Foggy covetous invalids,
leant on glistening balustrades,
with gossamer hangings; bent
blades of grass, enacting a fool’s
calypso in cover of darkness, at
that exact moment, for all gleaming
eyes to witness, as winds stirred
through an open door below.
Foggy covetous invalids,
Fleeting acquaintance which grew like trash
As each fickle feigned word exchange passed,
Few thoughts ring true while coming through
Comprise this changing layered bunch of you.
Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.
While The Stone Arch Bridge looms
Over a foggy flowing
As flotsam floats-
Traverse these tossing translucent currents.
Glinting nigh business lights of St. Anthony Main.
Automobile and bus engines sustain,
Carrying the once open-air pedestrian-
In thin glow street lamps,
Bumping between buildings tall, and stoplights bright.
With snow gathered underfoot below.
I will be there.
I will save you.
I promise I will empty you.
Best of luck,
You are claimed by too many “artists”.
I won’t leave you,
You are aloof in the park doing stretches.
I know you don’t care,
To whom it may concern,
You are the best person.
Please write back,
A thin bird lands,
Picking through crumbs,
With its beak,
While a moment later
It takes to fast air.
No sex, no gender, no opinion, no chaos… no care to compare.
Natural, not from test-tube,
Sweet sounding creature just is, -true.
Scrounging for what
Lie on the ground.
-Concerned only with its food.