Connecting Light by Frank B. Ford This book of 61 poems is (c) copyright Frank B. Ford. For all rights refer to the author. An on-line version of this work, with other works by Frank B. Ford, is available on the World Wide Web at: http://las.alfred.edu/~combeff ________________________________________________________________________ Connecting Light by Frank B. Ford Contents 1. Young Italian Girl Resting On Her Elbow--Cezanne 2. Running to Light 3. Clothesline Visitation 4. Trio 5. Linking the Miracles 6. At The Elevation 7. Two Met 8. Where 9. The Plan 10. Civilization 11. Bursted 12. Nighthawks, after Hopper 13. Viewed as Drama 14. Way It's 15. To Tamzen On Her Fortieth Birthday 16. Stream 17. The Matter With Us 18. From dark the floating 19. The German Lesson 20. Human Potential 21. Kamikazie 22. Prayer To My Daughter 23. The Peach Boy 24. Black Frost 25. Against the Deck 26. Living Nonsense 27. Mineral Baths--Bursa, Turkey 28. Sung To the Tune of Anything At All 29. Using Air 30. Reply 31. Departure at Twilight 32. At Sounion 33. Three Shortstops 34. Scoring 35. From the Fishing Pier (Nam Decade) 36. Generation 37. The Terrorist 38. The Plain Answer 39. At the University 40. Farce Averted 41. Those Two Again 42. Calling It a Day 43. Home 44. Coastal Graveyard in Branford, Connecticut 45. 4th of July 46. Beer and Sandwich On the Road 47. Overheard 48. Language and the Marketplace 49. There'll Always Be Us 50. The Chance 51. Dentist 52. The Territory 53. Shy 54. Defining Hope 55. Ay 56. The Moment 57. In Our Cold Stars 58. The Hand In the Future 59. Directing The Scene 60. The Grove 61. Visions of the Yale Library __________________________________________________________________ _Young Italian Girl Resting On Her Elbow--Cezanne _ Such indolence becomes the light encounter- ing her and him and us. What is the art of years but connecting light? __________________________________________________________________ Running to Light the river and the snow are taken by their shadows becoming darkness with a sound searching light: finding the moon it thrashes it to ribbons. Rewound at an eddy then revolving whole and cold. __________________________________________________________________ Clothesline Visitation She releases sheets to wind. They snap brilliances rowing the swollen green- blue earth to sudden Him, a nave radiating blacks a- gainst hot, belly- ing waves. __________________________________________________________________ Trio What has fallen? Most obviously along the wet floor of the woods, trees, but of what human sense, spirit? In our walk, words dessicating mid-syllable what once was labeled a far-away look, a man and a woman, something is being done with a tree. __________________________________________________________________ Linking the Miracles light sung round the chalice and round the priest thrusting up the host, sunbright her face exploding the front row. __________________________________________________________________ At The Elevation of the Host St Mary's paint smell mixed with cloying cold cream + HEAT pipes HAMMERED you out of drifted sleep CLAMMY and there IT is BAD BOY and growing on 12! oh my GOD and what NOW? __________________________________________________________________ Two Met Each turns the glow to knife between _o hold us dark cupped, sun- set-rimmed. Spin us free when we have drunk this shimmering between._ __________________________________________________________________ Where the curve flows to become everywhere people walk in fields amid the flaring stones and trees, the grasses described by birds, and each is what touches. __________________________________________________________________ The Plan We go our separate ways to separate our ways to go our ways separate to separate our going to ways of separate ways of going separate we go our separate ways of going separate to our separate ways of separate going to our ways separate we go we separate we go separate to separate to go our separate ways. __________________________________________________________________ Civilization _The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton._ --Wellington On the playing fields of Eton I assumed my fair turn in New Haven Yalie bells held us as in a vise, through mine fields since missing the notices haphazardly posted a- mong the swells of cricketeers and footballers, the rise of dust in dusk, cool-edged. There's a good chap when you miss your middle-class leg. __________________________________________________________________ Bursted At the library display brown ink, browner-splotched page in application for a pedlar's license: "gun bursted" and he could thus no longer farm, that one arm hanging useless. Rushing! some farm wife and kids, she the point of V towards the lurch and buzz and rattle of his coming down their lane. Oh she at any rate would know the meaning of the stoutest pot he sold and yet this slightest fabric for a dress would float to her the more she kept ahead of paddlers through that brilliant dust-- their muffled, fussy cries. Those crazed from life should sell to us. __________________________________________________________________ Nighthawks, after Hopper The world, of course, is dead. It was my father's as this could be Nickel Charlie's, the all-night restaurant next to Loew's Poli in New Haven where he'd repair after the graveyard shift on the Journal-Courier. A linotype operator his fingers swam beside a window propped up by Four Roses against a smothering night. Wasn't, though, this lead and whiskey universe he died from since he retired punching the copy out of tape under a livid, technical flourescence--which is of my world of course. And I must sit among these waiting nighthawks to become the one who shows a slice of face and who observes the hard-edged guy, nondescript in the dark suit of his time with gray fe- dora and black band. I wear it too, sniffing the coffee, hearing the chromium hiss of the polished urns, watching the redhead check her nails. Diner of the Heart. A blondish counterman thrusts down his arms like old women washing clothes in the rivers which erode exhausted cities. The redhead played 367 for a year and it came out the day she stopped. I say nothing, having myself run out of numbers, bad luck entombed in the wool of my suit. But then I mumble past the obligation of our unconcern that I'll play it, three, six, seven staring out at nothing from the bright space of terror. She says play a quarter for me. __________________________________________________________________ Viewed as Drama the war's a disappointment thus said D. W. Griffith, FILMMAKER. Anthony Sangrossa, BUTCHER, rocks his cleaver, its discs of dreamy light. __________________________________________________________________ Way It's after shooting the redundant general and staring in the mirror how old I look __________________________________________________________________ To Tamzen On Her Fortieth Birthday Undoubtedly you'll get this crap from others: Life begins @ 40 etc. . .you're not getting older you're getting better--yeah all the Hallmark cliches showering down to spice the big day up. Right! Uh huh. (I hear your edged voice) The heart at any rate is not as clever as the cards; it knows itself moment by moment in love and in hate and in loneliness, despair, and joy. . . so often also in that ravaging war within itself. Your blood plunges on to its own beat, mocking time to let you taste a memory more real than now, the memory of a child. And I alone among your friends can speak to you, that little girl, about your Father's world, for I have breathed the air of those same places, like Kimpo Air Base where he must have touched down at the least, and where I stood in rain that iced the brilliant spotlights to hear a shivering, incomprehensible Scot read my name from a list containing many who would die. And I am twenty and could be dead soon and am totally unafraid. I have money for women and booze and yet, too, I want to get to Tokyo to stay alone in a hotel that Frank Lloyd Wright designed, earthquake-proof, floating on a sea of mud--and just to say I stayed there. I love that wild and shy and scholarly young man both for his sins and his sweet intents. And I embrace him as you must embrace yourself today. I am twenty then,half your years,and if in the midst of a magic space we meet, both at that age,and touch fingertips to fingertips and stare into each other's eyes,perhaps that selfsame magic can extract some pain from the ensuing years and even bring your Daddy back to you borne up by love on some pure sea of vision. I know. I know. Images crazy and fanciful. Get real, Frank!@ I invent your voice again. It stops me,for what it really says is never give your heart away. But it changes nothing. Our voices change nothing. What sustains us is our power to love and nothing else. Only that will take that grudge you cannot purge from out your heart,those wry distrusts. Then will you float lovely as you are upon your life, but not before. When you are still and know. __________________________________________________________________ Stream our part in stopping forever fails, I place the boat mid- spring past a wave of light blossoms by your glistening wrist always desire trails it back, the mind listening, listening __________________________________________________________________ The Matter With Us It is cold we have made once more narrowing the blaze to this still point to turn and to ponder dispassionately concentrating grains of fire-sung ice keen as the much folded tip of a Japanese sword. __________________________________________________________________ From dark the floating voice where I had gone to feel more alone, thinking I was, and then our sergeant's words, the straining wind off ropes outside the tent. "You okay now?" _Yeah they said little flu. Pills they give me._ "Others. Gone." _I know._ "No. Hit mine. Got word. Radio." Shoving us boys up onto the throbbing truck, renewing all the giggling by hauling me back off then for the medics--"His war be- gins tomorrow!" But on they jeered and hooted and are still lurching away from the sun, faces like singing grapefruit. __________________________________________________________________ The German Lesson The women in one camp fucked the guards for toilet paper. (To what base uses do we all etc.?) To see us mincing proudly now so coy and FAT. __________________________________________________________________ Human Potential We want the language as a friend who'll tell a gentle joke We'll always go out for coffee forgetting to eye the gauges: The leaders must hold this engraved. Well, our own friend's actual head is gone. Anybody can't hear jokes is quite exact. __________________________________________________________________ Kamikazie means divine wind. On trains the young men carried a ball of rice in leaves, they headlong, reverent, would have the shit blown out of them, war being this sort of capital concern as now a drink by the same name by the same name. __________________________________________________________________ Prayer To My Daughter What I'd like to have for you is a good liar only he can tell the truth with conviction since evidently he knows what it is as contrasted to his obvious duplicity refusing to lie to himself. So therefore when you have him you really got something true and more solid than an alleged good man like your father who unfortunately doesn't have a daughter. __________________________________________________________________ The Peach Boy I bring my GI Orient and Paul, 4, his dubbed cartoon of Saturday morn- ing monsters in outer space yet he hasn't much to lose as I exclude Sigmund's and Carl's inner-space hardware store cause the play opens with the father discovering this great peach in a stream, and once home the old couple uncover a baby inside as samisens bridge my life in sound back to a small dim room of a Tokyo club where a guy picks a tune from this white baby grand and I'm in raw company alone then, with my girl better and worse I'm tearing at a steak and throwing back Nip- pon beer. Cocksure, but she's hushing me now, because the guy composes, the pale lid floating inclined on his smoky progressions in my sliding mind the Peach Boy has grown up, is prowling the audience when from his silk, peach light widens over little Paul beautifully glow meets glow. Where's the dragon? he asks just so we're all peach children, grand babies born to save the world, rope the ogres round. Now the Peach Boy's finally up to that onstage. The witch knifing in she's run through for her trouble. It has to be to move us to a place where a far dark house and tree press moon and clouds between. Water spreads to us from there. In the muted air and soft-lit spill are all of my selves still with Paul's. We name all we see and think eternally, a lake. __________________________________________________________________ Black Frost The kiss among diving trees as from the jack-o-lantern house the dread- ful speeches of our other out- wreathing in a cone. Shadows harrowing the stones, we dream ourselves in breath. __________________________________________________________________ Against the Deck she was thin in ways ay she was as thin in places aces were wider, snide reluctant queens and fat jacks held their spots; lots of pain rained on hands and has. __________________________________________________________________ Living Nonsense Who can treat the meaning- lessness? No doctor or priest telling you you're not the first, thrusting whatever text through emptiness of air, that air where you are indeed first: Alpha in the hollows whistling your name. It's important not to think because you never know what might start you out from the white scarves. As like the weather, it's, than any idea, something like a wave comes in time or doesn't. __________________________________________________________________ Mineral Baths -- Bursa, Turkey Steam lifts to the rotunda, its art of running arabesques around windows thick and old, aswarm with aurioles. Down here the men soon draw apart, spurning visionary air for modesty. The wives within their separate rooms play fast and loose with luminosity, stream in flesh inseparable from light. Paradise may be a place we never know where things leave off. I know a mo- ment swims in sight, those misted baths in Bursa where Woman flows as light. __________________________________________________________________ Sung To the Tune of Anything At All The sailor danced the whole insinuated night, went along home, hers, to his dismay. Her apparatus like his own, though greater, he beat to death this epicine coquette. Papers made a lot of it, asking who is safe, but at the trial he swung the hirsute jury by detail. A college town thus used to universals, it rankled to a man, both black and blond: First to be deceived, and then outdone. __________________________________________________________________ Using Air of a buttered morning a coed in legwarmers bound for Poly Sci and yet they signal rasping practice boards be- neath an icy glow, ad- junct not to art but pain splayed out after a rag doll flop. The newest anything jives sweaty trial and its impure collapse. A stylish hat is softly cool in form- ing light. The old heart heaves to burn- ing work. __________________________________________________________________ Reply You said I was pretty that evening of a thousand birds, their wings beat darkly up from your soft mouth, sweeping the moon away. The few who come here now drop at odds. Querulous. Chatter. Old old old! So your sighing friend has journeyed from your new village asking me to write you after. . .too long. The moon, just having risen, trembling- edged upon the water in his cedar cup. She is dead then? Those who have died are as a swarm of hands beckoning an older moon this long white evening to drown our shadows. __________________________________________________________________ Departure At Twilight Soft airs raise the women, each face a swinging blaze, their earrings swaying glimmers into cars suspended in a cold liquidity. Sinking to a knee, a gold surrounded man, struck through this first time to his heart of hearts. __________________________________________________________________ At Sounion of a morning woven over stone I bump camera then smock. We share a mist wherein I must refuse, no dreamy photographs desired: my- self and nothing. Stavros, he of ghosty smock, is ticked at me. It rises as a litany to an imagined sun. I jab along the slippery rocks for cooler idioms, finally to divine lovers (Byron's one) who have scratched their hearts to ruins. Spooners weave through our academies shunning all the moves to set their dreaming steps to music more appropriate. Or so I later feel with ouzo at the shivering cafe before sun fairly rockets through and temple can assert in flame, informing wave on wave of rain the wisdom of arrangment past this opalescent glass. __________________________________________________________________ Three Shortstops Feat you've gotten the intellectual shove: reasons for everything and no love. Corona River You a- nother. Centuries: which? The Necessity of Sleaze in Language I looked up her dress in the Sears' catalog [1]|next [2]|contents [3]|previous | __________________________________________________________________ Scoring Tuck drove at the basket as the rocket curved, released the ball to find its softest high be- neath the swinging bulbs. We never saw it drop at hands thrust up.They dug out the both of us from the others & we fuzzed through hospitals. A year ripped off,we met again, something like blood with anyone not blown away.His last trip here was made on snow so back we go at frozen tracks, & beg of a sunken doctor once more to mark him down enough in his fast-darkening room, where ice is eating out all the windows he must ritually punch towards me "Keep at the books;just don't..." Turn away from his cracking looks & "Why?"I ask then, why anything? No answer for his face falls off. __________________________________________________________________ From The Fishing Pier (Nam Decade) Far out the surfers start their ride. The day is gloss and wind and wide And I have come to get a rest From _Time_ and Kodachromes of death. The wind makes dervishes of sand And bathers shroud their shiny tans, The surfers now are coming fast, Upright, tight, then slickly past. The clouds would seem to shred the sun, The sea threads white and slides down spun, The last wave peaks and surfers sag While plunging into rubber bags. __________________________________________________________________ Generation Joe and Madeline graduated Cornell & went on to Ph (got married) Ds @ NYU. gestured intensively as they rapped a concept till it, surrounded, surrendered. Somehow though it galled their living for thought the rent was scrounged up & the bread got bought, bed often enough made & unmade etc. Two kids bridged their discussions like afterthoughts. They tuned out Joe and Madeline's mouth. __________________________________________________________________ The Terrorist I wait as have others. You strike at your wish or may not I know your demands and have al- ways. __________________________________________________________________ The Plain Answer The logic of a dream is in it, you learn but needn't then. The walking life cannot play fair with its burden of desire. So how find the dream of a day? Enter the rose, ask how it knows. __________________________________________________________________ At the University Strutting memorial stones a pigeon fantails between boy scholars untrue to anything might take looking into, girls aswing with a something nothing can propound, bi- cyclists boring under the latest shit on man falling out the window. __________________________________________________________________ Farce Averted Will she live with her little panties here? Walk around in her underwear? I'm not so mature that the shadow of her snatch won't make a fearful difference thus with all dark images it must be left at that: No Chance. __________________________________________________________________ Those Two Again Snow is crystalgeometrics fused to hood a knobby world. In art things turned are fired to glaze, perfect, caught there right before a crazed drunk wrecks the shop, must be dealt with, giv- en booze and meat to keep his unkempt soul till snow confides once more outside the window, sticks around to smooth hung- over light. __________________________________________________________________ Calling It A Day The Surrender to the Fools was effected with mimimum pomp--to their sheerest miff for they had arrived in fool regalia: gowns and suits and hoods and badges, bright chains of office. Instead their capitulators gave wry, exhausted speeches. . .out of order, off in pace but the snapped-back fools smiled grandly through them all, surrounding each whistling irony and wish- ing everybody all the best elsewhere, knowing there's no such place. __________________________________________________________________ Home Where I come from we never really lived (so we said and did) and here I'm stranger still for some place won't answer. There's pleasure on paths that birds blur ahead. They're joining us to song. __________________________________________________________________ Coastal Graveyard in Branford, Connecticut The frugal spaces as if Yankees embraced the dirt down un- to them. Above, salt-scoured markers rippling in exhaust from DATSUN & McDONALDS. (We must seem to ripple too inside the supermarket's window.) A stone shakes at the end of vision. OFF THE COAST OF BRAZIL we had earlier browsed. The girl scans barcodes off our frozen food. _Where water is the jungle, bronze and green, shrieking birds of teal-streaked apricot throng massive heat, drop hushed in ribbons past the dripping palms. Through swollen calm, thence shadowing a dusk- smoked wave which slides, an amorist's shoulder._ __________________________________________________________________ 4th of July Ketchup Corvette cradling this winking blonde bangs at the light with my shuddering Dart hey big wink for real? mid shimmers of SUN- OCO & EXXON & GULF & WESTERN CLOTHING SOLD HERE PIZZA KING BEER BURGER BOY WENDYS the para- bolic piss of those Golden Arches & ARBYS fries onions busting through these coarse grains my A- merican Blonde shouldering diesels hiss in stinks of asphalt oil & grease glossy ex- plosions of a thousand cars in shiny black parking lots puddling suns O my America & O my new girl quick inside your own raw wave hey America I'm your native son hanging in there hard in army pants neon-nylon jacket rocking my self-destructing motor in a ***ROUTE 1 ECSTASY*** she's off @ spectral green stands on the brakes then lays down rubber fishtailing into BUSTERS WATER HOLE her hair snaps acetylene. __________________________________________________________________ Beer and Sandwich On The Road I'M THE GREATEST POLACK EVER INVENTED WHAT'RE YOU? American. HUH! YOU AINT NO FUCKIN IND-IAN! Then Irish extraction I'll have to say. YOU'LL HAVE TO SAY SHIT! DON'T USE NO 50-CENT WORDS ON ME! IRISH: SHIT IN BED AND KICK IT OUT SO DON'T GIVE ME NO POLACK JOKES NEITHER I HEARD EM ALL AND I DON'T TAKE EM SERIOUS--NOT STUPID ENOUGH. __________________________________________________________________ Overheard I aint no CHURCH person you know what I MEAN? All that STUFF! I gotta get OUTA there. But everybody should go. __________________________________________________________________ Language and the Marketplace If the particular whore enjoys an icecream cone why blame her? O see can you say she should rather essay honest work for her coin, but's lacking the mere what? Push? Guts? Not the latter certainly: Beings courageous omit the metaphor we fearfuls live with and are, therefore. __________________________________________________________________ There'll Always Be Us Eat beans AMERICA needs the gas, and in the event of nuclear attack, put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye. The people'll save us, yes after all the politicians' twirling lies, their suck- ing dry the public tit, it's the love of the people makes light of the world. __________________________________________________________________ The Chance FEW TIMES I CAN AFFORD DELTA I WATCH PARTS OF MY FATHER'S DYING IN HOLLYWOOD FLORIDA CAUSE BIG C GOT HIM OH YEAH NO APPEAL & HE ASKS ME TO FIX UP THE DART GET IT INSPECTED YOU KNOW SO HE CAN DRIVE WHEN HE KNEW HE NEVER WOULD & THEN THE MECHANIC TELLING ME THE ONE EDGEY THING. WASN'T SURE BRAKES'D PASS. _YOU DRIVE AROUND IN THERE & THEY TEST THINGS TELL YOU SOMETHING TO DO & THEY READ A DIAL BUT STAY AWAKE & WHEN THEY SAY BRAKES REALLY HIT EM! SOMETIMES IF YOU..._ & I'M STANDING OUT IN BACK THERE WHILE HE AIMS THE HEADLIGHTS AT A CHART INSIDE & I'M WATCHING HIS BODY MAN HAMMER SUN INTO BLOTCHES OF OIL IT LOOKED A WHOLE AWFUL JUMBLE OF DUSTY WEEDS & JUNK PARTS SHAKING ON THE HEAT & THERE'S NO WAY & NEVER COULD BE ANY WAY TO TELL YOU GREG HOW GLORIOUSLY I STOMPED ON THE FUCKERS! __________________________________________________________________ Dentist He explains decay in morning light, I phrase colors of the corrugated shed three stories down, changing the language as light changes and when it stops, the words must continue in order to save us. We say too much and yet at a still point are graced. He says his speech again--no use to talk to me. But then I listen since we are all of us forgiven. __________________________________________________________________ The Territory A current phrase or two having to do with finding oneself. What acquire? What own? The danger of both. __________________________________________________________________ Shy the shy experience daily pain those moments so benign to others are really Being forced to Crisis and even knowing that this too shall pass they do eventually wear thin, then breathe a bit before they breathe their last _Amen_ __________________________________________________________________ Defining Hope Let your veins drink where other veins were let. Kneel on stones from whence blood was almost scoured. (All acts following this as useless.) Nearby, a petal down a stream. . .petals, showering onto a stream, a stream of petals. __________________________________________________________________ Ay There is and is not a rub. It has acquired your wearing thin. Times you thought you gave up. Dreams are in themselves arguments. __________________________________________________________________ The Moment Evening is a river of shadows rushing the trees un- till you hear water and are not sure that it is wind or that dark itself can run. Knowing that you can't be sure of anything alone then, breathe your question. __________________________________________________________________ In Our Cold Stars An old car waits in the terrific sun. We turn away a moment to adjust our shapeless clothes and stand for it, the camera, dreaming and haste in our mouths. We want no part of it now, this ferocity of self. We have terror in our mouths. The wind blows stinging grit. Where is it from? We must find out. It is not history, It is not photographs. __________________________________________________________________ The Hand In The Future We are composing ourselves as the photographer composes. Our being guided and guiding him and each solely directing such limited chaos making us free in a way of the result. For one certainly can't hand it to the photographer. The moment shown over and over must not be an accident or the prejudice of one eye and one waving arm. But to say it is us we were vital- ly promising everyone. __________________________________________________________________ Directing The Scene This night river breaks the grasses. I touch air enough to hear children in the fragrances, in the river-wind woods holding seige, their voices fire against the trees. The children become a music. The river is a darker music. I thrust my hand in it it bends everything together. __________________________________________________________________ The Grove Those leaning pines with sparse and floating branches, the sea behind thinned here and there by light: A Japanese print before I'd seen one. Does the scene exist before the artist makes it so? He makes another and he makes it too. As I do once again listening to music. I don't think such nonsense at 20 at that sea-brushed Imperial Navy Hotel as then the giggling maids clean up after Americans. I know they giggle more at us than they ever did at them, the cultural differences-- the way we laugh at signs like NOT TO BE SAFETY OF SWIMM. I can't put Galway out of that young place woven like the fragrances off sand and pine through notes running from my record here, his flute clean-cut along the trees and sea and funny signs. Weaving in and out of time. Folk melodies from turn-of-century Japan he plays and I sense that scattered grove a century before hotels and such, a farmer hums a tune from his own life and that is history. The wind in from the sea is not benign. But one day it is again and the painter sets his easel up. He has had his coffee and needs nothing more today than the trying to make art the way and not the way the wind is music the way and not the way the light informs. Whatever we find out there is there for us and despite us and despite the heartbreak years. Tell the composer at Auschwitz, the dancer at Hiroshima, all your fine ideas. __________________________________________________________________ Visions Of The Yale Library where a sari insinuates scholars, in hunches, eyes above blond glasses diving then to proof as she is by and by the checker, dour enthroned: both subsumed as the doorway widens to mercury noon. At lunch she'll laugh away a junior's suave ennui at George and Harry's, nod on cue, wring teabag a- gainst spoon. His Despair slouching towards Elegance she stares past. . .outside bright cars contend. . . and past that old penultimately randy inference, thence right to breathing tea wherein a somebody unfocusses his gravest evidence in time to glimpse along a scintillant, inner eye a spiritual dress. __________________________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________________ _Frank B. Ford_ is a poet, playright, and fiction writer residing in Philadelphia, PA. His poems and stories have appeared in various magazines, and his plays have been performed at, among others, Guthrie 2 in Minneapolis, and New York Stageworks. This is his first volume of poetry. Other works by the same author: WATERMAN appears in _Guthrie New Theater (Vol. 1)_ Mr. Ford welcomes email at ford@cpcn.com, or via postal mail at: Frank B. Ford c/o The Greene Street Artists 5225 Greene Street Philadelphia, PA 19144-2927 phone: 215.848.7385 ______________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________end