The Rules of English Grammar Abused

In the garden groves of East Lancaster
Where Unicorn Street winds in from the abandoned fields
Of discredited cotton farmers, under the decaying concrete
Overpass of old Route 202, next to the burned out shell
Of Jose Fulcida’s tool and dye maker’s shop,
There, and only there, can the laws of arithmetic
Be abandoned, the rules of English grammar abused,
And the dreams of weary dogs be choreographed
With a new certainty previously unknown to
The practitioners of classical physics.

Over Another Round of Drinks

There are plants that haunt our collective memories
Like distant ghosts of vaguely remembered ancestors
Spoken over the third round of drinks, over the sweaty
Plates and pots of a family reunion, names with strange
Names and no faces; so be it; and such is the memory of
Figulla Vitae, the tree of life, the weaponless branches
Of a misbegotten creature in the days before the division
Of plants and animals, when trees roamed the nights,
And spoke in a soft, long language that only
Fireflies and snakes could hear; and so it seduced
Our primordial mother casting us headlong into
An eon of retribution and falling. Falling. Falling.
The great fall of mankind before the coming of light,
And so we ponder the meaning of ancient poems
Whose lyrics being close to the first age, echo still
In our hearts with the sounds of innocent rivers
Among the glades of Eden, before night fell.

Write when you decide you can no longer
Make sense of the world and you need
An interpreter of partially remembered daydreams
Who can still predict the coming of tides, and
The advent of Spring, and the names of
The five near-by Stars.

The Midnight Train from Georgia

 

I had this vision of you
packed and wind swept
Waiting on a second hand trunk
for the midnight train from Georgia
Heading to Los Angeles
Out through the mountains
West of Taccoa
Beneath a springtime moon
Passing like a vaporous ghost
Along the gulf coast
While you sit in your cabin
Reading the lost love poems
Of Pablo Neruda.

And here am I
Under the chestnut skies
Along Via Rodeo
Sipping the dregs of thirty
Year old wine, while bewildered
young starlets
in pink overcoats and
too much mascara
Drop pennies on my table
And take pity on my life
While I listen to the music
Of street musicians
To the rumble of a poorly
Tuned Lamborghini,
To the whispers of secret lovers,
To the clatter of spiked heels
On the cobble stones,
To the sound of a soft night breeze
Through the colonnade of Egyptian palms,
And in my mind,
The steel on steel clickity clickity click
Of the midnight train making
Its way toward the
San Fernando Valley,
Under a brilliant navy blue
Sky alit with brilliant white stars
Past the deserted pueblos
Of ancient Navajo villages
Down into the Arizona deserts
Hurtling toward LA.

Another sip of Bollinger’s,
Beluga and crème cheese,
The midnight train from Georgia
clickity clickity click
clickity clickity click
clickity clickity
clickity hush,
the steam of hydraulic breaks,
the smell of oiled iron,
hot over the tracks,
The midnight train arrives,
And I am alone
Listening to
The nightlife
Of LA
Fade
Away.

Down by Schadenfreude Lake

Are you still out there someplace? You must let me know. Send smoke signals by night, and flares by day. Write to me in the hieroglyphics of easy living, send me a postcard from the edge of discontinuity (they have a mail box at fifth and irrational street), take luscious images of your hands when they were still unmarked, set up all night karma vigils among the yellow cattails down by Schadenfreude lake lit by the lights of carnivorous fireflies, sing forbidden songs, condemn the moon, feast on the delight of the bewildered, and make plans for an expedition to the Graveyard of Extinct Elephants down in the soggy bottoms of Arizona where you and your comrades can carve three sided dice from the last two surviving examples of their ivory tusks. And when you have finished all these tasks, when you fulfilled your quests, when you have seen the face of Ishtar, when you heard the voice of the morning wind like distant vespers, when you have done all these things, then you must sit down in the stillness of the night, alone among the emptiness of the house, and write me a soliloquy emptying yourself of your life and fears and hopes.

Into Forested Towns and Farms

 As I climb upon Brazzukko, the Lion Bear,
Whose pearl white coat smells of fresh rain
After a autumn thunderstorm and
Who speaks to me in a language of
Extinct carnivores when I have him chained
During the night just beyond my campfire
Lest his Pleistocene mind, burning
With the memories of Neolithic man
Pouring across the Bearing Straights
Over throw our friendship.

As so
In the frigid
April days
We have wandered
Down the piedmont
Into forested towns and farms
Of a still innocent Georgia
Seeking your shadow
Among the women
Whose ferocious smiles
And bright eyes
And slender curves
Confuse me.

And I recite my seven evening
Prayers in the name of Nicholas,
The blind dream collector
Who swears he has never
Seen or touched
Miz Mitzy Ballentyne
But lacks confidence
And sustained eye contact.

So I feed him to Brazzukko
And we leave to wander down
The side roads looking for
The beautiful Miz Ballentyne.