A well-thumbed book
like a well-thumbed life,
"whilst you walk this earth"
yet nothing is "afoot",
as so many small boys
throwing stones through the funeral parlour
glass door.
A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting
across the face of the multitude is terrible
algebra running into unfathomable sums.
"Doing your sums", my grade school teacher
used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,
learning lessons in a strange stamina
sort of way.
One of the multitude died last night &
is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.
Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek
at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his
last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious
even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour
to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the
month to go packing. Finale.
"Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping
prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses
into the apparent.
One sees a lot by the moon.
Crisp, fall air and
leaves yellowing
frightened from their wits
to end their brief, balloon walk. Such
faraway faces of Eve and a boat
moored to a dock.
Crossing streets --
a gray, fusillade church,
knight-errant, breaks the night.
Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.
Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the
stained glass window I see her. She seems
to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through
at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?
Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating
are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy;
shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting
what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.
Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their
reward".
More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies
and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's
cork.
This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist
collecting,
watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a
glade.
The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that
makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black
funeral vestments for me.
Standing close to the clock and thinking.
A luxury bought with time,
in every evening weeping in the corner.
[61]
WATER FAST (THE PEARL FISHERS)
Shopping in their heads
--a man a pair of shoes
right colour (tan, off-white) shape--
only good physiques need apply,
degree, tall;
self-confidence a "must".
Not yuppie, really,
more consumerism as in
I made the grade (she really
thinks this; meanwhile, she's
plump, dull).
Standing in the showroom window,
she spies the mirror image of herself.
Your attitude is your altitude.
Of course, he's "polished"
(tho' not worn), urbane
witty--this goes without saying.
Well-travelled, maybe, though potential
liability, here, suggestive of footloose.
Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts
of hedonism--a dangerous portent.
Feel I've stumbled back in time,
holding court with Cesare Borgia,
Lorenzo the Magnificent significantly
transformed to a Renaissance courtier.
Harpsichord and madrigal in hand (& head,),
I recite my litany.
I pack a mean wallop--
humour, I mean,
for no one on this spic 'n span
planet wants somebody too droll.
Intensity is a ripple from the sixties.
"Relationship", kickback to the after-glow
on-glow seventies.
Eighties women love "feedback",
"interfacing". Its fashionable to
think chic. Restless troubadours
should be dyed in their own ilk.
Sporty chaps are in demand, ones
with visceral longing for babies &
the peroxide smell of Javex in
diaper pails wafting thru their nostrils.
Heady brew, Perrier & BMW types.
Chrome-plated men with the
razzle-dazzle of the Boardroom
tugging at their cufflinks.
Mutual funds equates with mutual interests.
The man's wishes?
A dollop of Dijon mustard on you!
Hitting the nail on the head.
Holding up her middle finger
to dry nail polish, I see
my future and, golly,
does it ever shine.
[63]
TALES OF A BRAVE ULYSSES
Artists (astrologers never lie)
are birthed when
Venus is rising--
not against cat's whelp
(eye of newt, tongue of frog)
calamitous mist or London fog;
far, ferny forbidding fenn.
When Venus rises, yes
dons Botticelli's cloak
or was it her hair
gathered in tresses
long by lovely handfuls
parading it all
on a patty shell
--her twin oysters ambrosia
a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea,
purpling color of a robin's egg.
Artists are born
in something of Venus . . .
conceived along coral-corral
highway lariats, foam
of passion
modern cowgirl
lowering the drapes.
[65]