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Title: Sympathetic Magic
Author: Paul Cameron Brown
Release date: August 22, 2009 [eBook #29761]
Most recently updated: January 25, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYMPATHETIC MAGIC ***
Sympathetic Magic
By
Paul Cameron Brown
Copyright (C) 1985 by Paul Cameron Brown
CONTENTS.
|
The River Cuts a Channel Page 9Primavera Page 10 Sanguine page 11, 12, 13 Hamomlette page 14 The East is Red page 15, 16, 17 untitled page 18 untitled page 19 Rocking Horse page 20Rouge and Gray page 21Cubits page 22 Buzz Phrase page 23 Ambergris City page 24 Wincing page 25 Toronto page 26Crying Scene page 27Night Sky page 28The World of Tezcatlipoca page 29In the Cenote page 30Belize page 31, 32, 33, 34Picaroon page 35, 36, 37The Cable Car page 38IL Giardino page 39Every Man's Hand page 40, 41, 42Ending Up page 43Offerings page 44, 45, 46, 47Regalia page 48San Cristobal page 49, 50Guadalquivir page 51Leaves of the Cecropia Tree page 52, 53Southwark page 54Kublai Khan page 55, 56, 57Homuncular Forms page 58Antarctica page 59, 60Blue-eyed Grasses page 61Moccasin page 62The Bullfrog page 63Ancestral Memory page 64Entry Point page 65Bloodcount page 66BloodStream page 67Rogue and Privateer page 68The Camera Cage page 69Fence Line page 70Adversaries page 71Bargaining Unit page 72Palais Royale page 73Alcatraz page 74When Labouring to Break page 75This way to the Sixties page 76, 77Progrom page 78Braggadocio page 79, 80, 81Dress Rehearsal page 82, 83, 84
|
THE RIVER CUTS A CHANNEL
People with money but no fortune
or stomach for the life of an albatross,
watch him soar on self made wings,
fetch the dingy redness
of morning's, first catch
with a long necked bottle
he calls the captain
9
Back to the Contents Page
or stomach for the life of an albatross,
watch him soar on self made wings,
fetch the dingy redness
of morning's, first catch
with a long necked bottle
he calls the captain
9
Back to the Contents Page
PRIMAVERA
A poem is perishable and,
like it,
so much of life is spent
in intervals --
the jarring second
regaining consciousness,
a post-mortem flick
of the lank equestrian eyelid
that signals, morning's first crepuscular move.
. . . a little salad consciousness
about the tumescent room
with the sentient purr of a Cat,
her musky oils
a green verdure
lapping primordial scent
to engross a little readiness
as the day progresses
to its oedipal stage
and arrested development.
10
Back to the Contents Page
like it,
so much of life is spent
in intervals --
the jarring second
regaining consciousness,
a post-mortem flick
of the lank equestrian eyelid
that signals, morning's first crepuscular move.
. . . a little salad consciousness
about the tumescent room
with the sentient purr of a Cat,
her musky oils
a green verdure
lapping primordial scent
to engross a little readiness
as the day progresses
to its oedipal stage
and arrested development.
10
Back to the Contents Page
SANGUINE
"The clock indicates the hour but what does enternity indicate?"
Whitman
Imagine, being told cubism isn't painting. That
Beardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy genius
or Corot didn't come to Paris after all.
Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, the
intelligentsia sitting down to a ragged table
surrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not being
able to write his name.
Now that's splendour -- that's in-depth "feeling".
That's emotion to pull your socks or catch the bus on
a brittle day.
It's easy. Try to "feel" the event. It's 1896. People are
perturbed (or so we are told) because the century's
getting old. Time's rushing by. There's an alarm clock
set to buzz at eternity's gate, Midnight 1900.
In probing the malaise that hit Europe circa 1881,
psychologists would have us believe the world grew
despondent. Despondent because a whole hundred
year cycle was about to elapse; despondent because
life itself was running out. Those poor Edwardians!
Poor lovers of the elegant, the late Victorians, belle
epoquers. A penny for their thoughts when
confronting a Picasso without the vantage of
hindsight.
If Europe and its child bride, America, grew uneasy in
the declining years of the past century. How then our
era? (These same psychologists pinpoint people's
spirits rise in the opening years of a new century.)
Now we're poised for the "really big one": the
cataclysm. What a boon for the absurdists. Peaches
and cream -- not just one century dangling but the
culmination of ten.
There's even a word for it. Millenium, I'll say it again.
Better yet, a mere two millenia since Christ's
departure, we are poised again on the threshold. Half
& half. Like a party twelve pack -- six of one, half
dozen of the other.
Remember. when contemplating your ennui or
malaise (whichever word is currently most
fashionable), you can hardly figure for less. Eternity's
given to you, my peers, a singular opportunity. And
from what we know of the 20th century. it should be a
grand slam homer. Already the clean-up batter is
staged for action. The bat looms over the plate.
There's so much bad news it's enough to make an
optimist greedy. After all, with this much horror there
is caused only for danse macabre celebrations.
1985. Only 15 years left before the digital watch rolls
over. before the cannon with the flower pops out.
Those forward looking voyeurs of hundred years
back must have felt cheated when mentally reversing
their lot with the denizens of the 20th century.
In 1885, you could only gripe about the aging process
of a single tenth of one component. In 1985, you've got
that and the Millenia. Trendy things like atmospheric
pressure, negative ions, adverse body rhythms and a
welter of other pseudo impressive formula abound to
help out in your witchhunt.
Surprise. 1066 saw comets, omens. signs coded in
stars speeding across the sky -- a host of ditlurbing.
natural phenomena to boot. The vigilant saw meteors
at Caesar's, death.
The National Enquirer predicts Australia will break
into the sea. Californians will be upstaged. The
futurists will all need waterwings. The Club of Rome
hints the next years auger more chilling holocausts.
Everywhere, survival scenarios proliferate. Pro-lifers
will rearrange proverbial deck chairs on the
Titanic. Soothsayers will become all the rage as we
plot myriad escapes. A year's supply of canned goods,
anyone?
1885 has a lot to teach us. Umbrellas, a gentle ennui
like fine mist compounded by traffic in & out of the
Moulin Rouge. Perhaps a surfeit of absinthe helps just
as its equivalent does today. "Cheer up, there will
always be an England" doesn't sound so bad after all.
And there's always that one recruiting poster, "What
did you do in the Great War, daddy"?
11, 12, 13
Back to the Contents Page
Whitman
Imagine, being told cubism isn't painting. That
Beardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy genius
or Corot didn't come to Paris after all.
Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, the
intelligentsia sitting down to a ragged table
surrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not being
able to write his name.
Now that's splendour -- that's in-depth "feeling".
That's emotion to pull your socks or catch the bus on
a brittle day.
It's easy. Try to "feel" the event. It's 1896. People are
perturbed (or so we are told) because the century's
getting old. Time's rushing by. There's an alarm clock
set to buzz at eternity's gate, Midnight 1900.
In probing the malaise that hit Europe circa 1881,
psychologists would have us believe the world grew
despondent. Despondent because a whole hundred
year cycle was about to elapse; despondent because
life itself was running out. Those poor Edwardians!
Poor lovers of the elegant, the late Victorians, belle
epoquers. A penny for their thoughts when
confronting a Picasso without the vantage of
hindsight.
If Europe and its child bride, America, grew uneasy in
the declining years of the past century. How then our
era? (These same psychologists pinpoint people's
spirits rise in the opening years of a new century.)
Now we're poised for the "really big one": the
cataclysm. What a boon for the absurdists. Peaches
and cream -- not just one century dangling but the
culmination of ten.
There's even a word for it. Millenium, I'll say it again.
Better yet, a mere two millenia since Christ's
departure, we are poised again on the threshold. Half
& half. Like a party twelve pack -- six of one, half
dozen of the other.
Remember. when contemplating your ennui or
malaise (whichever word is currently most
fashionable), you can hardly figure for less. Eternity's
given to you, my peers, a singular opportunity. And
from what we know of the 20th century. it should be a
grand slam homer. Already the clean-up batter is
staged for action. The bat looms over the plate.
There's so much bad news it's enough to make an
optimist greedy. After all, with this much horror there
is caused only for danse macabre celebrations.
1985. Only 15 years left before the digital watch rolls
over. before the cannon with the flower pops out.
Those forward looking voyeurs of hundred years
back must have felt cheated when mentally reversing
their lot with the denizens of the 20th century.
In 1885, you could only gripe about the aging process
of a single tenth of one component. In 1985, you've got
that and the Millenia. Trendy things like atmospheric
pressure, negative ions, adverse body rhythms and a
welter of other pseudo impressive formula abound to
help out in your witchhunt.
Surprise. 1066 saw comets, omens. signs coded in
stars speeding across the sky -- a host of ditlurbing.
natural phenomena to boot. The vigilant saw meteors
at Caesar's, death.
The National Enquirer predicts Australia will break
into the sea. Californians will be upstaged. The
futurists will all need waterwings. The Club of Rome
hints the next years auger more chilling holocausts.
Everywhere, survival scenarios proliferate. Pro-lifers
will rearrange proverbial deck chairs on the
Titanic. Soothsayers will become all the rage as we
plot myriad escapes. A year's supply of canned goods,
anyone?
1885 has a lot to teach us. Umbrellas, a gentle ennui
like fine mist compounded by traffic in & out of the
Moulin Rouge. Perhaps a surfeit of absinthe helps just
as its equivalent does today. "Cheer up, there will
always be an England" doesn't sound so bad after all.
And there's always that one recruiting poster, "What
did you do in the Great War, daddy"?
11, 12, 13
Back to the Contents Page
HAMOMLETTE
A VICTIM OF INDIGESTION OR PATRICIDE?
MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORE
CHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARK
INGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THE
HUMAN CONDITION,
SENSELESS FORCES THAT
RAGE AND DESTROY A MAN
COOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLY
A PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICK
I KNEW HIM WELL...
14
Back to the Contents Page
MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORE
CHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARK
INGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THE
HUMAN CONDITION,
SENSELESS FORCES THAT
RAGE AND DESTROY A MAN
COOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLY
A PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICK
I KNEW HIM WELL...
14
Back to the Contents Page
THE EAST IS RED
We can survive a nuclear War. It's scarcely credible,
I know, but listen.
The human race has great resilience. We've come back
before -- all those plagues, the Black Death,
despoliations, scorched earth policies "prove" it.
We're proliferate and we love the sex act. It won't be
hard; human fecundity is a count-on. There are so
many of us, see.
People have overestimated the alleged horror. After
all, (Khruschev pounding a UN table with his shoes).
somebody walked away from firebombing at Dresden.
Look at at all the escapees in Hiroshima. Get the drift?
A Bomb's a Bomb. Really. The really big one (to take
Ed Sullivan'a phrase out of context) is just more of the
same. Try to absorb that logic. Ergo, Ignorance must
be, in toto strength.
Enraged by the impropriety of it all? Anyone who
disagrees with this is coarse and vulgar.
Of course there would have to be "preparations". (If
you have "to prepare" to be a hairdresser, it stands to
reason you would have to ready yourself for this.)
Confronting, facts you can die only once. After that,
the mushroom cloud is anticlimactic. Remember the
Magic Mushroom -- the cult that centred its teachings
around Christianlty's debt to hallucegenic drugs?
Some said preposterous -- Christ a magician doping
his followers and using the Cross as a stage prop.
Amazing. In this world anything is possible. We have
finally created a mutant of people who eccept
anything. And God just another man, albeit a tricky
devil at that. Imagine fooling everyone for 2,000
years!
Next, we'll be told we're actually dead. I know some of
you have already suspected this but it will be
"confirmed". Our leaders will troopse out impressive
sounding "flow charts" and backup statistics. There
will even be a special chamber to experience what it
was like before you knew you were dead with
carefully monitored "response signals" to give the
audience a "sensasound" aura just like living through
an earthquake, only fake. Just remember Monty
Python and "possibility".
Meanwhile, in ensuing preparations for war, no
aspect of the psychological preparedness should be
overlooked. We don't have to be told there is no
substitute for victory.
"The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience
of a King." Hamlet knew. So does The Kremlin. The
KGB can "prove" a nuclear scenario is winnable.
According to the most painstaking calculations, a
conventional war of any duration "swings" into a pre-nuclear
stage. That's when the nuclear option
becomes "viable". That's when Gorbachev and the
boys calculate "target readiness" and plummet the
depths of the human spirit.
The East is Red and ready. The Chinese have been told
by Mao 300 million or their number cremated is a
small price for global supremacy. A human dung hill
is being set in motion for another generation of
poppies. Marx lends credibility to this, but with a
different opiate for the masses. The
lumpenproletariat can hack it. Such clever playing
with facts, now I understand genius.
For a young physicist, a 100 megaton blast is the
culmination of the creative spirit. Certainly
irrefutable evidence, this quintessential "spirit".
I read Toronto would be "messy" in the event of a
nuclear strike. Half-baked and eviscerated thinking
Or just inescaspable?
Chin up. We'll survive or at least part of us will. We
really are "malleable". It will be a "transitional stage",
a step upwards on the evolutionary ladder.
Radioactivity and genetics are at work with one
another.
When the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic device,
the pilot was later to go mad.
Maybe this has already happened to the world and
there's no one to discern the difference.
Maybe a forest of "maybes" has already sprouted and
left a forest of dust clouding the collective vision.
Maybe it's all too terrifying to be taken seriously and
disbelief is the escape hatch. Like the pilot's lapse into
comforting drugs for reassurance or the dervishes
with their Magic Mushroom.
Maybe it's closer to what Harry Truman announced
after "deploying" the first "device" or exercising the
nuclear option in the jargon of the strategists.
They started it. We prepared to end it. No regrets.
Turned over on his deathbed and went to sleep
15, 16, 17
Back to the Contents Page
I know, but listen.
The human race has great resilience. We've come back
before -- all those plagues, the Black Death,
despoliations, scorched earth policies "prove" it.
We're proliferate and we love the sex act. It won't be
hard; human fecundity is a count-on. There are so
many of us, see.
People have overestimated the alleged horror. After
all, (Khruschev pounding a UN table with his shoes).
somebody walked away from firebombing at Dresden.
Look at at all the escapees in Hiroshima. Get the drift?
A Bomb's a Bomb. Really. The really big one (to take
Ed Sullivan'a phrase out of context) is just more of the
same. Try to absorb that logic. Ergo, Ignorance must
be, in toto strength.
Enraged by the impropriety of it all? Anyone who
disagrees with this is coarse and vulgar.
Of course there would have to be "preparations". (If
you have "to prepare" to be a hairdresser, it stands to
reason you would have to ready yourself for this.)
Confronting, facts you can die only once. After that,
the mushroom cloud is anticlimactic. Remember the
Magic Mushroom -- the cult that centred its teachings
around Christianlty's debt to hallucegenic drugs?
Some said preposterous -- Christ a magician doping
his followers and using the Cross as a stage prop.
Amazing. In this world anything is possible. We have
finally created a mutant of people who eccept
anything. And God just another man, albeit a tricky
devil at that. Imagine fooling everyone for 2,000
years!
Next, we'll be told we're actually dead. I know some of
you have already suspected this but it will be
"confirmed". Our leaders will troopse out impressive
sounding "flow charts" and backup statistics. There
will even be a special chamber to experience what it
was like before you knew you were dead with
carefully monitored "response signals" to give the
audience a "sensasound" aura just like living through
an earthquake, only fake. Just remember Monty
Python and "possibility".
Meanwhile, in ensuing preparations for war, no
aspect of the psychological preparedness should be
overlooked. We don't have to be told there is no
substitute for victory.
"The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience
of a King." Hamlet knew. So does The Kremlin. The
KGB can "prove" a nuclear scenario is winnable.
According to the most painstaking calculations, a
conventional war of any duration "swings" into a pre-nuclear
stage. That's when the nuclear option
becomes "viable". That's when Gorbachev and the
boys calculate "target readiness" and plummet the
depths of the human spirit.
The East is Red and ready. The Chinese have been told
by Mao 300 million or their number cremated is a
small price for global supremacy. A human dung hill
is being set in motion for another generation of
poppies. Marx lends credibility to this, but with a
different opiate for the masses. The
lumpenproletariat can hack it. Such clever playing
with facts, now I understand genius.
For a young physicist, a 100 megaton blast is the
culmination of the creative spirit. Certainly
irrefutable evidence, this quintessential "spirit".
I read Toronto would be "messy" in the event of a
nuclear strike. Half-baked and eviscerated thinking
Or just inescaspable?
Chin up. We'll survive or at least part of us will. We
really are "malleable". It will be a "transitional stage",
a step upwards on the evolutionary ladder.
Radioactivity and genetics are at work with one
another.
When the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic device,
the pilot was later to go mad.
Maybe this has already happened to the world and
there's no one to discern the difference.
Maybe a forest of "maybes" has already sprouted and
left a forest of dust clouding the collective vision.
Maybe it's all too terrifying to be taken seriously and
disbelief is the escape hatch. Like the pilot's lapse into
comforting drugs for reassurance or the dervishes
with their Magic Mushroom.
Maybe it's closer to what Harry Truman announced
after "deploying" the first "device" or exercising the
nuclear option in the jargon of the strategists.
They started it. We prepared to end it. No regrets.
Turned over on his deathbed and went to sleep
15, 16, 17
Back to the Contents Page
happy happy
happy happy
trigger
happy happy
happy happy
t
happy happy
happy happy
trigger
18
Back to the Contents Page
happy happy
trigger
happy happy
happy happy
t
happy happy
happy happy
trigger
18
Back to the Contents Page
ENERGYENERGYENERGYENE
n Being alive n
e wastes e
r energy r
g g
y wastes B wastes y
e
i
n
g
a
l
i
v
e
19
Back to the Contents Page
n Being alive n
e wastes e
r energy r
g g
y wastes B wastes y
e
i
n
g
a
l
i
v
e
19
Back to the Contents Page
ROCKING HORSE
Fate is a mahout astride a large elephant, impersonal
as dark sun with winds raging across a desert. Fate is
the old bones of dead Indians being resurrected as
ground mist on the edge of a salt marsh.
And not knowing what to call personal destiny we
resort to the clunker "fate" -- "beggar and king"
enjoying, or so it is said, the dust together. I prefer wet
leaves breaking canisters of restraint and calling to
the earth as little paws digging into the humus of the
sky.
20
Back to the Contents Page
as dark sun with winds raging across a desert. Fate is
the old bones of dead Indians being resurrected as
ground mist on the edge of a salt marsh.
And not knowing what to call personal destiny we
resort to the clunker "fate" -- "beggar and king"
enjoying, or so it is said, the dust together. I prefer wet
leaves breaking canisters of restraint and calling to
the earth as little paws digging into the humus of the
sky.
20
Back to the Contents Page
ROUGE AND GRAY
So much time has passed
& time is a hooligan run wild
littering the streets,
squeezing toothpaste at the wrong end
shredding clothes with a razor blade.
Time is never called into account --
lives like Peter Pan
in a flying abode above it all
scot-free, the surly bandit.
A perilous acquisition --
tiny pinpricks above the eye-brows
crows' feet
-- all too visible rending of
fleshy corners bulbed
to puffiness.
Red-handed,
I caught time
his knife in Youth once more
still-water decay,
brackish trouble-maker
with tint of rouge and gray.
This school-yard tough
still picking on the corner weakling.
braggadocio and upstart
spoiling for a fight
first elbow up,
each foot in a fray.
21
Back to the Contents Page
& time is a hooligan run wild
littering the streets,
squeezing toothpaste at the wrong end
shredding clothes with a razor blade.
Time is never called into account --
lives like Peter Pan
in a flying abode above it all
scot-free, the surly bandit.
A perilous acquisition --
tiny pinpricks above the eye-brows
crows' feet
-- all too visible rending of
fleshy corners bulbed
to puffiness.
Red-handed,
I caught time
his knife in Youth once more
still-water decay,
brackish trouble-maker
with tint of rouge and gray.
This school-yard tough
still picking on the corner weakling.
braggadocio and upstart
spoiling for a fight
first elbow up,
each foot in a fray.
21
Back to the Contents Page
CUBITS
A woman is a trough
hardly that -- a river,
a pond to sail a small boat thru,
rapids to manoeuvre.
A woman commandingly tall
receptive as water,
quicksilver to the light
yet mirages all.
Two cubits to an arm's length
a bridge to span,
virgin territory with
the compass needle jumping --
a plane dusting crops.
A woman once, parchment twice
warm treacle to the core --
a marshmellow for a heart.
22
Back to the Contents Page
hardly that -- a river,
a pond to sail a small boat thru,
rapids to manoeuvre.
A woman commandingly tall
receptive as water,
quicksilver to the light
yet mirages all.
Two cubits to an arm's length
a bridge to span,
virgin territory with
the compass needle jumping --
a plane dusting crops.
A woman once, parchment twice
warm treacle to the core --
a marshmellow for a heart.
22
Back to the Contents Page
BUZZ PHRASE
Down on your luck
or, as they say, "financially embarrassed" ...
with little in the way of hope,
less palaver --
drifting in & out of theme parks not unlike
El Paso, Prairie Junction
between jobs, causes and wives...
letting "it all hang out", in the jumble of the moranese
letting despair and the pig iron law of economics
have their say --
shouting "moral support" in the face of the rocky
"well-wisher".
I read all the plots and each ends up as a grave...
once in a single afternoon I even gave up on
golddiggers
who, though just passing through meant dress rehearsal
for the bigger jive, "long_term"
and since when should "patching up and catching up"
make starry-eyed even that slip of a girl, commitment.
23
Back to the Contents Page
or, as they say, "financially embarrassed" ...
with little in the way of hope,
less palaver --
drifting in & out of theme parks not unlike
El Paso, Prairie Junction
between jobs, causes and wives...
letting "it all hang out", in the jumble of the moranese
letting despair and the pig iron law of economics
have their say --
shouting "moral support" in the face of the rocky
"well-wisher".
I read all the plots and each ends up as a grave...
once in a single afternoon I even gave up on
golddiggers
who, though just passing through meant dress rehearsal
for the bigger jive, "long_term"
and since when should "patching up and catching up"
make starry-eyed even that slip of a girl, commitment.
23
Back to the Contents Page
AMBERGRIS CITY
Felt no pain against the water,
the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrath
illuminating ambergris city in spot checks below.
The sperm whale population was in decline.
Little or nothing remained of former commitments.
A bitter legacy consumed itself in half-truths
against the sound of upturned lies.
Winding alleys come as the conscience of well plaid cities.
are open zippers revealing the indecent poor.
The fire hydrant lives of cellar inhabitants strain
these urinals
for wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls.
Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls finding
their way
through the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazas
with the
stately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cans
against indentured snow.
24
Back to the Contents Page
the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrath
illuminating ambergris city in spot checks below.
The sperm whale population was in decline.
Little or nothing remained of former commitments.
A bitter legacy consumed itself in half-truths
against the sound of upturned lies.
Winding alleys come as the conscience of well plaid cities.
are open zippers revealing the indecent poor.
The fire hydrant lives of cellar inhabitants strain
these urinals
for wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls.
Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls finding
their way
through the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazas
with the
stately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cans
against indentured snow.
24
Back to the Contents Page
WINCING
You can't go back,
to Love, a home.
memories of Pearl Bailey
even a scatterbrained job
curled like a Morning Glory
about the ribs of day.
Everyone repeats not going back.
A sly ripple on the cape of wind,
peaking with
absentminded glee,
into that bulge from within
your past, beyond your left arm,
called "before".
Dismissing angels, refusing to
court hardship, not to mention
wincing that comes from attaching
the mouth too fiercely on privale parts
and all flasks with firm memory;
wheeling drunkenly on her thought.
her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mind
with little fingers each repeating
sane warnings.
25
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to Love, a home.
memories of Pearl Bailey
even a scatterbrained job
curled like a Morning Glory
about the ribs of day.
Everyone repeats not going back.
A sly ripple on the cape of wind,
peaking with
absentminded glee,
into that bulge from within
your past, beyond your left arm,
called "before".
Dismissing angels, refusing to
court hardship, not to mention
wincing that comes from attaching
the mouth too fiercely on privale parts
and all flasks with firm memory;
wheeling drunkenly on her thought.
her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mind
with little fingers each repeating
sane warnings.
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TORONTO
In Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a theme
or at least end in "S". It's an unspoken rule. In-spots
(notice the "S" again) recall the Lost Generation:
Garbo's, Hector's, Lucille's; though less thematically
inclined imbibers can indulge at plain sounding
Sammy's/Charlies...
The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcaps
which more than suffice: while those seeking purity in
their draught can take consolation at the common
Brunswick or Molley's.
There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.
While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the Kon
Tiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middle
of the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys,
Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in the
lush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviously
suggestive supple Fingers.
Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism power
is the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded or
those otherwise afflicted with ennui and creeping
malaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. And
what was that Montrealers say of Toronto?
Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh Diamond
Eyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and
two Persian lions carved in wood.
Salads Nicoise.
Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto
equivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal
in the forest. I drank a cocktail with the girl of the
white polo coat. Or as the cynic said,my pipe is the
tent, the tobacco the days of my life.
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or at least end in "S". It's an unspoken rule. In-spots
(notice the "S" again) recall the Lost Generation:
Garbo's, Hector's, Lucille's; though less thematically
inclined imbibers can indulge at plain sounding
Sammy's/Charlies...
The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcaps
which more than suffice: while those seeking purity in
their draught can take consolation at the common
Brunswick or Molley's.
There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.
While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the Kon
Tiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middle
of the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys,
Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in the
lush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviously
suggestive supple Fingers.
Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism power
is the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded or
those otherwise afflicted with ennui and creeping
malaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. And
what was that Montrealers say of Toronto?
Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh Diamond
Eyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and
two Persian lions carved in wood.
Salads Nicoise.
Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto
equivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal
in the forest. I drank a cocktail with the girl of the
white polo coat. Or as the cynic said,my pipe is the
tent, the tobacco the days of my life.
26
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CRYING SCENE
If you're going to drop the gauntlet
at least put on the dress
of a full warrior --
paint, rouge, lipstick,
sheer stockings and
enough powder to smother
a savage;
then form a straight line
and chant the litany
(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)
and a good poundmaker is so adept
at keeping score.
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at least put on the dress
of a full warrior --
paint, rouge, lipstick,
sheer stockings and
enough powder to smother
a savage;
then form a straight line
and chant the litany
(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)
and a good poundmaker is so adept
at keeping score.
27
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NIGHT SKY
I can call a lake a kettle
a splendid, ivory comb a snare --
tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.
the night sky my ariel home.
Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs
a collarbone of doubt
inching into my anatomy
Everest-wide.
surging canals into my throat.
I am a pianist plying my trade
playing to waves --
the wharf and pier
passionate onlookers
entranced with joy.
sailors wearing blond caps
in stout approval
their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.
smashed bottles accumulated days at sea
lapping the dock.
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a splendid, ivory comb a snare --
tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.
the night sky my ariel home.
Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs
a collarbone of doubt
inching into my anatomy
Everest-wide.
surging canals into my throat.
I am a pianist plying my trade
playing to waves --
the wharf and pier
passionate onlookers
entranced with joy.
sailors wearing blond caps
in stout approval
their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.
smashed bottles accumulated days at sea
lapping the dock.
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THE WORLD OF TEZCATLIPOCA*
"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ...
elements as plasmic water have programmed goals which
they follow like earth encompassing genies.
In soft light
amid hues
of barbaric green.
walled edges of
the cenote's fortress
shine as eyes of the Cyclops,
bloodlshot and ringed
with nettled stone
A break in the clearing --
then ramshackle growth
broken with vengeance
of uprooted vine
confronts the eyes of a jaguar*
(axe-breadth apart)
between canopies of trees
millenial rot,
algae and monkeys
carved in
a jungle setting
the shape of an iguana's room
* the same
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elements as plasmic water have programmed goals which
they follow like earth encompassing genies.
In soft light
amid hues
of barbaric green.
walled edges of
the cenote's fortress
shine as eyes of the Cyclops,
bloodlshot and ringed
with nettled stone
A break in the clearing --
then ramshackle growth
broken with vengeance
of uprooted vine
confronts the eyes of a jaguar*
(axe-breadth apart)
between canopies of trees
millenial rot,
algae and monkeys
carved in
a jungle setting
the shape of an iguana's room
* the same
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IN THE CENOTE
Under a candlelit operetta
of stars,
the vertigo horizon trails
to a shudder
until,
swallows the size of kites
handstand in flying motion
about pools of water
then glide within reach of the cenote,*
cisterns deep
and flagellant
scars in earth
that cradle still hands
of pale, pumice stone.
All the tears
of old Mexico
refurbish this soil,
anxious in blessing
a brittle toil
in sisal* groves
harvesting hennequin*
to symbolize pity
in flat expanse
of Mission stone.
* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.
* Hemp.
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of stars,
the vertigo horizon trails
to a shudder
until,
swallows the size of kites
handstand in flying motion
about pools of water
then glide within reach of the cenote,*
cisterns deep
and flagellant
scars in earth
that cradle still hands
of pale, pumice stone.
All the tears
of old Mexico
refurbish this soil,
anxious in blessing
a brittle toil
in sisal* groves
harvesting hennequin*
to symbolize pity
in flat expanse
of Mission stone.
* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.
* Hemp.
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BELIZE
Giving myself permission to write --
points from Ciudad Juarez
as well as the compass where
taboos complete bayonet-sized memories
a tadpole of doubt gleaned from
shallow Canadian upbringing
sojourning in the South.
A stranger came --
his beard the Columbian hillcountry
mustachioed, the voice trailed off
whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles,
the Black Mamba or boomslang before
brief rictus of pain.
I am writing this
with an eye on fortune,
it's not the cantina is dry
just walls above this cot
squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing
between rosary beads
and the day is hot.
Extend a cigarette,
fumble another Spanish syllable
pretend houngans are hombres
Hidalgo just another green wine.
This utterance is mutilating
and paper scrolls are an oath
to take their toll
pockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood.
Buenos dias, sênor,
only don't say
S a s k a t c h e w a n
like light over mountains
it's of little importance, really, won't, change the
cabfare one i o t a.
The sea may cough little stars
or an emerald coffin
sit like a lampshade
somethings go on...
Begging your pardon, ma'am
this train would do well
to leave within the hour
and the ferry from Topolobampo
Out of persistence to form
has never arrived early.
"Piratas ingles" read the mural
now I know
seedy tropical ports
harbour wayfarers like the Marlboro man
adjusting his image,
(inspiration may well be poetic
but the instrument's blunt)
bare feet the colour or lanterns,
white ducks
pressed too much
around lean shanks
and a visage
to trouble Satan
Taking a profit,
Mozart up in smoke
down the tubes
water reverses itself,
runs counter-clockwise
impecunious in this
juxtaposition of a hemisphere.
Poor Mexico -- far from God &
so near the United States
a snippet of history remembered
though the Gadsen Purchase seems
irrelevant. How a propos
& natty too
the moon is a hummingbird
& painted porcelain flask for you.
Backstreets
a la seduction
this demimonde,
a whole continent as intrigue
do twin fists pounding
on a door
resemble gunfire
especially at dawn or
is that just the mule
so obstinate in you--
the poor creatures
pressed into service,
litter the landscape
bedbugs thrown from cars.
At the Ponce de Leon
adrenalin with white caps
comes up bare
as language
forced into riot,
not a humble metaphor
in sight.
the occasional half-witted vowel
staggering under the onslaught
pirouetted
clamouring about the edge
-- no easy familiarity
here with the English language.
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points from Ciudad Juarez
as well as the compass where
taboos complete bayonet-sized memories
a tadpole of doubt gleaned from
shallow Canadian upbringing
sojourning in the South.
A stranger came --
his beard the Columbian hillcountry
mustachioed, the voice trailed off
whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles,
the Black Mamba or boomslang before
brief rictus of pain.
I am writing this
with an eye on fortune,
it's not the cantina is dry
just walls above this cot
squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing
between rosary beads
and the day is hot.
Extend a cigarette,
fumble another Spanish syllable
pretend houngans are hombres
Hidalgo just another green wine.
This utterance is mutilating
and paper scrolls are an oath
to take their toll
pockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood.
Buenos dias, sênor,
only don't say
S a s k a t c h e w a n
like light over mountains
it's of little importance, really, won't, change the
cabfare one i o t a.
The sea may cough little stars
or an emerald coffin
sit like a lampshade
somethings go on...
Begging your pardon, ma'am
this train would do well
to leave within the hour
and the ferry from Topolobampo
Out of persistence to form
has never arrived early.
"Piratas ingles" read the mural
now I know
seedy tropical ports
harbour wayfarers like the Marlboro man
adjusting his image,
(inspiration may well be poetic
but the instrument's blunt)
bare feet the colour or lanterns,
white ducks
pressed too much
around lean shanks
and a visage
to trouble Satan
Taking a profit,
Mozart up in smoke
down the tubes
water reverses itself,
runs counter-clockwise
impecunious in this
juxtaposition of a hemisphere.
Poor Mexico -- far from God &
so near the United States
a snippet of history remembered
though the Gadsen Purchase seems
irrelevant. How a propos
& natty too
the moon is a hummingbird
& painted porcelain flask for you.
Backstreets
a la seduction
this demimonde,
a whole continent as intrigue
do twin fists pounding
on a door
resemble gunfire
especially at dawn or
is that just the mule
so obstinate in you--
the poor creatures
pressed into service,
litter the landscape
bedbugs thrown from cars.
At the Ponce de Leon
adrenalin with white caps
comes up bare
as language
forced into riot,
not a humble metaphor
in sight.
the occasional half-witted vowel
staggering under the onslaught
pirouetted
clamouring about the edge
-- no easy familiarity
here with the English language.
31 32 33 34
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PICAROON
Scouting the sun
thin clouds threadbare vests
barely to cover the horizon.
the heat or the day, canine,
a hot tongue's intensily
splashing yr face.
The docks are quiet,
prawn trawlers unloading gear
gar fish at the surface of the water
echoing little fins like
tiny waves green
into the shallows.
Bubbles anchor the lagoon --
changing rivulets into sand
stone walls numbered in shards of glass
trade universal currency
but, beware, the proprietor
cobblestones up to his door,
a candle in the window-stoop,
a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.
Come the picaroon.
Spanish adventurer
lesser known rogue, thief
a smile like piano keys
huevos sent back.
I've seen the parfumerie
the snake pit,
mongoose burrowing into the hills
after serpentine fer-de-lance,
want bigger things waves can't splash away,
scrawled slogans to turn
the human tide.
A bottle sits menacingly on the table --
a universe on its own,
imagine her little water droplets
the key to unerstanding
a woman firm to the grasp
bare-shouldered, lips to the moon in twilight.
A coin stepped on in the street
perhaps a sou, a centime, centavo
a petty return
for rusting bells wedding the pavement,
a centotaph alluding to sacrifice
or toil in the fields
to gain one circular disc.
Bring a case of wine
those Puerto Rican girls
are dying to meet you,
the tune belts out
and I see a yacht
riding emerald waves,
think of swimming
out to greet her,
my skin opening the water
like a lizard's tongue,
a sheaf of leaves pressed back,
a rock pitched to dislodge a noisy cat.
Who tempers desire
in the tropics
when the air is to eat,
sand golden griddles
a harvest of warm wealth
piled as a miser's hoard,
green & more green skirting the city,
experience my sacred vessel of purity.
Think or cliff vines
mucous, little curtains
then pathways up to the final alley
psychologically taut.
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thin clouds threadbare vests
barely to cover the horizon.
the heat or the day, canine,
a hot tongue's intensily
splashing yr face.
The docks are quiet,
prawn trawlers unloading gear
gar fish at the surface of the water
echoing little fins like
tiny waves green
into the shallows.
Bubbles anchor the lagoon --
changing rivulets into sand
stone walls numbered in shards of glass
trade universal currency
but, beware, the proprietor
cobblestones up to his door,
a candle in the window-stoop,
a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.
Come the picaroon.
Spanish adventurer
lesser known rogue, thief
a smile like piano keys
huevos sent back.
I've seen the parfumerie
the snake pit,
mongoose burrowing into the hills
after serpentine fer-de-lance,
want bigger things waves can't splash away,
scrawled slogans to turn
the human tide.
A bottle sits menacingly on the table --
a universe on its own,
imagine her little water droplets
the key to unerstanding
a woman firm to the grasp
bare-shouldered, lips to the moon in twilight.
A coin stepped on in the street
perhaps a sou, a centime, centavo
a petty return
for rusting bells wedding the pavement,
a centotaph alluding to sacrifice
or toil in the fields
to gain one circular disc.
Bring a case of wine
those Puerto Rican girls
are dying to meet you,
the tune belts out
and I see a yacht
riding emerald waves,
think of swimming
out to greet her,
my skin opening the water
like a lizard's tongue,
a sheaf of leaves pressed back,
a rock pitched to dislodge a noisy cat.
Who tempers desire
in the tropics
when the air is to eat,
sand golden griddles
a harvest of warm wealth
piled as a miser's hoard,
green & more green skirting the city,
experience my sacred vessel of purity.
Think or cliff vines
mucous, little curtains
then pathways up to the final alley
psychologically taut.
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THE CABLE CAR
The Haitian effect of stars
grinds the blue firmament
like a cable car by night.
transfixing energy.
One hears myriad tokens
falling into a collection box,
then the twitter of bells
before the trolley steps round
winds near Russian Hill
The night sky is a reservoir,
a cistern stored with disturbing
elements prickling the unknown
in a man.
To watch as life forms, more intricate
than lavender curls, so hushed their tones
produce melodies like "Castor and Pollux", "Leo",
"the Three Sisters", seizes any boarding pass
along the remaining train of thought.
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grinds the blue firmament
like a cable car by night.
transfixing energy.
One hears myriad tokens
falling into a collection box,
then the twitter of bells
before the trolley steps round
winds near Russian Hill
The night sky is a reservoir,
a cistern stored with disturbing
elements prickling the unknown
in a man.
To watch as life forms, more intricate
than lavender curls, so hushed their tones
produce melodies like "Castor and Pollux", "Leo",
"the Three Sisters", seizes any boarding pass
along the remaining train of thought.
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IL GIARDINO
Cloves on the table.
(jardin parfumel
are like ladyslippers
with the jargon
of their sweetmeats
preserved in
aromatic slabs
about a garden wall.
Spanish ivy
is the pastrami
of this terrace --
thick, white walls,
Hispanic style,
unite with prim elasticity
to quicken
Picasso's sunshine
like a ukulele
strumming the grave.
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(jardin parfumel
are like ladyslippers
with the jargon
of their sweetmeats
preserved in
aromatic slabs
about a garden wall.
Spanish ivy
is the pastrami
of this terrace --
thick, white walls,
Hispanic style,
unite with prim elasticity
to quicken
Picasso's sunshine
like a ukulele
strumming the grave.
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EVERY MAN'S HAND
raised against them
hussars, cossacks, zouaves
the renegade janizaries and corsairs
in for an indeterminale stretch
assorted soldiers of fortune,
never-do-wells
or just low brows duelling crusts of bread
scarce precious little else
when for pennies more,
(Wellington's phrase)
the scum of the earth
enlists for drink.
Too harsh, I think, of
imagining the Foreign Legion,
kepis of scarlet
the near requisite haggard looks
moving in waves across the desert
pitting date palms with bayonets.
the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.
Then dunes where water should be --
storms granulating blown particles
twice the perimeter of a camel train
from whence decent men become driven
(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselves
with poor material,
loose flintlocks and cartridge belts
rotting to the touch,
The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)
stars big as pebbles in potato white
Napoleon before Cairo his soldiery and
ragged tents flapping like tongues
of pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)
on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,
their torpid hooves sound against rock
matching wits grown sluggish in still more drifting
sand.
Noon and blood purring
like a two minute egg
over and over
the spitting, curses
mandatory flies and sweat
trickling on sandbags
from manured lives
little to eat--
C rations a century away,
the good populace begrudging meals
to vagabonds and trash anyway.
See the last desperation
in classic terms
betrayed by finite trength
brisk elements raise the odds
a measly temperature climb,
a few more driving winds to stir the pot
animal suffering dancing
like stretched canvas on thin frames.
The leading roustabout unflinching,
waves a stony mutineer's salute.
And somehow it always manages dawn
and the heat of the day wicked,
oblong in an empty stretch
forever, it seems, before bullets
open graveyards
mow the brigand down,
take the corpse for its own
mummifying with precious hands
about the contours of her desert body,
and firm cleavage
oscillating between curvatures of
desiccation, blanket heat.
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hussars, cossacks, zouaves
the renegade janizaries and corsairs
in for an indeterminale stretch
assorted soldiers of fortune,
never-do-wells
or just low brows duelling crusts of bread
scarce precious little else
when for pennies more,
(Wellington's phrase)
the scum of the earth
enlists for drink.
Too harsh, I think, of
imagining the Foreign Legion,
kepis of scarlet
the near requisite haggard looks
moving in waves across the desert
pitting date palms with bayonets.
the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.
Then dunes where water should be --
storms granulating blown particles
twice the perimeter of a camel train
from whence decent men become driven
(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselves
with poor material,
loose flintlocks and cartridge belts
rotting to the touch,
The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)
stars big as pebbles in potato white
Napoleon before Cairo his soldiery and
ragged tents flapping like tongues
of pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)
on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,
their torpid hooves sound against rock
matching wits grown sluggish in still more drifting
sand.
Noon and blood purring
like a two minute egg
over and over
the spitting, curses
mandatory flies and sweat
trickling on sandbags
from manured lives
little to eat--
C rations a century away,
the good populace begrudging meals
to vagabonds and trash anyway.
See the last desperation
in classic terms
betrayed by finite trength
brisk elements raise the odds
a measly temperature climb,
a few more driving winds to stir the pot
animal suffering dancing
like stretched canvas on thin frames.
The leading roustabout unflinching,
waves a stony mutineer's salute.
And somehow it always manages dawn
and the heat of the day wicked,
oblong in an empty stretch
forever, it seems, before bullets
open graveyards
mow the brigand down,
take the corpse for its own
mummifying with precious hands
about the contours of her desert body,
and firm cleavage
oscillating between curvatures of
desiccation, blanket heat.
40 41 42
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ENDING UP
reads like
living down --
a coconut arriving with the tide,
bottles perched in sand
the blue glass
colour or imprisoned dreams
genie of a bottle cap.
Ending up.
the brow or a gondola overturned
sees memories squared away --
the window of the envelope
an all too foggy membrane.
Turning out like
ending up
no check-out time or
non-existant room service
in a flea-bag motel.
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living down --
a coconut arriving with the tide,
bottles perched in sand
the blue glass
colour or imprisoned dreams
genie of a bottle cap.
Ending up.
the brow or a gondola overturned
sees memories squared away --
the window of the envelope
an all too foggy membrane.
Turning out like
ending up
no check-out time or
non-existant room service
in a flea-bag motel.
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OFFERINGS (A Movement in four Parts)
The night is folly without the moon,
trees blank space against a frontal sky
where lattice work from a bled fish reveals
skeletal markings will not administer
the red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.
Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach
(I don't recommend them) to offerings
of white linen, cold squares atop
a stone diamonded floor.
Palaver shacks drone in ghostly light
communicating some message about eel runs
up the black river, the equivalent brush
of tombstones against dark nightsoil.
Tiny bars open as cubicles.
proverbial flashes of the coming evening,
haciendas to count every blessing.
The road to such places
snarls a dusty pleasure
and will heat thin blood
to boil in the daylight hours.
II
Sweat corrodes the cork's emplacement
about green bottlenecks,
its azure breath tossing back
pools of sparse liquid.
I picture ships placed within such bottles
as bannisters along corrugated highways,
seawater rusting from within the steamfitters's
tonsorial edge.
Haze thickens as sails blur to an artist's brush,
then squiggles in the oilpaint of memory --
her sides fashioning red wounds as pigment
surfacing from robotical crustaceans
lancing the bottom of a deeper crevice.
III
My steps clank to the gaoler's key
to become, within, handmaidens to thorned plants
acting as fuselage along the building's exterior.
Afar, a white seagull sits as a bespectacled tourist
gracing a buoy like a madras shirt.
Early stars in an afternoon sky
are expansive in Chateau Lafitte finery,
the Rothschilds of the universe playing
a cosmic baccarat.
A girl in a brandy snifter of a dress --
dark, sensual, runs through tomes of my mind.
It's a hall of mirrors there;
the radiating glass of the sea,
twilight splendour in tall grass,
the hands of thick mahogany chairs
grimacing against perspiring walls.
I sponge water like a good midshipman
off the brow of a leaking vessel.
Nowhere are there signs of more than
partial seepage though smoke in the
back corridors exists from the fiery aguandine.
IV
Green palms unfurl as flags
to the accordian of my eyes,
blinking back the strong belt of sunlight
that precisely floods the room.
Sailors jostle this crowd of memories,
some surly lipped with broad tattoes.
A naked mermaid presses her thighs 'gainst
memory door, then winks as the
stellar crust of oblivion takes me.
In sleep, waterfront toughs are transformed
to storeowners that smile, exchange pleasantries in
Saba.
(French gendarmes embrace on the other side
clustering like starfish on the twin breasts of a beach.)
I devour cups not of riverwater in this cell
but the best pink champagne at the captain's
reception.
With hatfuls of intermittent rest,
blurred outlines recede into mists
thin as General Winter's treasured April snows.
The bony M of a hatpin,
the passkey to better redress of fortune --
the turnstills, concealed within lavabeds of
bladegrass.
beckon upon the return voyage home.
44, 45, 46,47
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trees blank space against a frontal sky
where lattice work from a bled fish reveals
skeletal markings will not administer
the red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.
Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach
(I don't recommend them) to offerings
of white linen, cold squares atop
a stone diamonded floor.
Palaver shacks drone in ghostly light
communicating some message about eel runs
up the black river, the equivalent brush
of tombstones against dark nightsoil.
Tiny bars open as cubicles.
proverbial flashes of the coming evening,
haciendas to count every blessing.
The road to such places
snarls a dusty pleasure
and will heat thin blood
to boil in the daylight hours.
II
Sweat corrodes the cork's emplacement
about green bottlenecks,
its azure breath tossing back
pools of sparse liquid.
I picture ships placed within such bottles
as bannisters along corrugated highways,
seawater rusting from within the steamfitters's
tonsorial edge.
Haze thickens as sails blur to an artist's brush,
then squiggles in the oilpaint of memory --
her sides fashioning red wounds as pigment
surfacing from robotical crustaceans
lancing the bottom of a deeper crevice.
III
My steps clank to the gaoler's key
to become, within, handmaidens to thorned plants
acting as fuselage along the building's exterior.
Afar, a white seagull sits as a bespectacled tourist
gracing a buoy like a madras shirt.
Early stars in an afternoon sky
are expansive in Chateau Lafitte finery,
the Rothschilds of the universe playing
a cosmic baccarat.
A girl in a brandy snifter of a dress --
dark, sensual, runs through tomes of my mind.
It's a hall of mirrors there;
the radiating glass of the sea,
twilight splendour in tall grass,
the hands of thick mahogany chairs
grimacing against perspiring walls.
I sponge water like a good midshipman
off the brow of a leaking vessel.
Nowhere are there signs of more than
partial seepage though smoke in the
back corridors exists from the fiery aguandine.
IV
Green palms unfurl as flags
to the accordian of my eyes,
blinking back the strong belt of sunlight
that precisely floods the room.
Sailors jostle this crowd of memories,
some surly lipped with broad tattoes.
A naked mermaid presses her thighs 'gainst
memory door, then winks as the
stellar crust of oblivion takes me.
In sleep, waterfront toughs are transformed
to storeowners that smile, exchange pleasantries in
Saba.
(French gendarmes embrace on the other side
clustering like starfish on the twin breasts of a beach.)
I devour cups not of riverwater in this cell
but the best pink champagne at the captain's
reception.
With hatfuls of intermittent rest,
blurred outlines recede into mists
thin as General Winter's treasured April snows.
The bony M of a hatpin,
the passkey to better redress of fortune --
the turnstills, concealed within lavabeds of
bladegrass.
beckon upon the return voyage home.
44, 45, 46,47
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