Another autumn
and the leaves are waving goodbye
to an empty mansion.
What do you cling to on
the way out, you with your blind gaze upward?
There is so little justice in the world that
when it gets cold I put on a second coat of skin,
I paint my teeth white
and try to leave footprints in the snow.
I used to believe.
I used to believe when I looked something in the eye I believed it,
I believed it was so. I trusted other things, people.
I was young and needed to believe in the other.
Now that I am old I don’t need to believe anything, not even myself.
Everything has its worth, even lies, and nobody knows what the truth of anything is anyway, so lies are the only things we may go by.
Choose your truth, but never believe it.
I know there are things that choose us, but in the end they disappear.
Nothing survives.
This may or may not be true.
I eat on black plates
I eat black food on black plates
I drink black tea in black cups
The sun shines black on me, too.
Black sucks in light,
meaning it contains light.
I am the Real Light, it says,
the hard shapes you see in day
disappear at night,
I own them.
Black is the color of sleep.
We rest in black
if black so desires,
or
black wields a whip
to keep us out,
starve us from our dreams.
While other colors strike poses,
play party games,
black remains serene
like an unruffled butler.
Distinguished
Absolute
A master of circumstance,
black rules quietly.
Black is jazz,
a burning saxophone on
the summer pavement,
slow drinks,
sex, easy and long.
Black is the dislocated,
sirens blaring to upset
delicate ears,
Police bullets spray,
the city is turned into
a trauma unit.
No,
don’t mess with black,
because black has been here
even longer than truth.
She is the Great Mother,
Africa,
the earth
that can swallow you.
So,
rise now,
and raise your glass to black,
in Coca Cola or in Russians.
And, remember,
everything goes with black,
it’s a well known custom.
I wait for the summons.
When it arrives I comply
and enter the chapel.
I sit like a king removed
listening to the thin silence
draw me back into the
mysteries, and wonder
what artwork to expect fashioned
this day by the devil’s mouth,
what shapes will the body of
the snake take, whether pointed
or curved like punctuation, or rather
coiled almost seamlessly into an O.
I don’t know.
Death’s needs hold sway,
its odors must speak sweet
and fill up the air as in a stable
or a house of ill-repute.
My back arches like The Thinker,
elbows grinding into tops of thighs.
The light is weak.
Then I jut vertical to open
to give the babies passage
and kick back.
They rush to oblige, creating
a symphony, besides, dropping
plop plop into the drink.
I think, that is enough.
But no, wait, I was wrong,
another comes along to
join the song.
And yet another follows.
Oh, my! I sigh, I must’ve had too
much for dinner.
One day, I vow, I will be thinner.
At least, I’m lighter.
And now the party’s over.
Time to tidy up.
That’s less fun but has to be done.
Scroll down.
The white pages, the tugs and pinches,
the moustache all coated.
Fingers probe, scoop up the soil,
acknowledge it’s the wet season.
How much to stem the flood? This
is becoming drudgery! Pad after pad.
But look how bright we’re getting!
Maybe another roll will do it.
Finally, yes, here it is: unblemished. Pristine.
Not a hint of muck. Good as new.
I stand. Roll up. Buckle tight. Proudly,
focusing down, I lean on the handle,
and with sadness, wave my goodbyes.
Everything went dark
The screen eclipsed
I felt for your hand
I couldn’t resist
Your mouth restrains me
Your tone is harsh
I withstand your judgement
I stand apart
These years don’t matter
When you strike that pose
The distance we travel
Leaves us alone
Solitude in the afternoon
The sky wakes up
I wish I could be there
In a slim neat cup
I’m going toward something
The wind at my back
I’ll get somewhere one day
Beyond the pins and the rack
If this means something
If this makes some sense
You‘re in the middle
Of this whole bloody mess
Who is going to keep my ashes
when I go?
Childless
Familyless
Friendless
Who is going to keep my ashes
on their kitchen table
and think of me
each morning
With breakfast?
Meat is gravity
a dreamless state
pieces of death
there already in the beginning
and in all things
their essence.
Meat allows nothing to escape
and is empty of all but itself.
Meat consumes meat
becoming more meat
fleshier carcasses
duller slices of heads and legs
some younger
some more red.
The butcher is our friend.
And if we pretend
to aspire to other ends
with our many meat brains
meat guards meet us
at the door to the station
to disconnect the trains.
Fresh meat sizzles with notions,
take sides.
Lies slide from its bloodied hides.
Shapes abound.
Meat like meat likes to fry
in meat patties and on delegations
and in pairings that result in
baby meat who cry.
The meat parade began in time,
its womb the mirror, before
which we walked on air
part of the atmosphere
or flew
or were never there.
I’ve had enough
I’ve had enough of this road
And the stone in my shoe
I’ve had enough of me
And not enough of you
I’ve had enough
Of the air that I breathe
It’s painful to swallow
Painful to grieve
I’ve had enough
Don’t tell me no
I don’t know where to turn to
Don’t know where to go
I’ve had too little
Of glory and faith
Faith in something
I could never erase
I’ve had just enough
Time to prepare
Give me a signal
And I’ll try to get there
RON’S WISDOM SALON: A fictional advice column
Dear Ron,
I had a dream last night that I was floating around in a big air balloon. I woke up feeling elated and confused. What does it mean?
Confused
Dear Confused,
You’re confusing me. Do you mean what does the dream mean, or your confusion and elation? Let’s take it one at a time. You dreamed that you floated in an air balloon. By the way, why do they call it an air balloon? All balloons are air-bound or they wouldn’t be balloons, would they? It’s so redundant.
Okay, so you dreamed you floated in a balloon. Did you drink something before you went to sleep? Did you drink anything during the day? If yes, that probably did it. Floating in a balloon is also symbolic. It means you don’t like the ground and wish to be elsewhere. It could also mean you got a new pair of shoes, metaphorically speaking, which are killing you, and you don’t know whether to take them back or not.
My advice to you is to take them back and buy a more comfortable pair (soft leather, not too small, not too big) If the shoe fits, wear it. Many people insist on buying shoes that don’t fit them, which contributes to much misery. There is also often a connection between floating in the air and marshmallows.
Think about it. Have you ever had thoughts about marshmallows? Do you ever fantasize about doing things to marshmallows? Roasting them, biting them, gumming them? Do you buy the white ones or do you sometimes buy the coloured ones? If you always buy the white ones, do you sometimes wish they were coloured, or vice-versa?
Be honest with yourself. Be alert to possible color biases. Make sure there is not too much white in your life. You might think you are brightening up the atmosphere, but you’re not, you’re just leaving yourself open to stains. You are inviting problems.
There is a possibility also you may even have a perverted need to be stained in some way because you don’t feel you are worthy. You subconsciously wish to be besmirched. I don’t know if you are worthy or not, so I won’t go there. I assume you are a worthy person because you read my column, but even I can’t tell for sure, so wisdom dictates that I go no further with speculation.
As for your elation, I would suggest that you rub the smirk off your face pronto and face reality. Did you really think you could just float away and bump around in the sky for the rest of your life? You are not a bird, after all. Don’t be so darn happy!
I could call you a coward for being elated, but I won’t. The confusion part I understand. Here you were, fading off into sleepland, never expecting to be abducted in some airborne device, and you wake up thinking how do I get home from the airport. Well, it was an imaginary voyage! You did not really go sky riding, you are on terra firma now. I might suggest that if you want to avoid confusing dreams, you try keeping your eyes slightly open when you sleep. Clothespins often do the trick.
I hope this helped.
I hope Alain is happy with his cat
And didn’t go out and buy a rat
I hope he’s happier still
That he’s not buried on a hill
I hope Eddie is okay
Not in some disastrous play
With his wife and his son
Held down under somebody’s gun
I hope my folks are doing good
Wherever they may be I’ve understood
Whatever transpired I can’t deny
Made me I and I will not lie
I hope Barbara is on her way
To becoming every day
The artist she is supposed to be
And creates herself and remembers me
I hope everyone in this world
Who suffers with what has unfurled
Gains relief and conquers pain
And comes back to live again
I am in a house. Not clear if it is my house or that I am taking care of it for someone else. But it has a long hallway and off it an alcove, which is at first unseen by me, as I am at one end. At the far end of the hallway a man stands almost out of sight. He is telling me adamantly that a portrait hung in the alcove should be taken down, because something disastrous will happen as a result of it. I know the portrait and find nothing wrong with it. I remember It is a picture of a middle-aged man who has a round face and a high forehead. He has thin blondish hair. In fact, I am thinking as we speak that there may be two of the same person hanging there, one of these taken when the man had been under the influence of opium. There is a lot of talk back and forth, but I refuse to remove them. Then I enter the alcove and am surrounded by many portraits in old-fashioned frames. Near the floor I see rows of children’s books together with decorations and drawings. When I lean down to inspect them the books begin to sing to me in beautiful young voices. I am entranced and the dream ends.
People should be screaming out of windows
people should be kicking down doors,
jumping on flags,
shaking like epileptics!
How is this possible?
We have
nearly a million years of human evolution
and the standard line can still prevail:
“It’s mine!”
Well,
It’s not.
You have no right to it.
A spell is on
you,
which continues
generation after generation,
an afternoon darkness,
your robotic mind
clinging to a cliff of lies.
And your mouth that spits on
anything better
and shoulders that
shrug ugly
and bellies that stick out
like eggs.
And you want security?
This will not stand!
There is a Law that says:
This. Will. Not. Stand.
We will make sure
you understand this.
By train and by plane and by ship,
your skin will dissolve in fear.
You will breathe in the stinking corpses
of your children.
Your houses will crumble over you.
You will be availed of no
hope,
no future.
You will cry to the end
of your days
when you may finally
realize the Justice in this
for your atrocious
incomparable
stupidity.
If it’s too good to be true
is it true,
a young man, nearly
a boy, really,
who astounds in
twenty-first century space
with jewels as words that are
louder than blame
and as magnificent
as First Love?
Who is he,
who writes in a third language
he met on a beach as a child?
He is doubtless connected
to those who spoke
before him
in the flowers of language,
messages of possibility,
all the while surrounded
in a world
swallowed by toxins.
If Art is a lie that tells the truth,
then he is a great liar,
a magician who spins wheels
before fortunate spectators.
Regardless,
Beauty is proffered by the arthritic
hand.
You’re unbreakable, little girl.
I see it in your eyes
as you tell your story
of the ordeal endured
of a hell almost
incomprehensible,
Satanic ritual abuse.
Blood, murder, humiliation
foisted on you by your grandmother
no less, Nana and her ilk
for their god, Lucifer.
We call a lot of things suffering,
but this is beyond the pale
even in this day of the extraordinary.
The human will cannot be broken.
You’re unbreakable, little girl.
I’m glad to see this in your eyes.
C’mon baby Take me where I need to go C’mon baby Take me down real slow Had so much trouble in this town It never leave me alone Had so much of nothing Nothing never lets me go It’s getting cold out there Need to find a place to land I’m broken and used up Gotta find a silky hand I got no future Got no past to tell Get close to me baby Let me drink from your well We could make it together Live in the same old tree Could be birds of a feather Sure wish you’d agree
I’m stuck I’m stuck I can’t get up I’m stuck I’m in between I can’t formulate a theory I won’t take a stand I’m stuck like a balloon in a tree And no one is coming to get me Motion escapes me My angels forsake me I am just about ready And I don’t know what for It has come to this and this takes The cake I’ve been educated I once held a job They told me I was alive I really believed it I had a past I wanted things I could tell the difference between things I could see colors I had plans I believed I could perfect myself I was curious about everything God the nature of the universe My place in the picture Now I’m stuck In rage in savagery In ignorance and solitude The world is so solid Freedom is so far away
(for Anne Sexton) She carried her love into a whole other house leaving her splendid eye for detail in the world. Softer truths enfold her now, hopefully, there, out there with the stars she devoured. So, be kind to her. She was the best. Nobody bit into the darkness as prettily as Anne. Nobody mined the depths as courageously, to set down on the page in her own blood, open veins judged inappropriate by jealous academics. She was the real deal, the one who does not relinquish her quest, a craving for absence that gnawed and whined. Perhaps she felt its velvet glove already brushing past her bones, the witch’s invitation to a table dance. Come in Lay down your burden Lay down your burden Leave your flesh at the door This is a real party Regardless, what beckoned what called must have wafted stronger than a blood rose, promising marriage and peace, a stepping down, as she acquiesced to ride the slow carbon monoxide air home.
