January 2024

Update 1/25 Janus would be proud –

In Memory of Vincent James Quatroche the 1st

Born 2/28/1901 Died 1/2/1939

Vincent Quatroche (my grandfather) on Drums circa 1935. Was killed in the backseat of a car asleep while the band was driving back from a gig in 1938 on New Years by a drunk driver who hit them head on the South Fork of Long Island He lingered briefly in the hospital into the new year of 1939. Vincent was 38 years old.

V.J.Q. the 1st

Back from a gig-

Small house. Good check.

Got to have that money up front.

Six hours in the car out of nine.

It rained and the road was twisted

in glistening black ribbons

that bound your back up in knots.

Now I’m safe and sound lit pumpkin content

looking at the orange glow of the marigold

blossoms from my garden cut and assembled in pickle jars.

And I’m thinking of you.

You were the musician. The drummer. The back beat.

A member in the SUFFOLK SERENADES.

You, asleep in the back seat of the car on the way

home from an engagement just after Christmas

that year. A drunk in the other lane crossed

the double line and ran the band’s car off the road.

You never regained consciousness.

You lingered in the hospital

until the afternoon of New Year’s day of 1939.

You died and left a widow called Dottie

who smoked Camels, who knew you screwed around

on the side and five kids, all under the age of

sixteen for her to raise by herself.

Your oldest son became and Artist.

His son a Poet.

Your son has told me stories about you.

The first Vincent James.

You were the grandfather I never met.

It is difficult to imagine you as I’m

older now than you ever grew.

Sometimes on nights like these when I’ve escaped your fate I think about it.

I think that the trio of us could have been

something in a room; I wonder if we’ll get the chance to find out in eternity.

Hey Vince,

the beer is cold tonight at my house.

White foam in a golden glow.

Maybe a little like it might have been in another glass in Southampton in 1923.

And on nights like this, at this hour, I can almost see

him smiling, saying with cool, hard shiny dark eyes,

“Yeah you’re bullshit, all right, a lot like your dad,

but in a different way, and if I had the chance and was

with you there tonight, I’d smack you in the side of your

head, with the back of my hand.

Another Rubber Eden V.J.Q. 3rd 11/1/91–97-2021

Year End

What fades in this so quickly

the moment of softness

a succession of muted lights

winking from brutal everyday corners

into the uncertain blackness of the future.

Tell me different, then

show me the hope that eludes

that promise of reconciliation

the purpose for these days that could provide

vibrancy and glory

The flip of the pages to a good passage

chapter and verse.

The voice that invites

the beckoning eyes that calls you

by name. Your way illuminated

by light that shows a path

between the awful dead ends of dull routine.

Where is my seat?

My tasks? My charges?

Who looks for me?

How will I recognize them?

Terrible Now is the time.

Terrible Now can only be the time.

The time for release.

–Another Rubber Eden 1998/Retread Reissue 2020

NEXT !

                                      (For R.B)

The wonderful life Christmas is over

One tries not to be depressed.

Maybe re-read Brautigan’s piece

From 1963

Where he and his friend were

so depressed over Kennedy’s public execution

that they took pictures

of discarded Christmas trees

abandoned in the gutter

and then proceeded to get drunk

while watching a slide show of them later.

I get that.

All those rolls of left over wrapping paper

all about the place.

The lights that need to be taken down

before the neighbors start with

the “white trash” wisecracks

One thing you can say about Christmas

in this post modern area,

Once it’s over.

It’s dead.

A lot of build up.

A product orgy climax

And the day after ?

Forget about you

The day after Christmas

is like nailing a wood screw

into the back of an old friend

Who shows up once a year for a visit.

And as he walks out the door.

You slam and lock it on his heels

Hissing, “and don’t come back till next year,

You pain-in the-ass bastard.”

Thankful ?

Sure.

This year I was thankful I didn’t end up

in the paraplegic chair

in a nursing home in Baldwin

after that nasty fall

down the Cold War stairs

back in your hometown

that ended up with you

kissing some concrete.

Instead I made it back here on Christmas Eve.

Just in time to have a good cry

With Alastair Sims.

Greeting from Gridville   12/03