Shattered Visions

An artist promised art

in return for our rental one summer, while we were away—

a four-walled mural in our bathroom,

her vision of the lower Manhattan panorama

from high up on our roof.

Two winters later, at the end of the final peaceful year of the millennium,

a rampant kitchen blaze brought firemen

from the nearby stations

to save the day.

Containing the small conflagration,

brave men ate smoke, saved us from homelessness.

To be sure there weren’t rogue flames hiding within,

They broke through wallboard here and there.

The men who would answer the final call

ten months down that long road –

who would be shattered then—

themselves shattered

the sketchy images on one wall

of the Twin Towers.

Looking for fire….

And the day came.

And they found fire.

A bike ride away, smoke and flame--

the whole world crumbling,

glued to the tube,

though I could stand in the open air

and behold the funeral pyre

without a voice over.

I didn’t know of the friends yet,

but faced grim knowledge,

remembrances of those I tested,

in rigorous obstacle courses,

who would later graduate the Fire Academy…

which ones might have died there too
beneath the rubble of world peace?

Dawn struck,

confused, disoriented

where to go, what to feel,

I bought a dozen white roses

and mad-staggered

to the firehouse off Houston on Sixth,

stood outside gaping.

It was too early for lists

or to decide on the proper graphics or

know what names to include…to be finally and fatally sure.

Yet there, surrounded by candles and flowers,

a lone firefighter’s portrait

in a simple frame.

I did not see a name,

but I knew the certainty of such memorials.

Noticed the tall young man

leaning against the building,

pensive, hands in pockets, eyes downcast.

A vigil of one.

I asked him,

“Did many men from this station house die?”

“He did,” nodding at the photo.

“He was my brother.”

Great dams have burst at lesser provocation.

I shattered  into spasms of grief,

embraced him, and—before stumbling back through

the poison air of the day—

thrust the roses into his arms.

I had no words.

I just went away.

Who Knew?

 (50th anniversary of the murders of Andrew Goodman and friends)

Some meetings have too much on their agendas.

I should have shown him the future—

bare-assed, barefoot little brown-skinned kids,

fifteen years later,

adopted by Apple--

near their hovels

a flagship computer school.

Quonset efficiency

in the filth of a cliff-hanging mountain slum

in the mountainous state of Guerrero.

Who knew that the other stuff on the agenda

would seem too joyous

and ripe with tropicality,

in comparison to the Deep South

and its strange fruit?

No fruit grew on that crusty mountainside,

but he didn’t know that.

Who knew that he’d walk in

on a way out?

He did not join us builders…did not find the barrio montañoso

barren but hopeful,

as did we who went.

Who knew?

Not Andy.

He had no idea that

there were those dark country roads,

beat-up old cars with headlights off,

tailing.

Who knew the trade off?

It would have been easy

to find hope in the buzzing slum

of Pedro Martín.

He would have blessed his summer of ‘64

spent in the charcoal-smoky, crumbling hillsides,

sleeping in a half-built schoolroom,

covering his hands with callus,  

or tearing a toenail, trying to stop a

runaway wheelbarrow,

or lurching back in dreams ever-after,

for having turned over a nest

of simple deadly scorpions.

Who knew that a nest of scorpions

could wear the badges of law?

Who knew that he would be there and I here?

And while he toyed with a certainty

unknowingly,

who knew that that certainty

would zero-in on him and his friends?

"You Can Do It!" I Said to Them

I stood at home plate

when Jeff Hardy was cooking on the mound,

serving up smokin’ softball strikes,

but I never sat before a plate of his food,

and I certainly never advised him

to take that head chef job,

that month,

up on the eighty-first floor.

Years before she changed her name,

my married eyes lusted after Debbie Jacobs,

yet I never acted, staying true to my vows.

But neither did I ever tell her

to put on the United Airlines garb,

or to get on Flight 93,

or to get her throat cut

fighting for the lives of her passengers.

But I did take that city job in ninety-five,

testing young guys who’d been raised

playing with long, red toy trucks,

now striving to be real firemen.

I failed the ones not up to it,

some who were carried out on stretchers,

and I passed the sweaty

and joyous survivors of the ordeal,

helped them out of the heavy gear

they wore in their half hour of hell.

To all of them, pass or fail,

I had said “You can do it!”

I tested three hundred and two thirds failed

but to those who went on to training

hoping to graduate from the academy

I said “You can do it!”

And they did.

They were a pride that I took personally

that I harbored

as though they were me

never guessing what their final calling would be.

If I can be glad of anything

it’s that I ignored the rules as the test was ending

and wrote about it—other than on the rating sheets—

and took personal notes

as all-too-brief biographies

of the victorious men

in the fifty-pound vests

spilled from my pen.

On September 12^th, 2001

I found these six-year-old notes:

January 26^th, 1995: William Johnston--scored 100%

William’s got my general build:

six feet, a hundred and eighty pounds.

His head of chestnut hair has been given a bowl cut

and he was wearing an earring in his left ear;

February 2, 1995:—my last day 
as Special Examiner, Firefighter Physical:

Adam David Rand scored 100%--

Adam installs tile these days.

He is here for a rescheduled test,

due to faulty equipment the first time.

He’s about five-five, a hundred and fifty pounds.

One of the strongest and best so far…

On nine-eleven, William Johnston

was with Engine 6, Manhattan,

and Adam Rand came to die with

Squad 288 from Queens.

“You can do it,” I told them.

She's Back Again

SHE’S BACK AGAIN--art gatti

Curses hurled, with her hips a-sway,

she turned her back and she walked away--

and I didn’t try to think a lot about it.

She hid her lusts in a foreign land

where I could not speak

and I had no hand

and I wandered lost and far too starved of wonder.

She still can’t love, but she sure can make it. Make it take it shake it break it.

I’m only here for the bone-crunch ride, holding on to what’s left inside.

She still can’t love me, but she sure can take me

Make me, shake me—just try to break me!

I had no words, for the birds had flown,

she had her motives and I my own,

we fished the lakes alone

without a permit.

              

But eagles soar above the din,

they knock on doors and you let them in,

and this standoff is the cause of shock and thunder.

She still can’t love, but she sure can make it. Make it take it shake it break it.

I’m only here for the bone-crunch ride, holding on to what’s left inside.

She still can’t love me, but she sure can take me

Make me, shake me—just try to break me!

She’s here again, no hat, no hand,

wondering if I’ll join the band,

smiling like the shit of old just never came about.

I want my hands in a fleshy grasp,

parting her rippled cute-ass ass,

showing her the man I always have been.

The poet must emerge again,

show her where and show her when

in the log of love Eros inked our names out.

The way to go’s not clear quite yet,

the peace we seek’s not quick to get, 

but loving may at long last let the dogs in.

She still can’t love, but she sure can make it. Make it take it shake it break it.

I’m only here for the bone-break ride, holding on to what’s left inside.

She still can’t love me, but she sure can take me

Make me, shake me—just try to break me!