The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoint Spread Poems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoint Spread PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ****** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***Title: Point Spread PoemsAuthor: Paul Cameron BrownRelease date: March 2, 2010 [eBook #31477]Most recently updated: April 20, 2010Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sorour Imani*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POINT SPREAD POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ****** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***

*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ***

*** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***

Title: Point Spread PoemsAuthor: Paul Cameron BrownRelease date: March 2, 2010 [eBook #31477]Most recently updated: April 20, 2010Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sorour Imani

Title: Point Spread Poems

Author: Paul Cameron Brown

Release date: March 2, 2010 [eBook #31477]Most recently updated: April 20, 2010

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Sorour Imani

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POINT SPREAD POEMS ***

POINT SPREAD POEMSBYPAUL CAMERON BROWN

9WINDFALL11TURNCOAT13GANGLAND15NIGHT FISHING AT ANTIBES17SABBAT19SHIVAREE21POINT SPREAD24(THE TORONTO STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30,1985)25READING THE TIDES: PETROGLYPH PARK27FABULIST28ACE OF SPADES29WILD CARD301920'S FLICKER31CANDLELIGHT IN BLACK32HIGHGATE34CAPE OF GOOD HOPE35PICPUS37ILLUMINAIRE38CARNIVAL AND LENT40TERMINAL LIVING45MIDPOINT46TWINKLING OF AN EYE47SERENADE49HIDDEN AGENDA50ADVENTURER51SLIPPER52HELLULAND53TRINKETS54A THIEF'S NOTEBOOK55WARHORSE57TEETER-TOTTER58CHEMIN DE FER60WITHIN REACH62COUNTESS63COUNTESS II64PALEFACE65CUD67CURRENCY68REFRESHER COURSE69GHOST TALES70WANDERLUST73PASTICHE76BOCA84WORK IN PROGRESS88HARDCASES

"In the five and dimestore where I first fellin love with unreality."Lawrence Ferrenghetti

WINDFALLPhotos along a soft-centred walllike assorted chocolateswith prized centres,tiny miniatures--full portraitsthe young army major, for one,in battle fatigues come full family regalia.Mounting the staircase(tearing back the chocolate paper)shroud hand on the railing,pressuring the cherry liquidinto oozing burst of memory,the nectarine orange of a summer's day.Swing & garden loom into view,the mind plays thoughtscapes,a tag ensemble, along the wall.Old colours (or lack of them) abound--the antiquated dress & hairdosof grandparents that speak lavishly,into taste buds, across the fallen years.Ivy & ivory fan, kitten on a rocker,cradled baby that amounts to me,the sun coming home to roost on this plaintiff, pleadingwall.Passage of thoughtinto this chocolate box--the lid off stern memoryprying forth a directory ofmouth-watering choice,or so the advertisers' claim.Yet do we ever thoughtover what we taut (in our heads)we are? My dad in Kenya (a time and agefrom this perspective like the peanut brittle)or grandfather, about eight, from the dreamy,dark cream & nougat reaches of layered black spacethat speaks the aeons ago--his manner and distance a smoky hazefrom the twilight "special occasion"Black Magic chocolate box.[9]

Photos along a soft-centred walllike assorted chocolateswith prized centres,tiny miniatures--full portraitsthe young army major, for one,in battle fatigues come full family regalia.Mounting the staircase(tearing back the chocolate paper)shroud hand on the railing,pressuring the cherry liquidinto oozing burst of memory,the nectarine orange of a summer's day.Swing & garden loom into view,the mind plays thoughtscapes,a tag ensemble, along the wall.Old colours (or lack of them) abound--the antiquated dress & hairdosof grandparents that speak lavishly,into taste buds, across the fallen years.Ivy & ivory fan, kitten on a rocker,cradled baby that amounts to me,the sun coming home to roost on this plaintiff, pleadingwall.Passage of thoughtinto this chocolate box--the lid off stern memoryprying forth a directory ofmouth-watering choice,or so the advertisers' claim.Yet do we ever thoughtover what we taut (in our heads)we are? My dad in Kenya (a time and agefrom this perspective like the peanut brittle)or grandfather, about eight, from the dreamy,dark cream & nougat reaches of layered black spacethat speaks the aeons ago--his manner and distance a smoky hazefrom the twilight "special occasion"Black Magic chocolate box.[9]

TURNCOATSitting in the spendthrift darklilting pennies away,deciphering fate ... .The bed, a warm reach pastthe pillowlike personal mortality in theincest breath of life.Warm stuff of dreams--the calender with its days mesh &march like soldiersdearly departed(cindered and bludgeoned)or the old sea-faring chestwhere all men are sailorspast light's corner.Sturdy trudgeons,clock bursts thru the roommindful of time and aching,decaying things.Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains--a remembered Rembrandt,self-portrait of the old manstanding alone in a clammy room,idling the seconds, with drabbrowns and grays;that sea-faring chest, again, speakingof depleted journeys.Mystic and occult moods,worlds caught in a single glanceoff the wall paper standing abreastthe lampand the mirror, back fromthe pace of a single thought.[11]

Sitting in the spendthrift darklilting pennies away,deciphering fate ... .The bed, a warm reach pastthe pillowlike personal mortality in theincest breath of life.Warm stuff of dreams--the calender with its days mesh &march like soldiersdearly departed(cindered and bludgeoned)or the old sea-faring chestwhere all men are sailorspast light's corner.Sturdy trudgeons,clock bursts thru the roommindful of time and aching,decaying things.Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains--a remembered Rembrandt,self-portrait of the old manstanding alone in a clammy room,idling the seconds, with drabbrowns and grays;that sea-faring chest, again, speakingof depleted journeys.Mystic and occult moods,worlds caught in a single glanceoff the wall paper standing abreastthe lampand the mirror, back fromthe pace of a single thought.[11]

GANGLANDA sailor, "tatoo you,"the cigarette Playerswith tape-deck playinga jaundiced "Yellow Bird",Cerveza, Dos Equiis, thetwo horses, in red flame,across the label.Trolling in a deep sea-trench(spinners and chubb),the dark nighta religious procession,acolyte stars in hymnal to the wind.Across the channela Party Boat--the words almost demand capitalswith actions so diminutive--creased laughter "to go" cross the wavesflicker of lights, siren callthen a lemon shark strikes the baiton anchor reel, Horse-Eyed Jackperhaps borrowing the namefrom the Outback--think pantomime, enter Wahooand the aesthetic of fearcrazed fish jack-knifing the boat.Someone produces a cheese tray,warm winethe small shark caught in arole reversal lies bludgeonedunder the seat, even therea halo glow surrounds the eye andcobalt snout, but it is the grinthat takes the edge off anticsof the Party Boatsome bedraggled hundred yards awaythis Death's Head cocktail,"What's your poison" leerteeth like naked light bulbsagainst tenement stairsprotean hoodlum a millenia away.[13]

A sailor, "tatoo you,"the cigarette Playerswith tape-deck playinga jaundiced "Yellow Bird",Cerveza, Dos Equiis, thetwo horses, in red flame,across the label.Trolling in a deep sea-trench(spinners and chubb),the dark nighta religious procession,acolyte stars in hymnal to the wind.Across the channela Party Boat--the words almost demand capitalswith actions so diminutive--creased laughter "to go" cross the wavesflicker of lights, siren callthen a lemon shark strikes the baiton anchor reel, Horse-Eyed Jackperhaps borrowing the namefrom the Outback--think pantomime, enter Wahooand the aesthetic of fearcrazed fish jack-knifing the boat.Someone produces a cheese tray,warm winethe small shark caught in arole reversal lies bludgeonedunder the seat, even therea halo glow surrounds the eye andcobalt snout, but it is the grinthat takes the edge off anticsof the Party Boatsome bedraggled hundred yards awaythis Death's Head cocktail,"What's your poison" leerteeth like naked light bulbsagainst tenement stairsprotean hoodlum a millenia away.[13]

NIGHT FISHING AT ANTIBESA beach back of bric Ã brac,wine goblet of sky ....the horizon beginningsomewhere between Nod &nigh unto forever withonly the sigh of a Casuarina pineor sea-grape to force a smile.It was entering into twilight--our minds were sailing ships,mere vagaries upon the waves,mine more a clippershipon the Frisco to China run.SoirÃ¨e intimÃ©e,apÃ¨rtif, digestif?A bottle of rumwith Eleuthera for a name--the prettiest coveshave steadfast windsdark about portside.Silvery light of stars,the stars like black hansom cabswith livried footmen beforeshark-toothed clouds,a shark-faced moon,the sight of a shark breaking water,lemon-white its gullet with theBig Dipper stuck in a shark tooth.Diamondhead or Copperback?Carpetbaggers ... the moon's silver tea-setgiving birth to wondermentflooding in affectiona Raouel Dufy lithograph,some decrepit Neapolitan fishermanzoning his epic lifeto human proportions.[15]

A beach back of bric Ã brac,wine goblet of sky ....the horizon beginningsomewhere between Nod &nigh unto forever withonly the sigh of a Casuarina pineor sea-grape to force a smile.It was entering into twilight--our minds were sailing ships,mere vagaries upon the waves,mine more a clippershipon the Frisco to China run.SoirÃ¨e intimÃ©e,apÃ¨rtif, digestif?A bottle of rumwith Eleuthera for a name--the prettiest coveshave steadfast windsdark about portside.Silvery light of stars,the stars like black hansom cabswith livried footmen beforeshark-toothed clouds,a shark-faced moon,the sight of a shark breaking water,lemon-white its gullet with theBig Dipper stuck in a shark tooth.Diamondhead or Copperback?Carpetbaggers ... the moon's silver tea-setgiving birth to wondermentflooding in affectiona Raouel Dufy lithograph,some decrepit Neapolitan fishermanzoning his epic lifeto human proportions.[15]

SABBATPicturesque Tituba, steeped in Obeah,in a hairball swoonleads a harangue about witches withsome of Salem's more delicatewomen, obedient children.In verdant outcrops of the imaginationfuelled by a beldame's winter fireamid sparks that prance with devilsthru tempest gloomcovens are conjuredso they implicate other prettieswith raven hair,arm curled, in desperation,about the moon.With supernatural hands extendedthe sea is a wretch's bitter vinegarpounding the little, eggshell homeswhere, at twilight, a dozen village Elderswith bell and taper,candlelight and prayerbind parchment oathsto envisage clandestine pacts, sabbats,obscene sojourns.Peculiar cat--straw hat,thatch and lofta drop of blood sputteringthen drawn over piddling flame,the well-intentioned righteousdemask the pain-fed frightened.Gibbet, arm's length of braided rope--gang-plank, gallow stairs that smirkoff into Eternity--a lucky few strangled,the adamant burned,fickle apostates swumon a ducking stool.Ice-fire hearths--bonfire sheaths ravishing the strongcarnival veilalong pebble-strewn trail.[17]

Picturesque Tituba, steeped in Obeah,in a hairball swoonleads a harangue about witches withsome of Salem's more delicatewomen, obedient children.In verdant outcrops of the imaginationfuelled by a beldame's winter fireamid sparks that prance with devilsthru tempest gloomcovens are conjuredso they implicate other prettieswith raven hair,arm curled, in desperation,about the moon.With supernatural hands extendedthe sea is a wretch's bitter vinegarpounding the little, eggshell homeswhere, at twilight, a dozen village Elderswith bell and taper,candlelight and prayerbind parchment oathsto envisage clandestine pacts, sabbats,obscene sojourns.Peculiar cat--straw hat,thatch and lofta drop of blood sputteringthen drawn over piddling flame,the well-intentioned righteousdemask the pain-fed frightened.Gibbet, arm's length of braided rope--gang-plank, gallow stairs that smirkoff into Eternity--a lucky few strangled,the adamant burned,fickle apostates swumon a ducking stool.Ice-fire hearths--bonfire sheaths ravishing the strongcarnival veilalong pebble-strewn trail.[17]

SHIVAREEThese kettle bells.Is it the axe-murderer,with green garbage bagin the shadows?No. Green trees so thicktheir tops are folded handsor knotted knucklesto make perilous shrubberyby the garden wall.Yet this is a state of mindand shards of multi-colouredglass dot the top of stones.Interesting. Should a sociopath putout his shingle, come calling,a much under-estimated, rude utteringwould take place.Still bees are active in the night air,not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waftthru stiller air. There is no charged electricityto things, no tautness or leathery tightness toindividual seconds. Still and stricken still.Yet "what ifs" come slitheringas if serpents alonga pasture floor.The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil,To embarcation upon conquests.To embolden and make one's mark,however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind.Horrible. The dirty laundry of just oneover-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.One single blossom out of place and "killer".Off-kilter. Out of whack. Thepickle short of a jar syndrome.Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-callswithered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos andrifle-butts.Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrongsoured by too many visits and skunky beers from theOrchid Lounge.Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn,thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faintblinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creekbreaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottomby their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the windowonly its night. The echo of moths lost to the starswith each jarring knock.[19]

These kettle bells.Is it the axe-murderer,with green garbage bagin the shadows?No. Green trees so thicktheir tops are folded handsor knotted knucklesto make perilous shrubberyby the garden wall.Yet this is a state of mindand shards of multi-colouredglass dot the top of stones.Interesting. Should a sociopath putout his shingle, come calling,a much under-estimated, rude utteringwould take place.Still bees are active in the night air,not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waftthru stiller air. There is no charged electricityto things, no tautness or leathery tightness toindividual seconds. Still and stricken still.Yet "what ifs" come slitheringas if serpents alonga pasture floor.The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil,To embarcation upon conquests.To embolden and make one's mark,however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind.Horrible. The dirty laundry of just oneover-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.One single blossom out of place and "killer".Off-kilter. Out of whack. Thepickle short of a jar syndrome.Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-callswithered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos andrifle-butts.Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrongsoured by too many visits and skunky beers from theOrchid Lounge.Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn,thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faintblinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creekbreaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottomby their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the windowonly its night. The echo of moths lost to the starswith each jarring knock.[19]

POINT SPREADThe skull in the box is that of Cornelius A. Burleigh, the first man to behanged in London, Ontario, August 19, 1830. The public hanging attractedan audience of over 3,000 when the village of London numbered only afew hundred. Because the rope broke, he was hanged twice! The top ofthe skull was taken on a world tour by Dr. O.S. Fowler, a phrenologist.This part of the skull was presented to the Harris family.(Eldon House brochure)Off memory& a dare,the grave mancoming to a bitter end.Burleigh, top of hisskull reminiscent of a laundry cup(or toothpaste cap) separated fromits yellowing, rightful owner.No jaws of life here--rather vengeance beyond death,shellac & varnish twist shovedto the withering bone.Phrenology,sinister "fin de siecle" fingeringof the intellect's characterthrough guru-dimensions of the head,(pseudo-savant/skulduggery clairvoyant).Thimble-full thinker, sleight of handsmoke'n mirror trophy huntersboisterous crowd in a"hanging mood". Coinsflip on the outcomewhile town drunks reel;The village idiot gettinginto the "swing" of things. Point spreadacross the yawnof death ...brittle behaviour,the sharp edge of beetlesclicking in the dark.And I thoughtof institutionalized evil& rabid passion for revengepursued beyond the final resting place--most private skeletal remainsheld up as curios. Medieval burning of a heretic's bones,manure pile for those decried damned;the cross-roadsdrive your cart over thebones of the dead,the remembered suicide's end.Not so strangegiven human nature,Lord Byron's silver drinking cuprunaway Ethiopian slave(twisted paean to romance)or Hand of Glory,corpse-fresh from the gibbet &famed forges of France.Hair strands as in undera magnifying glass, thenshards of clothing/clods of earthcovering a shovel.The autopsy-necromancyNazi intrigue,playing polo with youropponent's skull--Carl Sagan's Broca's Brainred-bearded decapitationfloating in a cloud of formaldehyde;sale of skeletons/white slaveryfilthy lucre all in one utilitarianlust for cadavers ....Robber-birds pinioning their prey ...Mania to collectmania to re-collect,shadow-boxing logicrattle his boneshe's only a pauperwhom nobody owns.[21]

The skull in the box is that of Cornelius A. Burleigh, the first man to behanged in London, Ontario, August 19, 1830. The public hanging attractedan audience of over 3,000 when the village of London numbered only afew hundred. Because the rope broke, he was hanged twice! The top ofthe skull was taken on a world tour by Dr. O.S. Fowler, a phrenologist.This part of the skull was presented to the Harris family.(Eldon House brochure)Off memory& a dare,the grave mancoming to a bitter end.Burleigh, top of hisskull reminiscent of a laundry cup(or toothpaste cap) separated fromits yellowing, rightful owner.No jaws of life here--rather vengeance beyond death,shellac & varnish twist shovedto the withering bone.Phrenology,sinister "fin de siecle" fingeringof the intellect's characterthrough guru-dimensions of the head,(pseudo-savant/skulduggery clairvoyant).Thimble-full thinker, sleight of handsmoke'n mirror trophy huntersboisterous crowd in a"hanging mood". Coinsflip on the outcomewhile town drunks reel;The village idiot gettinginto the "swing" of things. Point spreadacross the yawnof death ...brittle behaviour,the sharp edge of beetlesclicking in the dark.And I thoughtof institutionalized evil& rabid passion for revengepursued beyond the final resting place--most private skeletal remainsheld up as curios. Medieval burning of a heretic's bones,manure pile for those decried damned;the cross-roadsdrive your cart over thebones of the dead,the remembered suicide's end.Not so strangegiven human nature,Lord Byron's silver drinking cuprunaway Ethiopian slave(twisted paean to romance)or Hand of Glory,corpse-fresh from the gibbet &famed forges of France.Hair strands as in undera magnifying glass, thenshards of clothing/clods of earthcovering a shovel.The autopsy-necromancyNazi intrigue,playing polo with youropponent's skull--Carl Sagan's Broca's Brainred-bearded decapitationfloating in a cloud of formaldehyde;sale of skeletons/white slaveryfilthy lucre all in one utilitarianlust for cadavers ....Robber-birds pinioning their prey ...Mania to collectmania to re-collect,shadow-boxing logicrattle his boneshe's only a pauperwhom nobody owns.[21]

(THE TORONTO STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1985)Bare bones futureMedical schools may be facing a bare bones future,thanks to a shortage of skeletons. According to an articlein The Medical Post, most anatomy skeletons come fromIndia and the Indian government has placed a ban on theexport of human skulls and skeletons. At Queen's University,500 students share 300 skeletons, four or five ofwhich have to be replaced every year although the head ofthe anatomy department says the students take good care of them.Anatomists say it would be extremely hard to duplicate the surfacedetails with plastic skeletons but the option may have to be considered.[24]

Bare bones futureMedical schools may be facing a bare bones future,thanks to a shortage of skeletons. According to an articlein The Medical Post, most anatomy skeletons come fromIndia and the Indian government has placed a ban on theexport of human skulls and skeletons. At Queen's University,500 students share 300 skeletons, four or five ofwhich have to be replaced every year although the head ofthe anatomy department says the students take good care of them.Anatomists say it would be extremely hard to duplicate the surfacedetails with plastic skeletons but the option may have to be considered.[24]

READING THE TIDES: PETROGLYPH PARK" ... A universe of ineffable gaudiness spunitself out in his brain ... a promisethat the rock of the world was foundedsecurely on a faery's wing."THE GREAT GATSBYPerceiving the universeas an orchid stem,wild hibiscuscrane & heron breaking water--voyage of elliptical, pea-shapedcanoe down dancing images ofthe underworld.This temperature charged,climate-controlled glassgeode designed to war onmoss and stone munchingaphid lichens seems everybit asfanciful as any animal totem.Grim crevice in the rock(animistic female orifice)fertility turtle swollen witheggs carrying Earth thrugorged labours of dartingsalamander & the spaceman snake.And coming to that rushing sound,(subterranean, evocative stream)or so Algonkians, pensive & puzzled,paused for a thought encased indeep, riverine bowels.Glass slipper, blue guitar--Silent Lake with somethingof wild dimensions in Warsas Caves(Cyclopean boulders), Serpent Mounds,this runic enchantment withglyphs & a cabalistic moon of May.[25]

" ... A universe of ineffable gaudiness spunitself out in his brain ... a promisethat the rock of the world was foundedsecurely on a faery's wing."THE GREAT GATSBYPerceiving the universeas an orchid stem,wild hibiscuscrane & heron breaking water--voyage of elliptical, pea-shapedcanoe down dancing images ofthe underworld.This temperature charged,climate-controlled glassgeode designed to war onmoss and stone munchingaphid lichens seems everybit asfanciful as any animal totem.Grim crevice in the rock(animistic female orifice)fertility turtle swollen witheggs carrying Earth thrugorged labours of dartingsalamander & the spaceman snake.And coming to that rushing sound,(subterranean, evocative stream)or so Algonkians, pensive & puzzled,paused for a thought encased indeep, riverine bowels.Glass slipper, blue guitar--Silent Lake with somethingof wild dimensions in Warsas Caves(Cyclopean boulders), Serpent Mounds,this runic enchantment withglyphs & a cabalistic moon of May.[25]

FABULISTRiel veritably in a cockpit--Gabriel Dumont with his buffalo robepeeking from behinda blind at Duck Lakeall ingredients intact,a gallow's walk inevitablegiven a series of probable givens.Given Riel is an illusionistfiguring 3 days back from the grave--that an early prototype of the Gatling gunis in effect, that a Ghost Dancecannot stop bullets.Superior numbers & discipline'mandate the West will cringeto the Queen's Red Coats;what's more, the iron horseicon "talking leaves" & thesuperficiality of runninga plow over the land's backall take their calculated toll.By some obscure, parboiled magicRiel is transformed to a livingroom of today:heir apparent to the French Canadianempire (nightmare) or yuppie visionaryilluminaire?In the Dominion soup kitchen,the rest of the country actsas a beggar clutching another pot.[27]

Riel veritably in a cockpit--Gabriel Dumont with his buffalo robepeeking from behinda blind at Duck Lakeall ingredients intact,a gallow's walk inevitablegiven a series of probable givens.Given Riel is an illusionistfiguring 3 days back from the grave--that an early prototype of the Gatling gunis in effect, that a Ghost Dancecannot stop bullets.Superior numbers & discipline'mandate the West will cringeto the Queen's Red Coats;what's more, the iron horseicon "talking leaves" & thesuperficiality of runninga plow over the land's backall take their calculated toll.By some obscure, parboiled magicRiel is transformed to a livingroom of today:heir apparent to the French Canadianempire (nightmare) or yuppie visionaryilluminaire?In the Dominion soup kitchen,the rest of the country actsas a beggar clutching another pot.[27]

ACE OF SPADESParable as metaphor--profile in hard glint of light,buckskin garbmerging from shadow &buckboards--sandwiching of memorybeing elbowedthru a Deadwood Citysaloon door.Noneother.Dead Man's Hand.Cards strewn,last tumbler ...chamber on empty.Yancy Derringer modelling thelatest revolver of his namesake,in pit & the palmbullet in the backfor Wild Bill, just for a keepsake.Treasure-trove for the funeral parlour:"they done him up well". Peccadillo as provocation.[28]

Parable as metaphor--profile in hard glint of light,buckskin garbmerging from shadow &buckboards--sandwiching of memorybeing elbowedthru a Deadwood Citysaloon door.Noneother.Dead Man's Hand.Cards strewn,last tumbler ...chamber on empty.Yancy Derringer modelling thelatest revolver of his namesake,in pit & the palmbullet in the backfor Wild Bill, just for a keepsake.Treasure-trove for the funeral parlour:"they done him up well". Peccadillo as provocation.[28]

WILD CARDClayton brothers at the corral,its Earp City todaytumbleweed junction for numerous lives,not to mention liesswift-draw artistsencased in a memory of stoneboots up ...with all the forlorn grace ofbeing pushed in frontof a train.[29]

Clayton brothers at the corral,its Earp City todaytumbleweed junction for numerous lives,not to mention liesswift-draw artistsencased in a memory of stoneboots up ...with all the forlorn grace ofbeing pushed in frontof a train.[29]

1920's FLICKERJohn Dillinger and Baby-Faced Nelsonin a dream together--one shooting holes thrutheories of his untimely death,the other frying in an old-time(e) Electric Chairwith balloons waving, bonbonsgoing off, the crowd in a joyous,boisterous mood.The marquee reads:"Public Enemy Number Onelaid to rest in ashallow grave asgravelly as the heartthat beat in his stoney chest."An adjacent sign noted,crime does pay the undertakerbut other, good-hearted folksneed look no further thanthe Dempsey-Tunney fightto see which has thebigger box office draw.[30]

John Dillinger and Baby-Faced Nelsonin a dream together--one shooting holes thrutheories of his untimely death,the other frying in an old-time(e) Electric Chairwith balloons waving, bonbonsgoing off, the crowd in a joyous,boisterous mood.The marquee reads:"Public Enemy Number Onelaid to rest in ashallow grave asgravelly as the heartthat beat in his stoney chest."An adjacent sign noted,crime does pay the undertakerbut other, good-hearted folksneed look no further thanthe Dempsey-Tunney fightto see which has thebigger box office draw.[30]

CANDLELIGHT IN BLACKThe ghosts are marmaladethin as rinds across toastor the Weeping Willow, whosegreen beard leans,crane-like, into a child'sbackyard.A Morning Cloak butterfly,maroon wet with the paintof morning, cat pawsthin filament leavesastride a larderof memories.Dalliance with the past,smoke grey these architectsof memorythe privet hedge,lone pine tree,jet black caterpillarpoised about a greencarrot top triggerlaced in emperor's goldlike fathoms of the seaheld ... in quiet repose.[31]

The ghosts are marmaladethin as rinds across toastor the Weeping Willow, whosegreen beard leans,crane-like, into a child'sbackyard.A Morning Cloak butterfly,maroon wet with the paintof morning, cat pawsthin filament leavesastride a larderof memories.Dalliance with the past,smoke grey these architectsof memorythe privet hedge,lone pine tree,jet black caterpillarpoised about a greencarrot top triggerlaced in emperor's goldlike fathoms of the seaheld ... in quiet repose.[31]

HIGHGATEAngel Inn,come off a signblown sidewaysin the sugar and icesnight.Old St. Joseph'sCathedral, bottomof the hill, hereAndrew Marvellof "coy mistress"fame sports a plaqueremembering "time'swinged chariot" andfarther (further!) upa quaint pub gives accolades(Kudos, too) to the fact, 1666nefariously was the plague yearin London--Parliament Hill,a brief arm stretch away,posited strangled chickensand other assorted heirloomsin vain attempt for poesyto thwart poxy.A stone's throwoff in Hampstead Heathguns (Big Berthas) couldbe heard from the Somme,German dirigibles droppedincendiaries, the wounded entrainedat Charing Cross and a rascallion(John Keats by name) draineda draught at Jack Straw'sCastle near the Spaniardswhile Turpin's hanged corpsewas soon to resemble goodEnglish oaker casksat the Flask.[32]

Angel Inn,come off a signblown sidewaysin the sugar and icesnight.Old St. Joseph'sCathedral, bottomof the hill, hereAndrew Marvellof "coy mistress"fame sports a plaqueremembering "time'swinged chariot" andfarther (further!) upa quaint pub gives accolades(Kudos, too) to the fact, 1666nefariously was the plague yearin London--Parliament Hill,a brief arm stretch away,posited strangled chickensand other assorted heirloomsin vain attempt for poesyto thwart poxy.A stone's throwoff in Hampstead Heathguns (Big Berthas) couldbe heard from the Somme,German dirigibles droppedincendiaries, the wounded entrainedat Charing Cross and a rascallion(John Keats by name) draineda draught at Jack Straw'sCastle near the Spaniardswhile Turpin's hanged corpsewas soon to resemble goodEnglish oaker casksat the Flask.[32]

CAPE OF GOOD HOPEPoltergeist activity--the sun winding like a staircaseonto the pavement,rickety afternoonshooting back thrushawls of the city.Tippy-toe. Curtainsajar, a face at the cross-roads looking,looking for all the world aspavement stones,greasy & black, a thinoiled compliment toMrs. Blight registeredat Old Inn Road.[34]

Poltergeist activity--the sun winding like a staircaseonto the pavement,rickety afternoonshooting back thrushawls of the city.Tippy-toe. Curtainsajar, a face at the cross-roads looking,looking for all the world aspavement stones,greasy & black, a thinoiled compliment toMrs. Blight registeredat Old Inn Road.[34]

PICPUSThe day I went to LaFayette's grave, theconcierge becameour tour guide amid an oldruin of tombstones including bedraggledde Tocqueville's crypt (and he, heirapparant of America, too).There, too, the odd City of St. Louis tributeFayettevillesafter yet another "Saint" Louis, despoilerof the Jews--both sitting, squat and apparant,in summer dust, so shingle-flat,mindful of Place De La Nation, moreblood-letting blocks away (so the aristocracymight be healed).A chapel nun then reached in loudsilence for our Lord, her blackhabit / upraised hands forming abrilliant crucifix against sky and altar.Some francs exchanged hands(Monsieur le keeper, after all,obliged us by openinga private cemetery, aprÃ¨s heures),the graves looked so wretched--death stylized in military formation,row on row,every private carrying a field marshall'sbaton only this time of mortality's making,crestfallen, no Agile Lapin/Moulin Rouge here,in the joyless, little garden(not a bird sang),our old Frenchman narrating/marchingon in The Old Guard, Grand ArmÃ©efashiona little Napoleonichis cemetery, his brandylike his suspender buttonslost to recent antiquity.Place des Vosges, Place des Vendomes.A dish of plaice at the palaisand a royal hippodrome.[35]

The day I went to LaFayette's grave, theconcierge becameour tour guide amid an oldruin of tombstones including bedraggledde Tocqueville's crypt (and he, heirapparant of America, too).There, too, the odd City of St. Louis tributeFayettevillesafter yet another "Saint" Louis, despoilerof the Jews--both sitting, squat and apparant,in summer dust, so shingle-flat,mindful of Place De La Nation, moreblood-letting blocks away (so the aristocracymight be healed).A chapel nun then reached in loudsilence for our Lord, her blackhabit / upraised hands forming abrilliant crucifix against sky and altar.Some francs exchanged hands(Monsieur le keeper, after all,obliged us by openinga private cemetery, aprÃ¨s heures),the graves looked so wretched--death stylized in military formation,row on row,every private carrying a field marshall'sbaton only this time of mortality's making,crestfallen, no Agile Lapin/Moulin Rouge here,in the joyless, little garden(not a bird sang),our old Frenchman narrating/marchingon in The Old Guard, Grand ArmÃ©efashiona little Napoleonichis cemetery, his brandylike his suspender buttonslost to recent antiquity.Place des Vosges, Place des Vendomes.A dish of plaice at the palaisand a royal hippodrome.[35]

ILLUMINAIREElfin & gold bug,genie in thetwilight of a cave.Virgin On The Rocks--Da Vinci's painting--aura light seeping towardsun-lit crack of day,the Master's Mona Lisain the Louvreraptured,luminescence amid aging pigmentsteeping about rapt multitude.Betwixt pit & pendulum,another canvas--Da Vinci in a beatific pose(warm light of the room),gentle finger pointing upward,a puzzled crowdwith nowhere to see.[37]

Elfin & gold bug,genie in thetwilight of a cave.Virgin On The Rocks--Da Vinci's painting--aura light seeping towardsun-lit crack of day,the Master's Mona Lisain the Louvreraptured,luminescence amid aging pigmentsteeping about rapt multitude.Betwixt pit & pendulum,another canvas--Da Vinci in a beatific pose(warm light of the room),gentle finger pointing upward,a puzzled crowdwith nowhere to see.[37]

CARNIVAL AND LENTJungle, the cavehuman reservoir & cistern ....quagmire and bog, but no alpine meadow,fairest glance of goodness insoiled wildflower under winter snows.Pebbles into a cesspool,our sometime passions alivein the outback where honey-fuelledants soothe enemy bones.My blood, tempest-whipped,ardour drawn to the surfacefathom marks the depthssees a spectacle on the roadsqueues/Carnival & Lent,unbridled raw and raging.Jesus would have nails.Poison darts,liana and mangrove soundswith footsteps in the distancethe blow-gun or bolo knifeattache case / cellular phone ..."I'll kick your teeth downyour throat, professionallyspeaking." Nine to five fecalbeings perform the toilet-bowl flush.Tsetse fly with design--sapient, sand paper roughalong the edge, dry rot to the core.Plague rats cluster in a feedingfrenzy sampling tidbits.Swirl of the bull fight,colour and scope, onlyits a supermarket, freeway.Wide angle, wild angel,Umbrage of the uppercut.Tough-mindedness, singlenessof purpose, the glacial speed offairness along the sorted, sordidcircles of Spitsbergen.Our species' jailbait reasonfiring up the flashlight in the darkfor a circumspect peek in the woods sleeping.Tell me your adventures in living.Another hour spentstrangling a reindeeron the taiga, boreally-speaking.[38]

Jungle, the cavehuman reservoir & cistern ....quagmire and bog, but no alpine meadow,fairest glance of goodness insoiled wildflower under winter snows.Pebbles into a cesspool,our sometime passions alivein the outback where honey-fuelledants soothe enemy bones.My blood, tempest-whipped,ardour drawn to the surfacefathom marks the depthssees a spectacle on the roadsqueues/Carnival & Lent,unbridled raw and raging.Jesus would have nails.Poison darts,liana and mangrove soundswith footsteps in the distancethe blow-gun or bolo knifeattache case / cellular phone ..."I'll kick your teeth downyour throat, professionallyspeaking." Nine to five fecalbeings perform the toilet-bowl flush.Tsetse fly with design--sapient, sand paper roughalong the edge, dry rot to the core.Plague rats cluster in a feedingfrenzy sampling tidbits.Swirl of the bull fight,colour and scope, onlyits a supermarket, freeway.Wide angle, wild angel,Umbrage of the uppercut.Tough-mindedness, singlenessof purpose, the glacial speed offairness along the sorted, sordidcircles of Spitsbergen.Our species' jailbait reasonfiring up the flashlight in the darkfor a circumspect peek in the woods sleeping.Tell me your adventures in living.Another hour spentstrangling a reindeeron the taiga, boreally-speaking.[38]

TERMINAL LIVING"Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut."Charles MansonIThe image complete--collapsing corpses, rag dollswith skulls shot away ...ruby-red blood spurtingslipstick/eyeshadow/mascaraall so reptilian replete.IIThe long fingers of the pianistplaying rifle fire to acaptive audience,stiletto tones;the trance effect,precedes a cobra's strike,summer without smoke.IIIA glass of absinthe--the Degas painting,Marc Lepine measuring out his vial,measuring the worth of a singlewoman and finding her long on the call,cartridge shells explodingfilaments of smoke(long and blue) like awoman's fingers upfrom his death gun.IVExistential longing--vision far ago, alost world of virile primateswhere a man's worthtranscended his tie-clip(suspenders ready, binoculars steady),letting the stiff upper lip quiver.Then his face the colour of rainwater,shoe leather in that same rain.V"I am not a wallet," but he wassomeone's son.VIMystery (wretched Marc, so unfathomableinside your debÃ¢cle, mÃ©lÃ©e thatthe French so forlornly cloak,enfant perdu).VIIMarc, you are not confined to "why",rather representative of a long lineof predecessors dead certainthey are nobley right. Gender knowsno restraint. Male crazies? I see the cloaksand shawls of spectres breakingsaloon bottles with an axe cursingdemon rum, hear "red alert"at maternity wards after the shootings--boy babies, at risk, from estrogen cranks.VIIIStrange, women speak of it,Lepine died for it--his ersatz,clouded vision, no milktoast he, yetso much egg on the face this dirtything "Justice".Naughty boy taking one too manyreprimands from Father, thinkof Madonna's spankie.IXAll the same, Saddam Hussein,Pedro the Cruel (Butcher of Baghdad,Montreal or writhing throes ofmedieval pillage).Getting one's own lid pried off--the shaking indignation of Il Duce,Der Fuehrer, the sanctimonioushard-shell pose of Henry, Anne Bolynin the cell block for beinga witch (the reputed third breastwas a dead give away).XLittle ripple, then blip ona sonar screen trailing offterminal living. Frame of referencelike a gyroscope breading free.XIHistory is a motherlode of fanaticsby virtue of association.Wrong-minded'?Why not, I never met anyonewho was wrong.No joy in loveland, everybodyrevelling in certain certitude thisbalkanization of the sexes, Holy Crusade,Jihad of the gender.XIISave us from people who are right,the "firm but fair" rabid feminists,rapid virilism crescendo intellectswith egos to stop a train.Humility of purpose is decidedlyinferior to quiet perseverancein the truth.XIIIInner light taken outside isfiery and blinding.Quietism. Pietism.Everything is a calling or,in the religious sense, vocation.What is not a longing'? Craving?Itch before the scratch?XIVThe last, inner spike of saintly sanitysnapping to "calling", that sirensong persuasion Lorelei madevision.So watch their faces--lips set,eyes aglow giving us all "an offerwe cannot refuse".Silver or lead, red hot pokerup the innards in the name ofSelf-Determination.Columbian drug-lord, hat offcleaning her glasses afterThe Hit.There is no substitute for victory.Conviction has its price.Its a funny, old world if onlyMaggie Thatcher knew.[40]

"Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut."Charles MansonIThe image complete--collapsing corpses, rag dollswith skulls shot away ...ruby-red blood spurtingslipstick/eyeshadow/mascaraall so reptilian replete.IIThe long fingers of the pianistplaying rifle fire to acaptive audience,stiletto tones;the trance effect,precedes a cobra's strike,summer without smoke.IIIA glass of absinthe--the Degas painting,Marc Lepine measuring out his vial,measuring the worth of a singlewoman and finding her long on the call,cartridge shells explodingfilaments of smoke(long and blue) like awoman's fingers upfrom his death gun.IVExistential longing--vision far ago, alost world of virile primateswhere a man's worthtranscended his tie-clip(suspenders ready, binoculars steady),letting the stiff upper lip quiver.Then his face the colour of rainwater,shoe leather in that same rain.V"I am not a wallet," but he wassomeone's son.VIMystery (wretched Marc, so unfathomableinside your debÃ¢cle, mÃ©lÃ©e thatthe French so forlornly cloak,enfant perdu).VIIMarc, you are not confined to "why",rather representative of a long lineof predecessors dead certainthey are nobley right. Gender knowsno restraint. Male crazies? I see the cloaksand shawls of spectres breakingsaloon bottles with an axe cursingdemon rum, hear "red alert"at maternity wards after the shootings--boy babies, at risk, from estrogen cranks.VIIIStrange, women speak of it,Lepine died for it--his ersatz,clouded vision, no milktoast he, yetso much egg on the face this dirtything "Justice".Naughty boy taking one too manyreprimands from Father, thinkof Madonna's spankie.IXAll the same, Saddam Hussein,Pedro the Cruel (Butcher of Baghdad,Montreal or writhing throes ofmedieval pillage).Getting one's own lid pried off--the shaking indignation of Il Duce,Der Fuehrer, the sanctimonioushard-shell pose of Henry, Anne Bolynin the cell block for beinga witch (the reputed third breastwas a dead give away).XLittle ripple, then blip ona sonar screen trailing offterminal living. Frame of referencelike a gyroscope breading free.XIHistory is a motherlode of fanaticsby virtue of association.Wrong-minded'?Why not, I never met anyonewho was wrong.No joy in loveland, everybodyrevelling in certain certitude thisbalkanization of the sexes, Holy Crusade,Jihad of the gender.XIISave us from people who are right,the "firm but fair" rabid feminists,rapid virilism crescendo intellectswith egos to stop a train.Humility of purpose is decidedlyinferior to quiet perseverancein the truth.XIIIInner light taken outside isfiery and blinding.Quietism. Pietism.Everything is a calling or,in the religious sense, vocation.What is not a longing'? Craving?Itch before the scratch?XIVThe last, inner spike of saintly sanitysnapping to "calling", that sirensong persuasion Lorelei madevision.So watch their faces--lips set,eyes aglow giving us all "an offerwe cannot refuse".Silver or lead, red hot pokerup the innards in the name ofSelf-Determination.Columbian drug-lord, hat offcleaning her glasses afterThe Hit.There is no substitute for victory.Conviction has its price.Its a funny, old world if onlyMaggie Thatcher knew.[40]

MIDPOINTThe thin, feathery blueegg-shell curtains gently tossing,the tin smileof the roof armadaits metal armour flashingto inch their shingle wayinto escalade-escadrille formationand leathery sky.[45]

The thin, feathery blueegg-shell curtains gently tossing,the tin smileof the roof armadaits metal armour flashingto inch their shingle wayinto escalade-escadrille formationand leathery sky.[45]

TWINKLING OF AN EYEOn twin tails of a cometpenguin men polka dotthe night------waddle white suitspast pale the white Empress Night,flickering graveyard stars---a pitcher of inky blackupended in a choir and mangerII.Lowing of the cloudslowering overhead like bombardiersrifling the Firmament,black braying back.III.Millpond, satin and creamy,then buttercup crush of waves[46]

On twin tails of a cometpenguin men polka dotthe night------waddle white suitspast pale the white Empress Night,flickering graveyard stars---a pitcher of inky blackupended in a choir and mangerII.Lowing of the cloudslowering overhead like bombardiersrifling the Firmament,black braying back.III.Millpond, satin and creamy,then buttercup crush of waves[46]

SERENADEA green flotilla,verdant armadastone hand encasedin an arm of oceanoff blue-grotto bay.Something avuncular where landmeets sea--underdog, whipped cur,adult "son" posturing to the elder,pontificating man.Melaque after darkor was it Aguascalientes'?Monterrey at sunsetprior to "the" pop festivalor Morelia, on eveof feasts to that native patriot'?Vera Cruz, 1915, at the height ofAmerican occupationwith Pershing tailing the hirsute PanchoVilla in Sinaloaoutdated rock & gunboat diplomacy--no longer exotic fareplate of frivoles,fried bananaMahi-Mahi.On the palette,dreams are fickle,subject to "drunkand disorderly resistingarrest," outmoded andfuzzy with age.Policeman of the Olmec intellect,you dance late on feather boasthis Mariachis of the soulwith glittering purse and yellow,travelling nectar Tequila.[47]

A green flotilla,verdant armadastone hand encasedin an arm of oceanoff blue-grotto bay.Something avuncular where landmeets sea--underdog, whipped cur,adult "son" posturing to the elder,pontificating man.Melaque after darkor was it Aguascalientes'?Monterrey at sunsetprior to "the" pop festivalor Morelia, on eveof feasts to that native patriot'?Vera Cruz, 1915, at the height ofAmerican occupationwith Pershing tailing the hirsute PanchoVilla in Sinaloaoutdated rock & gunboat diplomacy--no longer exotic fareplate of frivoles,fried bananaMahi-Mahi.On the palette,dreams are fickle,subject to "drunkand disorderly resistingarrest," outmoded andfuzzy with age.Policeman of the Olmec intellect,you dance late on feather boasthis Mariachis of the soulwith glittering purse and yellow,travelling nectar Tequila.[47]

HIDDEN AGENDAMariachis, almost a Spanish temperament within those stars,--a screen peppered to black,pebbles as pinholes bright in the night air.Winged bats, moist velvet foot-padsthat spring from ink spots onto an El Greco canvaswhere Garcia Lorca's green, Andalusian hillsfind the wind a gypsy banditsage, red flower of the cacti,ballad to rakish cloud.A ship shamelessly at sea--the scorpion cloth of open wounds,dark implants, sturdy oakconstellations, English yewspouts tremulous shaftsacross weather-burnt sky.A dock in a prison of rose-petal harbour.Piers along deep, inner space.Our planet, rockface. Sheer plummet.Accordion of white light.Up green ache of mountainthe muffled soundGoya's Colossus,the head of the giantvoyaging thruembroidery and stellar, black space;tombstone lock on a pulsating world.[49]

Mariachis, almost a Spanish temperament within those stars,--a screen peppered to black,pebbles as pinholes bright in the night air.Winged bats, moist velvet foot-padsthat spring from ink spots onto an El Greco canvaswhere Garcia Lorca's green, Andalusian hillsfind the wind a gypsy banditsage, red flower of the cacti,ballad to rakish cloud.A ship shamelessly at sea--the scorpion cloth of open wounds,dark implants, sturdy oakconstellations, English yewspouts tremulous shaftsacross weather-burnt sky.A dock in a prison of rose-petal harbour.Piers along deep, inner space.Our planet, rockface. Sheer plummet.Accordion of white light.Up green ache of mountainthe muffled soundGoya's Colossus,the head of the giantvoyaging thruembroidery and stellar, black space;tombstone lock on a pulsating world.[49]

ADVENTURERHow desert islandsin a cartoonist's imaginationinvariably are flat,palm-studdedpeopled by a solitary, abjectyet humorous man.In real time, no delight;such isletsare razor hot,rock sharptreeless, barrenslabs ... examplesof art shirking, butnot shrinking life.Three days growth of beard,bottle with note on the incoming tidecomic survivor swimming up(tramp steamer in the distance),shirts waved in unisonpredictable disappointment et al,glum hands to facethen the inevitable credulitysplitting retortamid plaything for the crabs.[50]

How desert islandsin a cartoonist's imaginationinvariably are flat,palm-studdedpeopled by a solitary, abjectyet humorous man.In real time, no delight;such isletsare razor hot,rock sharptreeless, barrenslabs ... examplesof art shirking, butnot shrinking life.Three days growth of beard,bottle with note on the incoming tidecomic survivor swimming up(tramp steamer in the distance),shirts waved in unisonpredictable disappointment et al,glum hands to facethen the inevitable credulitysplitting retortamid plaything for the crabs.[50]

SLIPPERWhen I was very youngonto school,a slick of water curledunder a behemoth, silver poplar tree ...there, white underbacksof leaves waved in showy pride thedead underbellies of bass ...as tall boys,big with rakish, probing, anthracite eyes,stooped in the creektheir red, exposed fleshcolour of school brick.[51]

When I was very youngonto school,a slick of water curledunder a behemoth, silver poplar tree ...there, white underbacksof leaves waved in showy pride thedead underbellies of bass ...as tall boys,big with rakish, probing, anthracite eyes,stooped in the creektheir red, exposed fleshcolour of school brick.[51]

HELLULANDWe built bottlecaps offship's sides(soft, cedar bough),Viking mastsshining thru imaginedNorse seas.Sporting logs,(sweet, cedar-wood shavings)piercing beer hats/silver foil,grey wraps & burlap,Atlantic capes,our twin peaks soared.New Found Land(a child's faery shrimp logisticsaide-de-camp simplistics)marvelled taleof warm, butter moonwith outpourings aroundpenknife's blade.To tame Sutton Hoo,(I am very close to myself tonight)bronze copper, cruising wintery water,Anse aux Meadows,occasional dirt shackskraelings,jagged blade & arrowbackward into timefor Helluland,yet marooned in the LandGod gave Cain.[52]

We built bottlecaps offship's sides(soft, cedar bough),Viking mastsshining thru imaginedNorse seas.Sporting logs,(sweet, cedar-wood shavings)piercing beer hats/silver foil,grey wraps & burlap,Atlantic capes,our twin peaks soared.New Found Land(a child's faery shrimp logisticsaide-de-camp simplistics)marvelled taleof warm, butter moonwith outpourings aroundpenknife's blade.To tame Sutton Hoo,(I am very close to myself tonight)bronze copper, cruising wintery water,Anse aux Meadows,occasional dirt shackskraelings,jagged blade & arrowbackward into timefor Helluland,yet marooned in the LandGod gave Cain.[52]

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