled adolescence of foot
faults, bad calls, nagging injuries-
when I was as strong and tireless as you-
I hung on every point, every set,
every match. In a blue-collar world
where tempers flare and exhaustion rules the line,
you were my idea of perfection-
(rich, yet hard-working, gified, but dedicated,
spirited, yet always composed).
Man, the way you pound that ball
with blistering forehands,
a cannon-like serve-
the way a press stamps
a slug of hot steel.
Albeit, Mr. Lendl, you won't find tennis whites
and the manicured lawns of Wimbledon in an industrial town like Flint--
(where we crank out Buicks and Cheviesu)
you are more than welcomed to drop by and visit
a devout fan

whenever you're in the area--

(continued next page)

 

 

7

(lucky enough if they give me the gold-plated watch
or the golf clubs the retired shoprat receives
after twenty-five years of rigorous,
monotonous service-

your unmerciful trademark).

Tornado Season

That summer I needed to thrash this town

as much as any angry 'body home from college as
aimless and anonymous as they'd left.

Never mind it would take an earthquake to fix
this place. That's another

city. Never mind domestic violence and
drug-related deaths multiplied in a vortex

of welfare and cheap cocaine. That's another
neighborhood. Seemed like all the men

grew beards and cut the grass each day while
their sons stormed six-packs of Stroh's

in the wind-raked calm of each night's sirens

and trains. That's my East Side.

Never mind high school sports stars plucked

like metal sheds from the North End

by a whirlwind of talent

scouts. That's a Cinderella story we followed

in the paper. Never mind I'd return to college

in the fall while one of my buddies drove a fork lifi
and another joined the Navy. Never mind the eye

of the storm before any adult's life truly
begins--

(continued next page)

 

dud
befc
can
my

8W3

call it whatever

you want.

Spurred on by funnel-shaped graphs and
sobering statistics I swerved toward dance bars
prayed I'd get lucky in the back seat of my father's
duct-taped Chevy
before my drunken antics
encouraged some apathetic cop to drag
my ordinary ass

away.

 

 

duct
befo

CllCO.

 

away

call it whatever

you want.

Spurred on by funnel-shaped graphs and
sobering statistics I swerved toward dance bars
prayed I'd get lucky in the back seat of my father's
duct-taped Chevy
before my drunken antics
encouraged some apathetic cop to drag
my ordinary ass

away.

II

lea

leax

Watching Matt Montpas Break-dancing at a High School Dance

I strain toward you
in the dark gymnasium,
search your face for a sign
that the crushing band of teens tightly drawn
'round a few boys spinning
on hands, knees, backs, heads
leaves you reeling,
reliving an accident of your yOuth,
that moment Death stood in the median

of the interstate
like a chaperone at a dance-
watched your family's station wagon
rolling like a break
dancer,
leaves you breathless,

returning to the wreckage

on a gouged roadside

before

the pulse of the music

ends

and the

gym is flooded

with lights.

10

li:

yor

 

whi

wit]

like
smz
tire

CUT

Call

of l
in t
Vet

Of(

the

like

Ofa

Young Punks Drinking in a Wine-colored Cadillac
behind Jerry's Sunoco

If you strolled behind Jerry's Sunoco
late at night,
you'd see the wine-colored
Caddie-
white roof splattered
with pigeon shit,
tarnished chrome
like pawnshop silverware,
smashed headlight,
tire rims
cutting into
cinder blocks--
catch them
chugging bottles
of Boone's Farm
in their own cheap
vehicle
of escape,
unfolding
the boredom
of Saturday night
like the panels

of a road map.

11

Afte

Year
as yr

for a

to th
you '1

ofth

Bore
like 2
of a 5

“his.

You
in fr<
the c
there

teeth
Offo
gold.

After the Westerns

Years later you're stalked by coyotes
as you saunter to the store
for a Coke.

Madly galloping
to the post office,
you become the sole survivor

of the Pony Express.

Boredom creaks
like a hinge, the swinging doors
of a saloon where you're knockin' back

whiskeys, and a man has just been shot for stackin' the deck.

You spread a map on the table
in front of your father as if to say, "There! there's
the cactus, there's the mine shaft,
there's the X,"
your buck
teeth nuggets
of fool's

gold.

(continued next page)

12

Yc
of

an:

lat

13

(new stanza)

You habitually part the curtains
of your cell-

the biggest jail break of the century,
and the gunslinger's
late.

Your parents go to bed
like clockwork.
Outside, small, feral
squirrels crouch in the trees. The streetlights
tick. Trains barrel between factories. Plastic wrappers
scuttle across parking lots, crackle

unfold in the wind.

5P
or

I?

E\
or.

at

bil
fa<
We

lus

We

A Description of M? F ather’s Car which I Drove

when I Was a T een-ager Aspiring to be a Star

The absence of hubcaps
spinning like binary stars
on either side of the car

revealed grime-sealed lug nuts.

Evolution of morning light
on a rusted fender revealed
a dog-shaped constellation of dents.

What should've been reflections of
billboards

powerlines

faded sky

were trapped beneath

lusterless paint as if the

dark space beneath hood and trunk

were primordial black holes.

(continued next page)

14

c J

fr01
yea
ten
on

asl

Th.
all<

t0!

tor

aw;

dus

self

hon
Ufa

“’33!

15

(new stanza)

The back seat sagged
from the weight of tools--
years of eight- and
ten-hour shifts tugging
on my father like gravity

as he roared toward home.

The loss of muffler and tailpipe
allowed fumes of exhaust
to seep into the compartment
where I ofien found myself
drinking
driving
drifting-

eager
to ride stellar winds
away from Flint--

teen-age
dust cloud in a junk heap
self-compressed—

light years
fi'om any acceptance
of a blue-collar

way of life.

Br

of c
tagl
bler
Hair
0 W4
flan.
mite

Gen

Brother, Stray

In the dull turnover

of another assembled night,

I chase you off the curb-

pale chicken bone

clamped between teeth,

the garbage bag

gaping. M)» father snares

through ordinary disaster

until his alarm clock

explodesubut I know

he's heard you, lost best friend

up from the gate, doggoned but defiant
in the exhausted domesticity

of our working-class lives-

tagless, nameless wind-muffled howl
blending with sirens and

trains. In early factory rumble, I dreamt
a worm-infested heart, mud-plastered
flanks, ears teeming with
mitesm-running beside a frisky
German shepherd I've seen

slinking from our shed beneath

(continued next page)

16

a SIC
the p
a he:
agair
F or l
myfi
in a 4
the n
the 5;
know-
Way
0, F l
Whetl
in the
I haw
from
unper
alert]:
10 ad:
any n;
Wait,
rough
before
fiom C

Curb.

17

a steel sky balanced between

the profit of production,

a heavy tax levied

against the body.

For twenty-five years

my father has installed pipe

in a city which has cornered and impounded
the men of my life: the tradesmen,
the shoprats, I 've

known, could they have

strayed?

0, Flint,

whether or not I heel obedient and faithful
in the city where I was born,

I have much to gain

from a stray dog,

unpent,

alertly refirsing

to acknowledge

any name.

Wait,

rough-coated brother,

before ybu stray
fiom our

curb.

(continued next page)

18

Give me
canine endurance,
brute strength,
cunning--
unapproachable
instinct

the tradesmen

and factory workers approve--

old trick
even the luckiest dogs
I've known
could never

learn.

19

Anybody's Father

'72 1

Ben
my
the
of 2
(let
wh
say
his

wit

his
exl
In l
Wh
of l

he
the
the
the
the
the

'72 Buick LeSabre

Beneath the black vinyl of a flat December sky
my grandfather painstakingly scraps
the carburetor

of a Buick LeSabre-

determined to rescue

what he can

save,

his sweatshirt speckled

with flecks of

rust,

his own white breath resembling
exhaust.

In the cold metallic air

which penetrates the walls

of his cluttered

garage,

he has already removed

the battery,

the alternator,

the master cylinder-

the sky collapsing like a convertible top,
the old LeSabre

(continued next page)

20

wit
the
Wi

he
of
he
to
th:
of
wl

bu

of

ho

Wit

21

with more mileage

than gloss.

Within the radiant, chromic stillness
of a winter morning,

as the neighborhood slowly recovers

from the white shock

of fresh snow,

he will struggle

to recount

the different lines

of Buicks

which have been

built,

his twenty-odd years

of faithful service

in the shop-

how to salvage

an old car

With used parts.

Sl.

b2

f0

C3

of

vyi

100

to;

mm

1the

Dad Takes Me to See 3 Documentary of Bigfoot
at the Capitol Theater before it Closes

I was only slightly afiaid back then
sinking comfortably into the velvety jaws of my
seat
surrounded by the Red Sea
and faceless statues peering down from the
balcony watching that classic
footage
captured in Northern California
of a lone Sasquatch strolling along a river crowded
with stones and dead
stumps
crashing into the broken treeline like a
half-back while the cameraman reeled and stumbled in his
tracks
the Big Guy turning his back on the freakish demands
of an intrusive society
looking over his shoulder once or twice
as he escaped
to prove himself more human
than myth
running out of the theater of my childhood
like anybody's father.

22

to
bu
tha

The Fear of Unemployment

The foreman arrives
with a box of pups, announces
that a pipe-fitter and two welders have been
laid off, their names already added
to the bottom
of the list.
The pup
conveniently fits
in your jacket, a glossy rtmt
which can barely walk, laps at your
chin as you head
for the truck.
Quickly.
like inflation, the pup doubles
in size, chews a hole in the heel
of a boot. The guys
need a mascot-
sometlrin' to bolster their spirits
in the shop where the ratio of tradesmen
to new cars spins out of proportion-
but the foreman insists

that the dog remains

(continued next page)
23

24

at home.
Your wife bitches,
another responsibility,
but you ignore her
protests. Yes, the dog drools
on the furniture; yes, '
digs holes in the lawn; barks
all day; scratches at the bedroom door

while you're tryin' to make love.

Another journeyman and the last laborer
have cleaned out their lockers.

Which is worse:

the factory or home?

rumors of layoffs? that insatiable dog?
the children's complaints

echoing in your head

like the yelping of strays

in a kennel?

There! there goes the dog in mad pursuit
of a neighbor's car. There! your son trailing
the dog like a car being towed
by a wrecker.

Kids or pets? We can 't aflord both.
Your wife tums the key,

(continued next page)

25

tightens the leash.

Three weeks later, the guys
quiet at lunch, digesting bad news, the mutated mutt
having bitten the mailman. Your wife demands that the dog
be sold or destroyednthe ash of your cigarette
glowmg beneath the crabapple tree
as you gaze toward smokestacks,
a water tower, blinking
red lights.
The dog howls
all night-another siren-
pleads with trains.
In the mornin', the kids comb
the East Side, but he's vanished. You meet a buddy
in the parkin' lot headin' for the gate
where a gigantic dog
patiently waits.
Now I'm dog meat, you think-

the sky worn soft like blue jeans,
heat at your neck,
your back against the pavement-
sharp gravel digging into the calloused
palms of your hands.
You don't know whether to thank

or curse your buddy for viciously kicking

(continued next page)

26

the dog in the crotch as it lunged

for your throat,

a story the guys'll butcher

in stale bars for weeks while they wait

for work: Did ya see Buck kick that sonofabitch!

You turn them oven-these tools, bare hands
by which you earn your livin'.

The arguments with your wife, the dog's hot breath,
the mailman's bandaged wrist-

like a brand on the fluttering muscle

which heaves in your chest.

What else but luck if these hands

ain't enough? What else can you do?

Buck won't look ya in the eye

as he picks you up fi'om the pavement,

but he knows you'd do the same for him.

Hell, the foreman gave Buck a pup, too.

Young Man

A wind-buffed flock

of metallic pigeons,
reflecting like chrome,

are roosting in my head

as if it were a church .

steeple.

Their beaks, like

knives, their eyes, like

silver coins-J am afraid of

mirrors. I would pray,

but I am afraid to

speak-would run,

afraid to

move. All day, all night,

their coos, coos,

coos

collect like feathers in an empty

cage where a bell

should hang. ‘

27

Dreamii

My fatl
my gm

3
We sift
in ajur
the rus
metalli
strippe
by the
steel b
Dad ru
This is

1
from c
butche
Oil! liv

With sc

Dreaming of Meat

My father, laid off, restocks his Chevy-
my grandfather, twenty-five years in the shop,
a gold-plated watch, then death.
We sift through a row of dismembered Buicks
in a junkyard where stray dogs scavenge for bones--
the rusty air menacing,
metallic. The old ones come here to die,
stripped of radiator and axle, bumper and alternator,
by the shoprat, the mechanic, the tired gods who give these
steel beasts life. I steady the flashlight.
Dad rummages beneath the hood of a '79 Caprice.
This is his reward--
these haggard men who assemble new cars and trucks
from chassis to fender-
butchered days filled with scavenging,
our lives rigged together

with scraps.

28

Solidarity

Six months,
eight months,
ten-

how long

can you go?

At the grocery store

you see a guy from the union,
an apprentice.

He belongs

to your local-

you've spoken once,

maybe twice.

Yes, it's true-

you're collecting unemployment,
so you shouldn't complain,

but it's nothing compared

to a journeyman's wages.

(continued next page)

29

30

(new stanza)

You watch the young guy,
a kid actually,

slip a pack of gum

into his pocket,

Juicy Fruit,

but you keep

your mouth

shut.

Work is scarce,
but he's working-
learning the trade
for three-fourths

a journeyman's wage.

The cashier

rings up his beer
while the two of you
shoot the

shit.

(continued next page)

31

(new stanza)

Go home,

you think.

Wait longer.

Say something
to him

down at the
local.

Remind him
whatever he does
affects the rest of us.
Crack a

joke.

Let him know
you saw what

he did.

The Blue Shield

The blue light of the television is as hostile
to me
as the relentless assault of heat and noise in the shop
is to him-
or the cold steel and fi'ozen pipes
at winter‘ 5 construction site--
but if he has his way I will never know
the drone of the line and the clash of machinery
in the factory-
(a seething hive)-
or the wind's cat-o-nine-tails
in a trench with busted pipe and ice
beneath the skeleton of a high-rise
' which creaks beneath
an exhausted sky. I remember tapping crumpled flannel
on a meaty shoulder as a small child while he dozed through
the evening news-
as persistent as a press
or a drill.
First his arms and legs relax,
and then the eyes retreat, with their dim anticipation

of dinner, while murder and unemployment rates soar, and guerillas from

(continued next page)

32

33

Nicaragua plan to immigrate to Flint
to work for GM, and the Colonel discloses
his original recipe of eleven herbs
and spices.
This,
he claims,
is an acquired skill that no apprentice could ever learn--
the ability to outdistance the needling pain of exhaustion,
to let the day's weight drain through the body

like a sieve- '

(the evening news like an absurd lullaby

bathing him in the blueness of snow).
This is one specialty-
the ability to withdraw
into his favorite chair and surround himself
with the blue glare
of the TV—
the blue halo of exhaustion that a young child struggles

to penetrate,
like a weary courier traveling miles through storm

to announce leftovers
for dinner-

(while the world burns out like a welder's torch

with an empty tank).
This is a gift-

(continued next page)

34

his exhaustion ensuring
that I will never be

as tired-

this blue shield

that a teenager bludgeons
with a hammer

at the end of each day
with unreasonable

demands.

Flint

I can picture the dent
in the fender
of Dad's
rusted Chevy,
the factory smoke
which hangs
like the shaded outline
of a city

on a map
with a river of debris
from which men
step:
hard as a fine-grained quartz
that sparks
when struck
With steel.

35

36

The Holler and Dance

Rust

An orange tomcat,
you steal across the hood
of Dad's Chevy while
the tradesmen

sleep.

Like an off-road
motel affair,
you're the sign
of stalled
love,
a relationship of

inactivity.

In an
industrial

city,

you're

the cheap beer
makin'

the young men

happy.

(continued next page)

37

the red flake
keepin'

the old car
whole.

38

Cerberus Accepts a Position with the City of Flint

It was like an epidemic, employees laid off
because some big shot had nriscalculated, blown his wad.
Released from Hades, Cerberus briefly marched
with the plaid and denim corps
of the unemployed-
grudgingly accepted a dubious position
with the City of Flint. Auto World, a deflmct
amusement park, had been vacant for yearsna tax-payer's
toothache-abandoned beside the river
like a stolen car.
Cerberus snapped
at a pesky squirrel trying to roll him
for a newspaper and a greasy, tin-foiled take-out--
his job to keep drunk teen-agers
from climbing the fence. He sighed,
argued with his heads, scanned the want ads for Seeing Eye dogs,
dogs that could sign, dogs to care for the elderly,
but he lacked the delicacy
of a hummingbird, the rugged, homespun charity
of a registered nurse, the references, the experience,
etc. The police sergeants

laughed, their German shepherds sneering--

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40

sighting gods, heroes, mortals who had duped him
with cake, had scratched that spot on the belly that makes
a dog's leg jerk, slipping young, nubile maidens

past his post—it was all well documented.

Couldn't type
for shit, couldn't make change-
wouldn't push a broom, haul trash,
flip burgers, shake fries, for very longuand who could
blame him? It was much too late for computers. Gasoline fumes
made him gag. The Secretary of State
had revoked his chauffeurs
license.
The public schools
were the only place that would hire,
in desperate need of subs, but to spare the rod

and spoil the child was more than he could stomach.

Like everyone,
he entertained ambitious notions of a vocation

or college, applied for grants and loans, filled out

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41

applications, ordered catalogues, Reader's Digest, T ime—sze
how-to'supaced and scratched, paced and scratched,
his scaly dragon's hide no match for the
industrial-strength fleas
of Flint.
The military
was interested, but only for
experimentation.
All night long,
sirens pierced his ears, trains jolted him
awake, one head snored, another talked in its sleep,
and the only thing that made any sense was a coney island
on the East Side of town where the waitresses called him honey,
kept his coffee as hot as he could stand it.

A Poem Written for the Waitresses of Angelo's
in an Attempt to Balance 3 Debt

Hustling back and forth from entrance to exit
with pots of black coffee on rubber-soled shoes,
gliding over grease, the waitresses at
Angela's holler shorthand to short-order cooks
who translate the quick and sturdy jargon
into mustard-drenched coneys and golden files.
A formica counter with spilled cream and sugar
is a narrow office where the hurried and derelict
uneasily smoke and sifi. Behind a hungry cash register
subtracting its tip, pies are sliced, shakes are
blended with the surprising finesse of an
arm-wrestlers wrist. The tilt of sturdy hips,
the endless shift from front to back, weaves
an aroma of splattered grease and onion which
repels a stiff wind. In the runny yolk of an eg,
I dip my toast. The switch and bounce
of several of these young gals has begun
my roisterous life. The hardy affection
of several others has calmed the riot.

To kiss a smart-aleck
mouth. To hug polyester hips. To light

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43

a cigarette dangling at a dangerous angle

between waxy lips. To have witnessed the patient
balancing act of plates with flowering omelettes,
dripping hamburgs, bowls of chili which warm meaty
forearms, the tattooed remarks, the sweet toughness
which comforts and mothers. To know that

the holler and dance of order never ends. Even
now, in my twenties, miles away in another
thankless city, I'm sprung fi'om the mattress

of a sunken bed by the thought of these plate-laden
women pressing pen to pad, adding their firm but
delicate touch to the chin of each haggard day.

Shoveling Snow

A forecast of overnight snow

fills the confessional-like dimness

of your daily 9-to-5 with the old
vitality of your altar

boy days-

an old covenant

with the community

when parents were like guardian angels
and religion as satisfying

as Christmas.

Enjoying these late night storms so much
you don't even wait for a lull

or daybreak-

lean on the handle of a shovel

beneath the halo of a streetlight

catching snow on your tongue-

the snap of cold air reviving tired muscles
as the angelic silence magnifies

each blessed flake.

(continued next page)

45

(new stanza)

In the morning

the snowplow strands a few cars

in the street. A park-bound communion

of children finds you dancing on the sidewalk
with a rejuvenated hello

on your lips-

like the pastor

who stood on the steps after mass

greeting everyone by name.

Gusto

The groom and best man

in bright blue jackets

with studded shoulders

trimmed with velvet,

snake-skin boots

with silver

taps,

matching

black

hats,
like Glen Campbell's
rhinestone
cowboy,

the bride as pale

as the froth of a

pina colada,

her gown

with lace

as light

as baby's

breath,

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46

47

the maid-of-honor
clutching a bouquet
of wilted lilacs,
the four of them chasing
shots of tequila
with beer
in a Mexican
bar
on the East Side
of a GM town with a shotgun marriage
to an automobile. *
Dumbfounded in splintered booth
with plastic cushions,
we don't know whether to
ignore them,
or celebrate,
so we bat
their apparent happiness
like a pinata
until the restaurant is showered
once again
with the yellow
familiarity
of a blue-collar

bar.

(continued next page)

48

The cowboys
belt
out
western
ballads,

fill

their

hats

heartily.

The bride

slams a shot

of tequila.
Unsteadily,
the maid-of-honor lifts
the hem of her dress
to climb the makeshift stage
for another country duet
with the karioke

machine,

(continued next page)

49

as if

in this working-class

life

the unexpected

has fallen into her outstretched hands
like a bride's bouquet of

yellow roses.

A Woman's Perfume

On a cramped bus, a woman applies perfume, on wrists
and neck, which a man inhales like a bouquet of violets,
and for the first time in years, he is aroused even
though he is married, even though he has children,

even though the bus lurches heavily through afternoon
traffic on a rainy day in October which has made him sad.
The man squirms in his black hood and handcuffs,

a prisoner of his shriveled desire, a desire which the
perfume has ignited the way a spark ignites a barrel

of dry leaves, their edges tinged with seething embers
as tiny as pointed teeth, as they twist and fold upon
themselves, momentarily lifted by curling smoke

to return to the earth as ash.

Thank God, the man exclaims, stumbling into the narrow
aisle, as if his children were clinging to his pant legs,

that the saints and martyrs, the founding fathers and
legislators, the teachers and parents, who have weighed

upon me, have not condemned my sense of smell. Thank God
for my nose! Thank God for that scent!

Ah, to lust! the man shouts, breathing deeply,

suddenly able to detect different scents--

(continued next page)

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51

Old Spice, baby's powder, Anne Klein, cheap whiskey,
onion rings--still bound, tripping blindly from

front to back, the bus lurching to a halt.

And while the prisoner raves and the bus passes

by dismal shops, grey buildings, the rain pelting each
window, washing away the day's squalor, the dust and
exhaust, the other passengers raise their newspapers,
adjust their coats, stare dumbly through the tinted

glass in an attempt to ignore his enthusiasm.

But the man's desire blooms like an Orchid,

like a snapdragon. Uncuff my hands, he demands,

as the bus driver becomes concerned. Unmask my face!
Aflame with color and desire, the man lurches

and stumbles as the bus heaves toward the curb,

the passengers rising as one, like an angry mob,

to drag him from the bus, discarding him on a bench,
this man overcome by his olfactory sense,

who longs to lie with the woman who smells like violets,
longs to ravish each woman on the bus, to make love

to his wife who clings to their children in disbelief-

for the first time in years, consumed by fire,

bursting forth in full bloom like a flower,

revived by the delicate scent

of a woman's perfume.

Skywriter

A silver jet pierces
faded denim
which is an industrial

sky above your home.

You can 't just put on

a new pair of coveralls
and call yourself

a tradesman,

the pilot stitches
between clouds

on fabric

ground soft

with stones.

You can 't curse GM
while your uncles
get fat,

while your dad
waits for

work,

if you 've never

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53

wagered a finger
against the line,

if you ain't pullin'
6-10's in the shop,
ain't hustlin' as much
overtime as you can get,
ain't turnin' pipe

in a hole-

hey,

you ain't

your old man,

and you sure as hell
ain 't your grandpa.

Unlike the Surgeon General's warning on a pack
of cigarettes,

the label on a bottle

of beer,

the rusted patch on a pair

of Levi's:

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54
this warning
a day longer than any

of my father's
lectures.

I remember
Dad's promise
when I began to drink:
If ya smash the car,
get a ticket,
you '11 never drive

one of my cars

again.
Plain and simple.
Straight-legged/
Bootcut.
I look up at that blue denim

tight enough to strike

a match against-

useless until those
threaded loops of
begin to unravel

and f a d

e.

exhaust

55

Irresistible Collision

Lost Child

«who knows where she'll

surface?

The young mother's

purple
crocuses

arrive in

spring

sprout
between the tattered clumps
of crabgrass

like
a
stray
dog

(continued next page)

56

(new stanza)

pausing
to study
the screen

door

above
the front
porch.

57

What Roared Out of a Storm Sewer
in the Side of a Hill at Kearsley Park

We were forbidden to enter the storm
sewer

because of thunderclouds bunched like stampeding
buffalo-

poisonous gases confirmed by maladj usted
uncles-

bums who crawled into the darkness with bottles of whiskey

to sleep.

None of us dared to follow that silver
ribbon

which lead into the catacombs beneath our
neighborhood-

except Jack Talbot jogging bent over _
beside a trickle of water until we couldn't see him anymore,

his voice colliding with the echo of tennis shoes.

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59

(new stanza)

At the mouth of the sewer,
the sky dull billboard white,
we lean into the tunnel,

call after him,

but he's gone--

our thin voices doubling back on a reluctant gang of
boys

left peering into darkness for noxious
vapors,

the clumsy rush of a drunken
shadow

swinging the jagged neck of a broken
bottle,

paralyzed by the thunderous approach of an irresistible
collision,

the hoofs bearing down on us.

Twenty-five German Shepherds Abandoned in a
Boarded House on Churchill Ave.

Those German shepherds must have come to hate each other,
pacing late into the night in search of sunlight.
Imagine the officer's shock as he broke through the door,
the onlookers offended by mangy bushes,
crabgrass,
an unbearable stench,
dogs
scattering up and down shit-encrusted stairs
to hide in closets
ankle-deep. What else
did they know, their dull eyes accustomed
to darkness, the windows covered with plywood,
each ray forced like shards of glass
through cracks? Snarling,
madly crashing
beneath the silver beam of his flashlight,
they must have sensed Opportunity floundering,
arriving
like pearled
daybreak,

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61

amazed, disgusted neighbors sneering,
ridiculing the tangled, pathetic efforts

of crazed dogs,

how they growled, snapped, scrambled
throughout the house

until released

through a blue doorway

of morning.

Smelt Dipping

For the last three springs
I waded at the mouth
of the river,
straining nothing but gravel
and bits of wood

while

the men
warmed their hands
around Coleman lanterns,
their barbed voices
tangled in nets
of fog.

That this would be Grandpa's last
chance for smelt,
that the trauma of the war
had physically scarred his heart,
would require

dissection.

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63

(new stanza)

These were lead secrets sunk deep
like shrapnel spreading
like
the handful
of writhing fish
I lifted in my net
which
made him
shout
his voice
echoing
like a gunshot
from the woods
which cupped
the bay.

Beauty Unemployed

Sunlight filtering
through shriveled translucent autumn leaves
which I collected and pressed
in wax paper
did not distract
a pipe-fitter absorbed in stretching
an unemployment check
into a journeyman's

wage.

Fastball

"Ray Chapman was an early baseball player
who was killed at the plate by an overused ball
which was probably difficulty to see when pitched.

I've always thought that life should stall

as death approached, the runner stealing second
never reaching the base, the pitcher's arm extended
like a beam, the ball spinning on its axis

between mound and plate, throwing me off stride
the way a flustered batter stumbles over

a slow hanging curve. Take Ray Chapman, dug in,
crowding home, one ball, one strike, the baseball
scuffed, cut, dirty, the pitch a gray blemish

of light, refracting from his head with such force
the infield thought it had hit his bat.

Imagine the anticipation, the stands beginning

to blur, chalked lines converging, the vanishing
point, a blue swatch of cloth, a mask, a leather
mitt, a collage of breathless fans trapped

between delivery and impact, accident and outcome.

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66

Whose error hoping for rain-delays, a double-header
with death, a check-swing immortalized, that Ray could
count the stitches on the pitcher's sleeve,

hear the labored grunt erupt from bellow-like lungs,
feel the seam imprint its lethal kiss,

center field forming a green backdrop behind

the impetus of the pitch?

Boarded Windows

Bulldozedu
the house in which
a lady hid twenty-five diseased
German shepherds-
no mossy shingles,
lingering smell of shit. A two-story
gap. The old
East Side
nailed shut. My barber shop,
closed.
My grade school,
vacant. Squat buildings
sealed like coffins-
Offensive in their stark
abandonment.
Each German shepherd coerced
with a bullet-
or a nylon noose. Each year,
another house. It is
why I fled-
I could hear death
pacing behind those

boarded windows.

67

"lulululu