The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSympathetic Magic

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSympathetic MagicThis 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: Sympathetic MagicAuthor: Paul Cameron BrownRelease date: August 22, 2009 [eBook #29761]Most recently updated: January 25, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYMPATHETIC MAGIC ***

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: Sympathetic MagicAuthor: Paul Cameron BrownRelease date: August 22, 2009 [eBook #29761]Most recently updated: January 25, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines

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 ***

The River Cuts a ChannelPage 9PrimaveraPage 10Sanguinepage 11, 12, 13Hamomlettepage 14The East is Redpage 15, 16, 17untitledpage 18untitledpage 19Rocking Horsepage 20Rouge and Graypage 21Cubitspage 22Buzz Phrasepage 23Ambergris Citypage 24Wincingpage 25Torontopage 26Crying Scenepage 27Night Skypage 28The World of Tezcatlipocapage 29In the Cenotepage 30Belizepage 31, 32, 33, 34Picaroonpage 35, 36, 37The Cable Carpage 38IL Giardinopage 39Every Man's Handpage 40, 41, 42Ending Uppage 43Offeringspage 44, 45, 46, 47Regaliapage 48San Cristobalpage 49, 50Guadalquivirpage 51Leaves of the Cecropia Treepage 52, 53Southwarkpage 54Kublai Khanpage 55, 56, 57Homuncular Formspage 58Antarcticapage 59, 60Blue-eyed Grassespage 61Moccasinpage 62The Bullfrogpage 63Ancestral Memorypage 64Entry Pointpage 65Bloodcountpage 66BloodStreampage 67Rogue and Privateerpage 68The Camera Cagepage 69Fence Linepage 70Adversariespage 71Bargaining Unitpage 72Palais Royalepage 73Alcatrazpage 74When Labouring to Breakpage 75This way to the Sixtiespage 76, 77Progrompage 78Braggadociopage 79, 80, 81Dress Rehearsalpage 82, 83, 84

THE RIVER CUTS A CHANNELPeople with money but no fortuneor stomach for the life of an albatross,watch him soar on self made wings,fetch the dingy rednessof morning's, first catchwith a long necked bottlehe calls the captain9Back to the Contents Page

People with money but no fortuneor stomach for the life of an albatross,watch him soar on self made wings,fetch the dingy rednessof morning's, first catchwith a long necked bottlehe calls the captain9Back to the Contents Page

PRIMAVERAA poem is perishable and,like it,so much of life is spentin intervals --the jarring secondregaining consciousness,a post-mortem flickof the lank equestrian eyelidthat signals, morning's first crepuscular move.. . . a little salad consciousnessabout the tumescent roomwith the sentient purr of a Cat,her musky oilsa green verdurelapping primordial scentto engross a little readinessas the day progressesto its oedipal stageand arrested development.10Back to the Contents Page

A poem is perishable and,like it,so much of life is spentin intervals --the jarring secondregaining consciousness,a post-mortem flickof the lank equestrian eyelidthat signals, morning's first crepuscular move.. . . a little salad consciousnessabout the tumescent roomwith the sentient purr of a Cat,her musky oilsa green verdurelapping primordial scentto engross a little readinessas the day progressesto its oedipal stageand arrested development.10Back to the Contents Page

SANGUINE"The clock indicates the hour but what does enternity indicate?"WhitmanImagine, being told cubism isn't painting. ThatBeardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy geniusor Corot didn't come to Paris after all.Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, theintelligentsia sitting down to a ragged tablesurrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not beingable to write his name.Now that's splendour -- that's in-depth "feeling".That's emotion to pull your socks or catch the bus ona brittle day.It's easy. Try to "feel" the event. It's 1896. People areperturbed (or so we are told) because the century'sgetting old. Time's rushing by. There's an alarm clockset to buzz at eternity's gate, Midnight 1900.In probing the malaise that hit Europe circa 1881,psychologists would have us believe the world grewdespondent. Despondent because a whole hundredyear cycle was about to elapse; despondent becauselife itself was running out. Those poor Edwardians!Poor lovers of the elegant, the late Victorians, belleepoquers. A penny for their thoughts whenconfronting a Picasso without the vantage ofhindsight.If Europe and its child bride, America, grew uneasy inthe declining years of the past century. How then ourera? (These same psychologists pinpoint people'sspirits rise in the opening years of a new century.)Now we're poised for the "really big one": thecataclysm. What a boon for the absurdists. Peachesand cream -- not just one century dangling but theculmination of ten.There's even a word for it. Millenium, I'll say it again.Better yet, a mere two millenia since Christ'sdeparture, we are poised again on the threshold. Half& half. Like a party twelve pack -- six of one, halfdozen of the other.Remember. when contemplating your ennui ormalaise (whichever word is currently mostfashionable), you can hardly figure for less. Eternity'sgiven to you, my peers, a singular opportunity. Andfrom what we know of the 20th century. it should be agrand slam homer. Already the clean-up batter isstaged for action. The bat looms over the plate.There's so much bad news it's enough to make anoptimist greedy. After all, with this much horror thereis caused only for danse macabre celebrations.1985. Only 15 years left before the digital watch rollsover. before the cannon with the flower pops out.Those forward looking voyeurs of hundred yearsback must have felt cheated when mentally reversingtheir lot with the denizens of the 20th century.In 1885, you could only gripe about the aging processof a single tenth of one component. In 1985, you've gotthat and the Millenia. Trendy things like atmosphericpressure, negative ions, adverse body rhythms and awelter of other pseudo impressive formula abound tohelp out in your witchhunt.Surprise. 1066 saw comets, omens. signs coded instars speeding across the sky -- a host of ditlurbing.natural phenomena to boot. The vigilant saw meteorsat Caesar's, death.The National Enquirer predicts Australia will breakinto the sea. Californians will be upstaged. Thefuturists will all need waterwings. The Club of Romehints the next years auger more chilling holocausts.Everywhere, survival scenarios proliferate. Pro-liferswill rearrange proverbial deck chairs on theTitanic. Soothsayers will become all the rage as weplot myriad escapes. A year's supply of canned goods,anyone?1885 has a lot to teach us. Umbrellas, a gentle ennuilike fine mist compounded by traffic in & out of theMoulin Rouge. Perhaps a surfeit of absinthe helps justas its equivalent does today. "Cheer up, there willalways be an England" doesn't sound so bad after all.And there's always that one recruiting poster, "Whatdid you do in the Great War, daddy"?11, 12, 13Back to the Contents Page

"The clock indicates the hour but what does enternity indicate?"WhitmanImagine, being told cubism isn't painting. ThatBeardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy geniusor Corot didn't come to Paris after all.Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, theintelligentsia sitting down to a ragged tablesurrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not beingable to write his name.Now that's splendour -- that's in-depth "feeling".That's emotion to pull your socks or catch the bus ona brittle day.It's easy. Try to "feel" the event. It's 1896. People areperturbed (or so we are told) because the century'sgetting old. Time's rushing by. There's an alarm clockset to buzz at eternity's gate, Midnight 1900.In probing the malaise that hit Europe circa 1881,psychologists would have us believe the world grewdespondent. Despondent because a whole hundredyear cycle was about to elapse; despondent becauselife itself was running out. Those poor Edwardians!Poor lovers of the elegant, the late Victorians, belleepoquers. A penny for their thoughts whenconfronting a Picasso without the vantage ofhindsight.If Europe and its child bride, America, grew uneasy inthe declining years of the past century. How then ourera? (These same psychologists pinpoint people'sspirits rise in the opening years of a new century.)Now we're poised for the "really big one": thecataclysm. What a boon for the absurdists. Peachesand cream -- not just one century dangling but theculmination of ten.There's even a word for it. Millenium, I'll say it again.Better yet, a mere two millenia since Christ'sdeparture, we are poised again on the threshold. Half& half. Like a party twelve pack -- six of one, halfdozen of the other.Remember. when contemplating your ennui ormalaise (whichever word is currently mostfashionable), you can hardly figure for less. Eternity'sgiven to you, my peers, a singular opportunity. Andfrom what we know of the 20th century. it should be agrand slam homer. Already the clean-up batter isstaged for action. The bat looms over the plate.There's so much bad news it's enough to make anoptimist greedy. After all, with this much horror thereis caused only for danse macabre celebrations.1985. Only 15 years left before the digital watch rollsover. before the cannon with the flower pops out.Those forward looking voyeurs of hundred yearsback must have felt cheated when mentally reversingtheir lot with the denizens of the 20th century.In 1885, you could only gripe about the aging processof a single tenth of one component. In 1985, you've gotthat and the Millenia. Trendy things like atmosphericpressure, negative ions, adverse body rhythms and awelter of other pseudo impressive formula abound tohelp out in your witchhunt.Surprise. 1066 saw comets, omens. signs coded instars speeding across the sky -- a host of ditlurbing.natural phenomena to boot. The vigilant saw meteorsat Caesar's, death.The National Enquirer predicts Australia will breakinto the sea. Californians will be upstaged. Thefuturists will all need waterwings. The Club of Romehints the next years auger more chilling holocausts.Everywhere, survival scenarios proliferate. Pro-liferswill rearrange proverbial deck chairs on theTitanic. Soothsayers will become all the rage as weplot myriad escapes. A year's supply of canned goods,anyone?1885 has a lot to teach us. Umbrellas, a gentle ennuilike fine mist compounded by traffic in & out of theMoulin Rouge. Perhaps a surfeit of absinthe helps justas its equivalent does today. "Cheer up, there willalways be an England" doesn't sound so bad after all.And there's always that one recruiting poster, "Whatdid you do in the Great War, daddy"?11, 12, 13Back to the Contents Page

HAMOMLETTEA VICTIM OF INDIGESTION OR PATRICIDE?MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORECHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARKINGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THEHUMAN CONDITION,SENSELESS FORCES THATRAGE AND DESTROY A MANCOOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLYA PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICKI KNEW HIM WELL...14Back to the Contents Page

A VICTIM OF INDIGESTION OR PATRICIDE?MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORECHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARKINGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THEHUMAN CONDITION,SENSELESS FORCES THATRAGE AND DESTROY A MANCOOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLYA PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICKI KNEW HIM WELL...14Back to the Contents Page

THE EAST IS REDWe can survive a nuclear War. It's scarcely credible,I know, but listen.The human race has great resilience. We've come backbefore -- all those plagues, the Black Death,despoliations, scorched earth policies "prove" it.We're proliferate and we love the sex act. It won't behard; human fecundity is a count-on. There are somany of us, see.People have overestimated the alleged horror. Afterall, (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 takeEd Sullivan'a phrase out of context) is just more of thesame. Try to absorb that logic. Ergo, Ignorance mustbe, in toto strength.Enraged by the impropriety of it all? Anyone whodisagrees with this is coarse and vulgar.Of course there would have to be "preparations". (Ifyou have "to prepare" to be a hairdresser, it stands toreason you would have to ready yourself for this.)Confronting, facts you can die only once. After that,the mushroom cloud is anticlimactic. Remember theMagic Mushroom -- the cult that centred its teachingsaround Christianlty's debt to hallucegenic drugs?Some said preposterous -- Christ a magician dopinghis followers and using the Cross as a stage prop.Amazing. In this world anything is possible. We havefinally created a mutant of people who ecceptanything. And God just another man, albeit a trickydevil at that. Imagine fooling everyone for 2,000years!Next, we'll be told we're actually dead. I know some ofyou have already suspected this but it will be"confirmed". Our leaders will troopse out impressivesounding "flow charts" and backup statistics. Therewill even be a special chamber to experience what itwas like before you knew you were dead withcarefully monitored "response signals" to give theaudience a "sensasound" aura just like living throughan earthquake, only fake. Just remember MontyPython and "possibility".Meanwhile, in ensuing preparations for war, noaspect of the psychological preparedness should beoverlooked. We don't have to be told there is nosubstitute for victory."The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscienceof a King." Hamlet knew. So does The Kremlin. TheKGB can "prove" a nuclear scenario is winnable.According to the most painstaking calculations, aconventional war of any duration "swings" into a pre-nuclearstage. That's when the nuclear optionbecomes "viable". That's when Gorbachev and theboys calculate "target readiness" and plummet thedepths of the human spirit.The East is Red and ready. The Chinese have been toldby Mao 300 million or their number cremated is asmall price for global supremacy. A human dung hillis being set in motion for another generation ofpoppies. Marx lends credibility to this, but with adifferent opiate for the masses. Thelumpenproletariat can hack it. Such clever playingwith facts, now I understand genius.For a young physicist, a 100 megaton blast is theculmination of the creative spirit. Certainlyirrefutable evidence, this quintessential "spirit".I read Toronto would be "messy" in the event of anuclear strike. Half-baked and eviscerated thinkingOr just inescaspable?Chin up. We'll survive or at least part of us will. Wereally are "malleable". It will be a "transitional stage",a step upwards on the evolutionary ladder.Radioactivity and genetics are at work with oneanother.When the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic device,the pilot was later to go mad.Maybe this has already happened to the world andthere's no one to discern the difference.Maybe a forest of "maybes" has already sprouted andleft a forest of dust clouding the collective vision.Maybe it's all too terrifying to be taken seriously anddisbelief is the escape hatch. Like the pilot's lapse intocomforting drugs for reassurance or the dervisheswith their Magic Mushroom.Maybe it's closer to what Harry Truman announcedafter "deploying" the first "device" or exercising thenuclear 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 sleep15, 16, 17Back to the Contents Page

We can survive a nuclear War. It's scarcely credible,I know, but listen.The human race has great resilience. We've come backbefore -- all those plagues, the Black Death,despoliations, scorched earth policies "prove" it.We're proliferate and we love the sex act. It won't behard; human fecundity is a count-on. There are somany of us, see.People have overestimated the alleged horror. Afterall, (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 takeEd Sullivan'a phrase out of context) is just more of thesame. Try to absorb that logic. Ergo, Ignorance mustbe, in toto strength.Enraged by the impropriety of it all? Anyone whodisagrees with this is coarse and vulgar.Of course there would have to be "preparations". (Ifyou have "to prepare" to be a hairdresser, it stands toreason you would have to ready yourself for this.)Confronting, facts you can die only once. After that,the mushroom cloud is anticlimactic. Remember theMagic Mushroom -- the cult that centred its teachingsaround Christianlty's debt to hallucegenic drugs?Some said preposterous -- Christ a magician dopinghis followers and using the Cross as a stage prop.Amazing. In this world anything is possible. We havefinally created a mutant of people who ecceptanything. And God just another man, albeit a trickydevil at that. Imagine fooling everyone for 2,000years!Next, we'll be told we're actually dead. I know some ofyou have already suspected this but it will be"confirmed". Our leaders will troopse out impressivesounding "flow charts" and backup statistics. Therewill even be a special chamber to experience what itwas like before you knew you were dead withcarefully monitored "response signals" to give theaudience a "sensasound" aura just like living throughan earthquake, only fake. Just remember MontyPython and "possibility".Meanwhile, in ensuing preparations for war, noaspect of the psychological preparedness should beoverlooked. We don't have to be told there is nosubstitute for victory."The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscienceof a King." Hamlet knew. So does The Kremlin. TheKGB can "prove" a nuclear scenario is winnable.According to the most painstaking calculations, aconventional war of any duration "swings" into a pre-nuclearstage. That's when the nuclear optionbecomes "viable". That's when Gorbachev and theboys calculate "target readiness" and plummet thedepths of the human spirit.The East is Red and ready. The Chinese have been toldby Mao 300 million or their number cremated is asmall price for global supremacy. A human dung hillis being set in motion for another generation ofpoppies. Marx lends credibility to this, but with adifferent opiate for the masses. Thelumpenproletariat can hack it. Such clever playingwith facts, now I understand genius.For a young physicist, a 100 megaton blast is theculmination of the creative spirit. Certainlyirrefutable evidence, this quintessential "spirit".I read Toronto would be "messy" in the event of anuclear strike. Half-baked and eviscerated thinkingOr just inescaspable?Chin up. We'll survive or at least part of us will. Wereally are "malleable". It will be a "transitional stage",a step upwards on the evolutionary ladder.Radioactivity and genetics are at work with oneanother.When the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic device,the pilot was later to go mad.Maybe this has already happened to the world andthere's no one to discern the difference.Maybe a forest of "maybes" has already sprouted andleft a forest of dust clouding the collective vision.Maybe it's all too terrifying to be taken seriously anddisbelief is the escape hatch. Like the pilot's lapse intocomforting drugs for reassurance or the dervisheswith their Magic Mushroom.Maybe it's closer to what Harry Truman announcedafter "deploying" the first "device" or exercising thenuclear 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 sleep15, 16, 17Back to the Contents Page

happy happyhappy happytriggerhappy happyhappy happythappy happyhappy happytrigger18Back to the Contents Page

ENERGYENERGYENERGYENEn Being alive ne wastes er energy rg gy wastes B wastes yeingalive19Back to the Contents Page

ROCKING HORSEFate is a mahout astride a large elephant, impersonalas dark sun with winds raging across a desert. Fate isthe old bones of dead Indians being resurrected asground mist on the edge of a salt marsh.And not knowing what to call personal destiny weresort to the clunker "fate" -- "beggar and king"enjoying, or so it is said, the dust together. I prefer wetleaves breaking canisters of restraint and calling tothe earth as little paws digging into the humus of thesky.20Back to the Contents Page

Fate is a mahout astride a large elephant, impersonalas dark sun with winds raging across a desert. Fate isthe old bones of dead Indians being resurrected asground mist on the edge of a salt marsh.And not knowing what to call personal destiny weresort to the clunker "fate" -- "beggar and king"enjoying, or so it is said, the dust together. I prefer wetleaves breaking canisters of restraint and calling tothe earth as little paws digging into the humus of thesky.20Back to the Contents Page

ROUGE AND GRAYSo much time has passed& time is a hooligan run wildlittering the streets,squeezing toothpaste at the wrong endshredding clothes with a razor blade.Time is never called into account --lives like Peter Panin a flying abode above it allscot-free, the surly bandit.A perilous acquisition --tiny pinpricks above the eye-browscrows' feet-- all too visible rending offleshy corners bulbedto puffiness.Red-handed,I caught timehis knife in Youth once morestill-water decay,brackish trouble-makerwith tint of rouge and gray.This school-yard toughstill picking on the corner weakling.braggadocio and upstartspoiling for a fightfirst elbow up,each foot in a fray.21Back to the Contents Page

So much time has passed& time is a hooligan run wildlittering the streets,squeezing toothpaste at the wrong endshredding clothes with a razor blade.Time is never called into account --lives like Peter Panin a flying abode above it allscot-free, the surly bandit.A perilous acquisition --tiny pinpricks above the eye-browscrows' feet-- all too visible rending offleshy corners bulbedto puffiness.Red-handed,I caught timehis knife in Youth once morestill-water decay,brackish trouble-makerwith tint of rouge and gray.This school-yard toughstill picking on the corner weakling.braggadocio and upstartspoiling for a fightfirst elbow up,each foot in a fray.21Back to the Contents Page

CUBITSA woman is a troughhardly that -- a river,a pond to sail a small boat thru,rapids to manoeuvre.A woman commandingly tallreceptive as water,quicksilver to the lightyet mirages all.Two cubits to an arm's lengtha bridge to span,virgin territory withthe compass needle jumping --a plane dusting crops.A woman once, parchment twicewarm treacle to the core --a marshmellow for a heart.22Back to the Contents Page

A woman is a troughhardly that -- a river,a pond to sail a small boat thru,rapids to manoeuvre.A woman commandingly tallreceptive as water,quicksilver to the lightyet mirages all.Two cubits to an arm's lengtha bridge to span,virgin territory withthe compass needle jumping --a plane dusting crops.A woman once, parchment twicewarm treacle to the core --a marshmellow for a heart.22Back to the Contents Page

BUZZ PHRASEDown on your luckor, as they say, "financially embarrassed" ...with little in the way of hope,less palaver --drifting in & out of theme parks not unlikeEl Paso, Prairie Junctionbetween jobs, causes and wives...letting "it all hang out", in the jumble of the moraneseletting despair and the pig iron law of economicshave 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 ongolddiggerswho, though just passing through meant dress rehearsalfor the bigger jive, "long_term"and since when should "patching up and catching up"make starry-eyed even that slip of a girl, commitment.23Back to the Contents Page

Down on your luckor, as they say, "financially embarrassed" ...with little in the way of hope,less palaver --drifting in & out of theme parks not unlikeEl Paso, Prairie Junctionbetween jobs, causes and wives...letting "it all hang out", in the jumble of the moraneseletting despair and the pig iron law of economicshave 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 ongolddiggerswho, though just passing through meant dress rehearsalfor the bigger jive, "long_term"and since when should "patching up and catching up"make starry-eyed even that slip of a girl, commitment.23Back to the Contents Page

AMBERGRIS CITYFelt no pain against the water,the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrathilluminating 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-truthsagainst 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 strainthese urinalsfor wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls.Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls findingtheir waythrough the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazaswith thestately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cansagainst indentured snow.24Back to the Contents Page

Felt no pain against the water,the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrathilluminating 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-truthsagainst 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 strainthese urinalsfor wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls.Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls findingtheir waythrough the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazaswith thestately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cansagainst indentured snow.24Back to the Contents Page

WINCINGYou can't go back,to Love, a home.memories of Pearl Baileyeven a scatterbrained jobcurled like a Morning Gloryabout the ribs of day.Everyone repeats not going back.A sly ripple on the cape of wind,peaking withabsentminded glee,into that bulge from withinyour past, beyond your left arm,called "before".Dismissing angels, refusing tocourt hardship, not to mentionwincing that comes from attachingthe mouth too fiercely on privale partsand all flasks with firm memory;wheeling drunkenly on her thought.her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mindwith little fingers each repeatingsane warnings.25Back to the Contents Page

You can't go back,to Love, a home.memories of Pearl Baileyeven a scatterbrained jobcurled like a Morning Gloryabout the ribs of day.Everyone repeats not going back.A sly ripple on the cape of wind,peaking withabsentminded glee,into that bulge from withinyour past, beyond your left arm,called "before".Dismissing angels, refusing tocourt hardship, not to mentionwincing that comes from attachingthe mouth too fiercely on privale partsand all flasks with firm memory;wheeling drunkenly on her thought.her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mindwith little fingers each repeatingsane warnings.25Back to the Contents Page

TORONTOIn Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a themeor 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 thematicallyinclined imbibers can indulge at plain soundingSammy's/Charlies...The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcapswhich more than suffice: while those seeking purity intheir draught can take consolation at the commonBrunswick or Molley's.There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the KonTiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middleof the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys,Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in thelush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviouslysuggestive supple Fingers.Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism poweris the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded orthose otherwise afflicted with ennui and creepingmalaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. Andwhat was that Montrealers say of Toronto?Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh DiamondEyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count andtwo Persian lions carved in wood.Salads Nicoise.Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Torontoequivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoalin the forest. I drank a cocktail with the girl of thewhite polo coat. Or as the cynic said,my pipe is thetent, the tobacco the days of my life.26Back to the Contents Page

In Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a themeor 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 thematicallyinclined imbibers can indulge at plain soundingSammy's/Charlies...The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcapswhich more than suffice: while those seeking purity intheir draught can take consolation at the commonBrunswick or Molley's.There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the KonTiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middleof the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys,Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in thelush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviouslysuggestive supple Fingers.Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism poweris the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded orthose otherwise afflicted with ennui and creepingmalaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. Andwhat was that Montrealers say of Toronto?Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh DiamondEyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count andtwo Persian lions carved in wood.Salads Nicoise.Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Torontoequivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoalin the forest. I drank a cocktail with the girl of thewhite polo coat. Or as the cynic said,my pipe is thetent, the tobacco the days of my life.26Back to the Contents Page

CRYING SCENEIf you're going to drop the gauntletat least put on the dressof a full warrior --paint, rouge, lipstick,sheer stockings andenough powder to smothera savage;then form a straight lineand chant the litany(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)and a good poundmaker is so adeptat keeping score.27Back to the Contents Page

If you're going to drop the gauntletat least put on the dressof a full warrior --paint, rouge, lipstick,sheer stockings andenough powder to smothera savage;then form a straight lineand chant the litany(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)and a good poundmaker is so adeptat keeping score.27Back to the Contents Page

NIGHT SKYI can call a lake a kettlea splendid, ivory comb a snare --tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.the night sky my ariel home.Nothing matters with my heart at my ribsa collarbone of doubtinching into my anatomyEverest-wide.surging canals into my throat.I am a pianist plying my tradeplaying to waves --the wharf and pierpassionate onlookersentranced with joy.sailors wearing blond capsin stout approvaltheir tall ships wavy as decorative pins.smashed bottles accumulated days at sealapping the dock.28Back to the Contents Page

I can call a lake a kettlea splendid, ivory comb a snare --tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.the night sky my ariel home.Nothing matters with my heart at my ribsa collarbone of doubtinching into my anatomyEverest-wide.surging canals into my throat.I am a pianist plying my tradeplaying to waves --the wharf and pierpassionate onlookersentranced with joy.sailors wearing blond capsin stout approvaltheir tall ships wavy as decorative pins.smashed bottles accumulated days at sealapping the dock.28Back to the Contents Page

THE WORLD OF TEZCATLIPOCA*"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ...elements as plasmic water have programmed goals whichthey follow like earth encompassing genies.In soft lightamid huesof barbaric green.walled edges ofthe cenote's fortressshine as eyes of the Cyclops,bloodlshot and ringedwith nettled stoneA break in the clearing --then ramshackle growthbroken with vengeanceof uprooted vineconfronts the eyes of a jaguar*(axe-breadth apart)between canopies of treesmillenial rot,algae and monkeyscarved ina jungle settingthe shape of an iguana's room* the same29Back to the Contents Page

"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ...elements as plasmic water have programmed goals whichthey follow like earth encompassing genies.In soft lightamid huesof barbaric green.walled edges ofthe cenote's fortressshine as eyes of the Cyclops,bloodlshot and ringedwith nettled stoneA break in the clearing --then ramshackle growthbroken with vengeanceof uprooted vineconfronts the eyes of a jaguar*(axe-breadth apart)between canopies of treesmillenial rot,algae and monkeyscarved ina jungle settingthe shape of an iguana's room* the same29Back to the Contents Page

IN THE CENOTEUnder a candlelit operettaof stars,the vertigo horizon trailsto a shudderuntil,swallows the size of kiteshandstand in flying motionabout pools of waterthen glide within reach of the cenote,*cisterns deepand flagellantscars in earththat cradle still handsof pale, pumice stone.All the tearsof old Mexicorefurbish this soil,anxious in blessinga brittle toilin sisal* grovesharvesting hennequin*to symbolize pityin flat expanseof Mission stone.* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.* Hemp.30Back to the Contents Page

Under a candlelit operettaof stars,the vertigo horizon trailsto a shudderuntil,swallows the size of kiteshandstand in flying motionabout pools of waterthen glide within reach of the cenote,*cisterns deepand flagellantscars in earththat cradle still handsof pale, pumice stone.All the tearsof old Mexicorefurbish this soil,anxious in blessinga brittle toilin sisal* grovesharvesting hennequin*to symbolize pityin flat expanseof Mission stone.* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.* Hemp.30Back to the Contents Page

BELIZEGiving myself permission to write --points from Ciudad Juarezas well as the compass wheretaboos complete bayonet-sized memoriesa tadpole of doubt gleaned fromshallow Canadian upbringingsojourning in the South.A stranger came --his beard the Columbian hillcountrymustachioed, the voice trailed offwhisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles,the Black Mamba or boomslang beforebrief rictus of pain.I am writing thiswith an eye on fortune,it's not the cantina is dryjust walls above this cotsqueeze the soul like a padre's blessingbetween rosary beadsand the day is hot.Extend a cigarette,fumble another Spanish syllablepretend houngans are hombresHidalgo just another green wine.This utterance is mutilatingand paper scrolls are an oathto take their tollpockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood.Buenos dias, sênor,only don't sayS a s k a t c h e w a nlike light over mountainsit's of little importance, really, won't, change thecabfare one i o t a.The sea may cough little starsor an emerald coffinsit like a lampshadesomethings go on...Begging your pardon, ma'amthis train would do wellto leave within the hourand the ferry from TopolobampoOut of persistence to formhas never arrived early."Piratas ingles" read the muralnow I knowseedy tropical portsharbour wayfarers like the Marlboro manadjusting his image,(inspiration may well be poeticbut the instrument's blunt)bare feet the colour or lanterns,white duckspressed too mucharound lean shanksand a visageto trouble SatanTaking a profit,Mozart up in smokedown the tubeswater reverses itself,runs counter-clockwiseimpecunious in thisjuxtaposition of a hemisphere.Poor Mexico -- far from God &so near the United Statesa snippet of history rememberedthough the Gadsen Purchase seemsirrelevant. How a propos& natty toothe moon is a hummingbird& painted porcelain flask for you.Backstreetsa la seductionthis demimonde,a whole continent as intriguedo twin fists poundingon a doorresemble gunfireespecially at dawn oris that just the muleso obstinate in you--the poor creaturespressed into service,litter the landscapebedbugs thrown from cars.At the Ponce de Leonadrenalin with white capscomes up bareas languageforced into riot,not a humble metaphorin sight.the occasional half-witted vowelstaggering under the onslaughtpirouettedclamouring about the edge-- no easy familiarityhere with the English language.31 32 33 34Back to the Contents Page

Giving myself permission to write --points from Ciudad Juarezas well as the compass wheretaboos complete bayonet-sized memoriesa tadpole of doubt gleaned fromshallow Canadian upbringingsojourning in the South.A stranger came --his beard the Columbian hillcountrymustachioed, the voice trailed offwhisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles,the Black Mamba or boomslang beforebrief rictus of pain.I am writing thiswith an eye on fortune,it's not the cantina is dryjust walls above this cotsqueeze the soul like a padre's blessingbetween rosary beadsand the day is hot.Extend a cigarette,fumble another Spanish syllablepretend houngans are hombresHidalgo just another green wine.This utterance is mutilatingand paper scrolls are an oathto take their tollpockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood.Buenos dias, sênor,only don't sayS a s k a t c h e w a nlike light over mountainsit's of little importance, really, won't, change thecabfare one i o t a.The sea may cough little starsor an emerald coffinsit like a lampshadesomethings go on...Begging your pardon, ma'amthis train would do wellto leave within the hourand the ferry from TopolobampoOut of persistence to formhas never arrived early."Piratas ingles" read the muralnow I knowseedy tropical portsharbour wayfarers like the Marlboro manadjusting his image,(inspiration may well be poeticbut the instrument's blunt)bare feet the colour or lanterns,white duckspressed too mucharound lean shanksand a visageto trouble SatanTaking a profit,Mozart up in smokedown the tubeswater reverses itself,runs counter-clockwiseimpecunious in thisjuxtaposition of a hemisphere.Poor Mexico -- far from God &so near the United Statesa snippet of history rememberedthough the Gadsen Purchase seemsirrelevant. How a propos& natty toothe moon is a hummingbird& painted porcelain flask for you.Backstreetsa la seductionthis demimonde,a whole continent as intriguedo twin fists poundingon a doorresemble gunfireespecially at dawn oris that just the muleso obstinate in you--the poor creaturespressed into service,litter the landscapebedbugs thrown from cars.At the Ponce de Leonadrenalin with white capscomes up bareas languageforced into riot,not a humble metaphorin sight.the occasional half-witted vowelstaggering under the onslaughtpirouettedclamouring about the edge-- no easy familiarityhere with the English language.31 32 33 34Back to the Contents Page

PICAROONScouting the sunthin clouds threadbare vestsbarely to cover the horizon.the heat or the day, canine,a hot tongue's intensilysplashing yr face.The docks are quiet,prawn trawlers unloading geargar fish at the surface of the waterechoing little fins liketiny waves greeninto the shallows.Bubbles anchor the lagoon --changing rivulets into sandstone walls numbered in shards of glasstrade universal currencybut, beware, the proprietorcobblestones up to his door,a candle in the window-stoop,a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.Come the picaroon.Spanish adventurerlesser known rogue, thiefa smile like piano keyshuevos sent back.I've seen the parfumeriethe snake pit,mongoose burrowing into the hillsafter serpentine fer-de-lance,want bigger things waves can't splash away,scrawled slogans to turnthe human tide.A bottle sits menacingly on the table --a universe on its own,imagine her little water dropletsthe key to unerstandinga woman firm to the graspbare-shouldered, lips to the moon in twilight.A coin stepped on in the streetperhaps a sou, a centime, centavoa petty returnfor rusting bells wedding the pavement,a centotaph alluding to sacrificeor toil in the fieldsto gain one circular disc.Bring a case of winethose Puerto Rican girlsare dying to meet you,the tune belts outand I see a yachtriding emerald waves,think of swimmingout to greet her,my skin opening the waterlike a lizard's tongue,a sheaf of leaves pressed back,a rock pitched to dislodge a noisy cat.Who tempers desirein the tropicswhen the air is to eat,sand golden griddlesa harvest of warm wealthpiled as a miser's hoard,green & more green skirting the city,experience my sacred vessel of purity.Think or cliff vinesmucous, little curtainsthen pathways up to the final alleypsychologically taut.35 36 37Back to the Contents Page

Scouting the sunthin clouds threadbare vestsbarely to cover the horizon.the heat or the day, canine,a hot tongue's intensilysplashing yr face.The docks are quiet,prawn trawlers unloading geargar fish at the surface of the waterechoing little fins liketiny waves greeninto the shallows.Bubbles anchor the lagoon --changing rivulets into sandstone walls numbered in shards of glasstrade universal currencybut, beware, the proprietorcobblestones up to his door,a candle in the window-stoop,a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.Come the picaroon.Spanish adventurerlesser known rogue, thiefa smile like piano keyshuevos sent back.I've seen the parfumeriethe snake pit,mongoose burrowing into the hillsafter serpentine fer-de-lance,want bigger things waves can't splash away,scrawled slogans to turnthe human tide.A bottle sits menacingly on the table --a universe on its own,imagine her little water dropletsthe key to unerstandinga woman firm to the graspbare-shouldered, lips to the moon in twilight.A coin stepped on in the streetperhaps a sou, a centime, centavoa petty returnfor rusting bells wedding the pavement,a centotaph alluding to sacrificeor toil in the fieldsto gain one circular disc.Bring a case of winethose Puerto Rican girlsare dying to meet you,the tune belts outand I see a yachtriding emerald waves,think of swimmingout to greet her,my skin opening the waterlike a lizard's tongue,a sheaf of leaves pressed back,a rock pitched to dislodge a noisy cat.Who tempers desirein the tropicswhen the air is to eat,sand golden griddlesa harvest of warm wealthpiled as a miser's hoard,green & more green skirting the city,experience my sacred vessel of purity.Think or cliff vinesmucous, little curtainsthen pathways up to the final alleypsychologically taut.35 36 37Back to the Contents Page

THE CABLE CARThe Haitian effect of starsgrinds the blue firmamentlike a cable car by night.transfixing energy.One hears myriad tokensfalling into a collection box,then the twitter of bellsbefore the trolley steps roundwinds near Russian HillThe night sky is a reservoir,a cistern stored with disturbingelements prickling the unknownin a man.To watch as life forms, more intricatethan lavender curls, so hushed their tonesproduce melodies like "Castor and Pollux", "Leo","the Three Sisters", seizes any boarding passalong the remaining train of thought.38Back to the Contents Page

The Haitian effect of starsgrinds the blue firmamentlike a cable car by night.transfixing energy.One hears myriad tokensfalling into a collection box,then the twitter of bellsbefore the trolley steps roundwinds near Russian HillThe night sky is a reservoir,a cistern stored with disturbingelements prickling the unknownin a man.To watch as life forms, more intricatethan lavender curls, so hushed their tonesproduce melodies like "Castor and Pollux", "Leo","the Three Sisters", seizes any boarding passalong the remaining train of thought.38Back to the Contents Page

IL GIARDINOCloves on the table.(jardin parfumelare like ladyslipperswith the jargonof their sweetmeatspreserved inaromatic slabsabout a garden wall.Spanish ivyis the pastramiof this terrace --thick, white walls,Hispanic style,unite with prim elasticityto quickenPicasso's sunshinelike a ukulelestrumming the grave.39Back to the Contents Page

Cloves on the table.(jardin parfumelare like ladyslipperswith the jargonof their sweetmeatspreserved inaromatic slabsabout a garden wall.Spanish ivyis the pastramiof this terrace --thick, white walls,Hispanic style,unite with prim elasticityto quickenPicasso's sunshinelike a ukulelestrumming the grave.39Back to the Contents Page

EVERY MAN'S HANDraised against themhussars, cossacks, zouavesthe renegade janizaries and corsairsin for an indeterminale stretchassorted soldiers of fortune,never-do-wellsor just low brows duelling crusts of breadscarce precious little elsewhen for pennies more,(Wellington's phrase)the scum of the earthenlists for drink.Too harsh, I think, ofimagining the Foreign Legion,kepis of scarletthe near requisite haggard looksmoving in waves across the desertpitting date palms with bayonets.the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.Then dunes where water should be --storms granulating blown particlestwice the perimeter of a camel trainfrom whence decent men become driven(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselveswith poor material,loose flintlocks and cartridge beltsrotting to the touch,The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)stars big as pebbles in potato whiteNapoleon before Cairo his soldiery andragged tents flapping like tonguesof pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,their torpid hooves sound against rockmatching wits grown sluggish in still more driftingsand.Noon and blood purringlike a two minute eggover and overthe spitting, cursesmandatory flies and sweattrickling on sandbagsfrom manured liveslittle to eat--C rations a century away,the good populace begrudging mealsto vagabonds and trash anyway.See the last desperationin classic termsbetrayed by finite trengthbrisk elements raise the oddsa measly temperature climb,a few more driving winds to stir the potanimal suffering dancinglike stretched canvas on thin frames.The leading roustabout unflinching,waves a stony mutineer's salute.And somehow it always manages dawnand the heat of the day wicked,oblong in an empty stretchforever, it seems, before bulletsopen graveyardsmow the brigand down,take the corpse for its ownmummifying with precious handsabout the contours of her desert body,and firm cleavageoscillating between curvatures ofdesiccation, blanket heat.40 41 42Back to the Contents Page

raised against themhussars, cossacks, zouavesthe renegade janizaries and corsairsin for an indeterminale stretchassorted soldiers of fortune,never-do-wellsor just low brows duelling crusts of breadscarce precious little elsewhen for pennies more,(Wellington's phrase)the scum of the earthenlists for drink.Too harsh, I think, ofimagining the Foreign Legion,kepis of scarletthe near requisite haggard looksmoving in waves across the desertpitting date palms with bayonets.the occasional fellow ravaged by French pox.Then dunes where water should be --storms granulating blown particlestwice the perimeter of a camel trainfrom whence decent men become driven(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselveswith poor material,loose flintlocks and cartridge beltsrotting to the touch,The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)stars big as pebbles in potato whiteNapoleon before Cairo his soldiery andragged tents flapping like tonguesof pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)on the run from Allah and sweet date wine,their torpid hooves sound against rockmatching wits grown sluggish in still more driftingsand.Noon and blood purringlike a two minute eggover and overthe spitting, cursesmandatory flies and sweattrickling on sandbagsfrom manured liveslittle to eat--C rations a century away,the good populace begrudging mealsto vagabonds and trash anyway.See the last desperationin classic termsbetrayed by finite trengthbrisk elements raise the oddsa measly temperature climb,a few more driving winds to stir the potanimal suffering dancinglike stretched canvas on thin frames.The leading roustabout unflinching,waves a stony mutineer's salute.And somehow it always manages dawnand the heat of the day wicked,oblong in an empty stretchforever, it seems, before bulletsopen graveyardsmow the brigand down,take the corpse for its ownmummifying with precious handsabout the contours of her desert body,and firm cleavageoscillating between curvatures ofdesiccation, blanket heat.40 41 42Back to the Contents Page

ENDING UPreads likeliving down --a coconut arriving with the tide,bottles perched in sandthe blue glasscolour or imprisoned dreamsgenie of a bottle cap.Ending up.the brow or a gondola overturnedsees memories squared away --the window of the envelopean all too foggy membrane.Turning out likeending upno check-out time ornon-existant room servicein a flea-bag motel.43Back to the Contents Page

reads likeliving down --a coconut arriving with the tide,bottles perched in sandthe blue glasscolour or imprisoned dreamsgenie of a bottle cap.Ending up.the brow or a gondola overturnedsees memories squared away --the window of the envelopean all too foggy membrane.Turning out likeending upno check-out time ornon-existant room servicein a flea-bag motel.43Back to the Contents Page

OFFERINGS (A Movement in four Parts)The night is folly without the moon,trees blank space against a frontal skywhere lattice work from a bled fish revealsskeletal markings will not administerthe red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach(I don't recommend them) to offeringsof white linen, cold squares atopa stone diamonded floor.Palaver shacks drone in ghostly lightcommunicating some message about eel runsup the black river, the equivalent brushof tombstones against dark nightsoil.Tiny bars open as cubicles.proverbial flashes of the coming evening,haciendas to count every blessing.The road to such placessnarls a dusty pleasureand will heat thin bloodto boil in the daylight hours.IISweat corrodes the cork's emplacementabout green bottlenecks,its azure breath tossing backpools of sparse liquid.I picture ships placed within such bottlesas bannisters along corrugated highways,seawater rusting from within the steamfitters'stonsorial edge.Haze thickens as sails blur to an artist's brush,then squiggles in the oilpaint of memory --her sides fashioning red wounds as pigmentsurfacing from robotical crustaceanslancing the bottom of a deeper crevice.IIIMy steps clank to the gaoler's keyto become, within, handmaidens to thorned plantsacting as fuselage along the building's exterior.Afar, a white seagull sits as a bespectacled touristgracing a buoy like a madras shirt.Early stars in an afternoon skyare expansive in Chateau Lafitte finery,the Rothschilds of the universe playinga 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 chairsgrimacing against perspiring walls.I sponge water like a good midshipmanoff the brow of a leaking vessel.Nowhere are there signs of more thanpartial seepage though smoke in theback corridors exists from the fiery aguandine.IVGreen palms unfurl as flagsto the accordian of my eyes,blinking back the strong belt of sunlightthat precisely floods the room.Sailors jostle this crowd of memories,some surly lipped with broad tattoes.A naked mermaid presses her thighs 'gainstmemory door, then winks as thestellar crust of oblivion takes me.In sleep, waterfront toughs are transformedto storeowners that smile, exchange pleasantries inSaba.(French gendarmes embrace on the other sideclustering like starfish on the twin breasts of a beach.)I devour cups not of riverwater in this cellbut the best pink champagne at the captain'sreception.With hatfuls of intermittent rest,blurred outlines recede into miststhin 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 ofbladegrass.beckon upon the return voyage home.44, 45, 46,47Back to the Contents Page

The night is folly without the moon,trees blank space against a frontal skywhere lattice work from a bled fish revealsskeletal markings will not administerthe red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach(I don't recommend them) to offeringsof white linen, cold squares atopa stone diamonded floor.Palaver shacks drone in ghostly lightcommunicating some message about eel runsup the black river, the equivalent brushof tombstones against dark nightsoil.Tiny bars open as cubicles.proverbial flashes of the coming evening,haciendas to count every blessing.The road to such placessnarls a dusty pleasureand will heat thin bloodto boil in the daylight hours.IISweat corrodes the cork's emplacementabout green bottlenecks,its azure breath tossing backpools of sparse liquid.I picture ships placed within such bottlesas bannisters along corrugated highways,seawater rusting from within the steamfitters'stonsorial edge.Haze thickens as sails blur to an artist's brush,then squiggles in the oilpaint of memory --her sides fashioning red wounds as pigmentsurfacing from robotical crustaceanslancing the bottom of a deeper crevice.IIIMy steps clank to the gaoler's keyto become, within, handmaidens to thorned plantsacting as fuselage along the building's exterior.Afar, a white seagull sits as a bespectacled touristgracing a buoy like a madras shirt.Early stars in an afternoon skyare expansive in Chateau Lafitte finery,the Rothschilds of the universe playinga 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 chairsgrimacing against perspiring walls.I sponge water like a good midshipmanoff the brow of a leaking vessel.Nowhere are there signs of more thanpartial seepage though smoke in theback corridors exists from the fiery aguandine.IVGreen palms unfurl as flagsto the accordian of my eyes,blinking back the strong belt of sunlightthat precisely floods the room.Sailors jostle this crowd of memories,some surly lipped with broad tattoes.A naked mermaid presses her thighs 'gainstmemory door, then winks as thestellar crust of oblivion takes me.In sleep, waterfront toughs are transformedto storeowners that smile, exchange pleasantries inSaba.(French gendarmes embrace on the other sideclustering like starfish on the twin breasts of a beach.)I devour cups not of riverwater in this cellbut the best pink champagne at the captain'sreception.With hatfuls of intermittent rest,blurred outlines recede into miststhin 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 ofbladegrass.beckon upon the return voyage home.44, 45, 46,47Back to the Contents Page

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