The following poems were written in Pittsburgh, PA 1976-1979
I was enrolled in the graduate writing program, taught a special workshop at the University, and was poetry editor for Backspace, the literary journal of the University of Pittsburgh.

Engle The Thumbsucker

 

He'd chase the girls with his wet thumb,

threaten to kiss them. He'd hold

his thumb out proudly, like a coveted toy

no one wanted to share.

"C'mere Rick" we'd laugh.

He'd run over to laugh with us

someone would kick at him and he'd blink,

his face kept smiling. We'd laugh again.

It was hard laughter. It wasn't earned.

 

In second grade even mothers weren't sacred,

Engle's talked with mine during the school play.

I was mocked for days. I blamed him,

threatened him, he didn't realize

I had no courage - he ran home. I hid

from my friends until dinnertime.

 

It was his wetness that frightened us.

The distance hasn't aged the fears, even now

I take from Him. I make a poem

from his childhood, not mine.

Some nights, I speak in solemn tones;

think hard for simple times. I convince myself

I never treated him badly.

Homecoming

 

On Graham Ave and Harrison

place, a woman stirs

raisins and carrots over a low flame.

In this Paterson a woman spreads newspaper

on the floor for Friday. Yellowed tile

huddles behind the paper, thick like fatigue.

 

In someone's bedroom we crowd

whispers into corners, push glances

at paintings of crooked men with beards.

We are the great grandchildren with half smiles

counting dominoes on our fingers.

If we are called we turn with respect.

 

She tells us the rules.

Ya don't kneel down to anyone

Ya drink milk with meat, ya die.

She pauses to stare down the street,

the boiled chicken is almost ready

there is juice in the icebox.

 

There is little breath in Paterson, now.

Twenty years has squeezed it like a stone.

Timeless old people have replaced those who

tempted Sabbath with newspaper. They don't

memorize rules anymore and I am thin

with memories. As a child I played dominoes

with my great grandfather.

 

I don't go back to Paterson.

It is hard and scabbed like an ill scalp.

I don't go back to Paterson,

my great grandmother's eyes float

deep in their sockets.

My Father's Father

 

Maybe he was a caterer or

trimmed fat from beef

behind a delicatessen counter;

I don't know. Widow, relatives

they know, but don't speak.

With a name meaning cornerstone

he came from Europe

to die early, leaving

the way he arrived,

like a stranger or a guest;

leaving one son one year

to be raised by grandparents

and a fistful of aunts.

 

In the thirties the right way to die

was to starve, you shouldn't

die having a tooth pulled -

there was no penicillin to stop

a poison when it grabbed a body

and shook it for days.

My father recalls him

as one handles a browned photograph

or smells a room for the first time.

 

In my father's dresser

things were hidden;

- naked women sprawled on playing cards

- prophylactics buried beneath carefully

rolled socks

- a box with cotton and a pocket watch

that didn't work.

As a child I savored these things

when my father was out.

 

Years later my father

brought home a pocket watch

he had restored at a jeweler's.

My mother said "After forty years."

My father smiled like a stranger.

Twice a day he winds it,

he listens to it hum.

The Fortunate

 

Stiff wool

stretched on a loom each strand

counted as Paterson waited

patiently for Uncle Chuck's eyes.

I remember the nights he struggled

to keep them.

 

Some were warpers, some

rolled spools of fiber

large as a bear onto

stake bed trucks.

The lucky threw a shuttle

through the warp, oblivious

like an old song.

 

Broadside of the old "Y" building

a sign, chapped like sore knuckles

says "Silk City

Paterson has industry for you."

 

Paterson has industry

it owns dignity.

I watch the "Y" chip

away like a laborer's smile.

Uncle Louie

 

We know the hair

sculpted in tufts, traced

around a soup bowl;

the thick belly that isn't his

fault alone. We are guilty

for his size. When sitting down

he splinters a chair

we won't laugh.

 

With tongs and sweat he'd

sling ice over his shoulder

for neighborhood women.

As street kids took

small chunks he'd squat

near the curb

memorize nickels.

 

And the year Louie blew

his nose during Thanksgiving

dinner. We flinched when

he mistook his handkerchief

for a napkin, unfolding and

tucking it in his collar.

 

His cough now, patient

as winter

finishes the history.

A security guard, chasing

the measured hallways.

He ignores the music

of pocket coins, whistling

like an old army buddy,

scuffing his shoes.

I am Gregory Corso

...I get up from my big papa chair saying
Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust -
from "Marriage", Gregory Corso 1960

a supermarket

is the place!

americans where

can see allen ginsberg talking

to walt whitman

inquiring as to why

gregory corso might be

squeezing

unripened tomatoes

and i am gregory corso

 

where little children

run through overripe mothers'

skirts

to grab at their piece

of america's fruit

and i am gregory corso

 

where blondhaired blueeyed

perfect

thirteen year olds

meet the minimum daily ginsberg

requirements

and i am gregory corso

 

how do i explain

i don't resemble him

at all

i don't know him

but slightly, through

revelation, even then for briefly

yet i am he

 

stop me on the street

naked

ask my name

who knows what i'll answer

perhaps harry s. truman

yet i am gregory corso

 

listen.

I can say:

aspirin fire!

tobacco rain!

i can even say:

coffee martyr or

weeping ashes...

but this is not

judge

this is not

roman candle

this is tin whistle and

bowed violin

low

look hard, directly

through my

library starch

i am gregory corso