A couple from "Chalcedon" written summer of '05

"Main St. - Pandateria"

 

Into the cause of causes,

a whisky arrow shot.

Moon! Old friend, welcome home.

 

The red bearded bartender,

hugs me warmly,

"Welcome home, kid."

 

He buys our first two drinks,

in a narrative cake,

retreating from stories to the infinite.

 

My parents met here, a hundred times,

 

He buys your second drink,

tells you it's on me, though I've said nothing,

 

A letter by rickshaw

the blue without trauma,

the peace of a gunless life.

 

Soldiers in red spin from your mouth,

hard Cossacks sucking pickles

Blue, blue, you are blue. American blue.

 

Safari on the river bridge,

the blaring night, from Chalcedon to the capital.

for years we were kept to one side.

 

bought with bribes of dandies and lies.

 

From the wasteland to the heartland,

I am home.

 

Nevermind the miracle,

You are here. I am here.

It is as always, the years reduced to a pause,

 

Prime, like numbers, we skip

from life to life,

Flailing on the cusp, we touch, the trauma melts away.

 

There is a week left, maybe two

before all you know is snow.

Would I dare? Would I dare?

 

Zhivago, my birth bullet,

a sign truly to see.

In the fur, in the fields, on the trains,

would I still be me?

 

We seek no answers. There is no temptation.

Such things are for others.

 

A laugh, with a snap shot.

Closing in with the fury of an absent bee.

A mist has cleared, it was never me.

 

Thank you, my friend, thank you, indeed.

It was truly high time, to remember to breathe.

"Gate"

 

An omen,
from the days when you were stranded
in Belize,
in a jean jacket and panties
shouting in the wind.

I lit the fire in the rusted cabin,
bored with a dying skyline.
tilting God and his planet

while the revered Mother,
prayed the rosary,
and even the clouds blew by
at Marian angles

To this day, of nothing
swigging Jameson from the bottle,
like any other Wednesday evening,

Three black birds sat on the fence,
while we watched,
tequila sick; but alive, so alive.

Has the memory escaped
its prison of feathers, old friend?
Do you still drink yew shade and gnash pencils on the wall?

I am aware of the passing of tides.
I am aware that the current decides.
They are of nothing.

We swing the quiet days,
feel the noise of whitewashed lives,
blaring, dead radios on our transistor souls.

Bite! Bite.
Scattered into naughtiness,
the whisky pulses, coarse and dull
sear mind over mind.

Sleep again. The weeks of sleep,
before our bodies wake,
afire in fire.

The tide turns again.
Sleep well, friend.