SUNFLOWER

raymondtcaffrey@earthlink.net

****************************************************

Received rejection notice on Monday 8 March 2004

16 December 2003

Pavement Saw Press

Chapbook Contest

P. O. Box 6291

Columbus, Ohio 43206

Dear Folks:

Enclosed please find my submission to the Pavement Saw Chapbook Contest, a collection of work entitled, Steering By The Meteors.

Enclosed, you will also find, a CV with a modest list of publications and a check for $10.00.

I do hope you will read this diverse collection and enjoy the variety and range of its poems.

Thank you for considering my work.

Raymond T. Caffrey, Ph. D.

STEERING

BY

THE METEORS

by

Raymond T. Caffrey

Late night fog hung over the field

and obscured the wood

like a veil of ancient mist

from which the earth

had not yet emerged.

I heard the midnight train

brood slowly down the track.

I packed up my dreams

and sent them ahead,

somewhere,

intending to follow them,

later.

I am smitten

by your charms

and wonder do you know

how thorougly your eyes

so bright and dark disguise

your thoughts

and shroud your feelings,

yet your beauty shines

like the stars.

Our love shone warm and bright, memorable

as sunshine that washed over us and sang

like a soft sea breeze as we lay silent,

still, together on the beach in July.

Our love disappeared slowly, more slowly

Than the sun that day when dark, angry clouds

Obscured the blue sky, banished the sun, and

Poured torrential rain into an impervious sea.

Our love faded slowly when summer

Slipped into a colorful fall and died

Away leaving these cold, snow white winter

Nights that we now spend alone and lonely.

Her heart

(showed in her eyes

with her every smile

and she liked to smile;

she glowed when she spoke of her children

and her grandchildren,

one a college graduate,

another a graduate student,

one a late surprise

a boy, of whom she was very proud.

She deferred,

Toward the end,

to her husband who could still hear

And she leaned toward him

To see what she might have missed

And they beamed together

As they stood side by side

In their eighties now)

Gave out at the last after 83 years

And he said

“I close my eyes and look down fifty years

and the best I can do is cry.”

Fuzzy Chaos

Stripped of old illusions, I sat in a corner of myself

Looking out on my confusion:my thoughts

Shone like shards of fractured light strewn about

the street. I dreamed a reign of terror too frightening to recall: a rundown sandstone dwelling

with mirrors on narrow walls. Each spoken word re-echoed like shrill screams at night. A woman, a cat,

a baby crying out with shrieks of fright.

If not monks with quills, surely Renaissance sculpture

Standing deftly silent in long corridors with thick carpet to lure old men in black velvet gowns,

grown Impervious to the echo of age-old folly.

Grim, aging, in long vestments, Father

Wicker stood outside his church

And extended a hand, his large wide hand

With thick fingers, like the fingers

Of the milkman whose hand

I have shaken once or twice--

What a large handful of wide fingers.

The Rose

The rose is perfect in its fluid scent

And blossoms with plush contours

In elegant shades of yellow, red,

Pink, silver though never blue;

Yet beneath the bloom grows a thicket,

Thorns that will draw blood

From the embrace

of the inexperienced

or the naïve.

Eden

Now it’s eat the apples and fear the animals

(Too numerous to name);

Grow your own and bear up under

The entropic orbit of body

And chaotic movement of soul.

It’s mystery over wonder, time,

The elements: we’re not safe;

If the earth’s faults don’t a tornado

Will, or a parching drought sun, or forty

Days of rain, high winds, treacherous

Snow, tidal seas, Cain killing Abel, fire,

Garbage and seagulls, deadly sins

To trample beatitudes gone slack

To platitudes: “the meek shall eat

Handfuls of dirt whilst traipsing homeless

Through dark allies as if in frantic

Search of someone.” The morning

Sun rose white hot, a perfectly round,

Platinum ball that burned through dense,

Floating fog, looking small, like a roving moon.

The Yucca bush sent up long snakes of buds

To bloom sudden white flowers that struck

The first burning strokes of summer; in the evening,

Fireflies sparked golden lights that twinkled

Briefly above tall broad grasses in the field

That sloped from the road to the low land

Near the brook and the woods. We found a crow’s Feather in the garden near the house, and Joe

Returned with cantaloupes, a hand made serape,

And his smile. We brewed coffee and laughed

About the crows that ate all the bright red cherries

In the tree top and spit the pits to the sidewalk

Where they left red stains. The moon rose full

Just before dark and shone that bright yellowish

White some say promises a hot day, but I reveled

In the warm, silent stillness, compelled by all

The summer moon inspires, conceals and reveals.

Mystery

Mysteries abound. Consider:

“Give Unto Caesar Those Things That Are Caesar’s.”

Who better deserves Caesar’s things?

There are joyful mysteries of annunciation,

Visitation, and nativity, mysterious mysteries,

Illiterate mysteries, long-legged mysteries,

Glorious mysteries, astronomical mysteries

Of politics, economy, religion, psychology,

Medicine, education, law, ignorance, arrogance, Sorrowful mysteries, mythical mysteries.

What things does Caesar want?

One rather glorious mystery

Is the perfectly proportioned

Symmetrical mons delicately carved

In the stone of Stella’s marble belly.

Even dry, it looks slick enough.

Who might want Caesar’s things?

A short, round cleric in black cassock

And cloak topped with an egg-shaped head

Gone bald, his lips pursed and oyster

Eyes magnified behind thick glasses

Walked by ignoring his students.

He taught mythical mysteries: Circe

And her Sirens, who touch the magic wand

To pleasure or distress the hunter, the thief,

The juror, the milkman, the witness,

The carpenter, the writer, the priest . . .

Father Hennessy walked with eyes downcast

His head bent to one side as he picked

An unencumbered path through clusters

Of laughing boys. One young girl, a teenager

Wakes to find herself pregnant. Who will believe

She is a virgin? Joseph? An angel told her,

She said—quite a mystery, that.

Hail Mary, full of grace . . . Je vous salut, Marie . . .

Suicide is a sorrowful mystery.

Ernest Hemingway shot himself.

I felt the cut. He was dead on page

One in large, bold, black, dark thick print.

I read his books. Now he’s dead.

He took dead aim and shot himself: quite a good

shot, too, but he was a hunter.

A mad scramble for Hemingway’s things ensued.

I looked the other way. It was all right to read Huck Finn: Twain lives on; Clemens is dead. He’s gone

A long time, but Hemingway just shot himself

and died. John Lennon would not have shot himself; He had to rely on someone else.

Lazarus died and Jesus cried

When he arrived. Lazarus, alive

Walked forth and sighed, “Oh, well.”

Father Hennessy liked the old fish story:

Jesus told his men to pass round their fish

And bread. All were amazed that so few

loaves of bread and so little sushi fed so many.

A dry affair. No grill. No talk of beer or wine.

He reserved spirits for weddings.

Cold water over ice;

A drag from the exhaust of a clean

Carburetor white with smoke

Suddenly gone. Sit back to rock;

Maybe have a red wine.

Too much is too much

Even when it’s just enough.

No Persian carpet has ever seen

The likes of their display

She had a lasting vacancy

He was pot-holes day after day

No sooner did he buy her flowers

No sooner did he learn the game

When suddenly appeared another

With a Cadillac to steal the dame.

Always one thing or the other

The sun will shine or rain

But a girl who’s after riches

Will soon cause someone pain.

Your fear scares me

most; not your moods,

nor their swings:

It is your fear

That scares me most.

When you feel awful

I feel awful too.

I cannot help it

Anymore than you

Can help feeling so

Awful when you do,

But it worries me

When you feel awful

On our one day off.

Fall 1992

Those were the days—before the launch, yes-

Terday or the day before, when books

Were read, and songs were sung—radio;

Before television. Now it looks

Antique, like a chair in need of glue;

They spoke of Modern then, and they thought

Modern meant new: Avant-garde, Dada

Surreal, the Symbol, Abstract. They fought

Over a word, an idea, a turn

Of image to make better prufrock.

We’ve brightened up Michelangelo—

Peeled off his tortured gloom: turned the clock

Either back or forward or around.

Turned up a stone age corpse kept on ice

These five thousand years. Someone knocked

Off his scrotum, took his boots—a nice

Welcome to this nameless age of rap.

Grammar’s a goner—we put our buts

First. Jesus is a figment of Paul’s

Imagination, a myth that cuts

The road to Rome and the scrotum, too.

Beware the aged prophet whose hands

Reach toward your pocket: feeble fingers

Quick as a humming bird that darts, lands

Its feed and disappears all in one

Sudden flick of a slick, nimble wrist,

And politics!

Rhetoric gave way

To the coy, segment-sensitive twist.

Dwarfs on stilts with speechlets, nee slogans,

Sell fall sap with sly ten-second slots.

Lipstick girls in slender undress beg

Less disbelief than “VOTE FOR ME” spots.

We’ve had George’s war, and Ronnie’s naps,

Jimmie’s piles, Gerald jokes, Richard’s crooks,

Lyndon’s spooks, Jack’s back, Ike’s golf, Harry’s

Bomb, Franklin’s wheel chair—history books

Will call the game with retrospective

Calm: a slow curve (the deep recession),

A black-door slider (pretty Flowers),

The inside fast ball (a concession

To incumbent powers): fall chaos

Played out like the World Series’ last game.

These are the days of commercial spin,

Cosmetic tucks, uninspired name

Calling, shrewd strategies, cynical

Calculations designed to sell Hope.

Better were the days before the launch—

Before the Enola Gay cut loose

the rope that moored today to the sturdy

dock of yesterday and the day before.

Evening

Yellow golden sun setting fire to the ridge;

Crystal glowing Venus rising, dripping from the sea;

Twilight sky blue black.

Charlotte’s in a dressing gown

Wearing her high heels;

Street kids shout below her window,

Howling at the rising moon.

She resists a temptation to pitch

Her silver spoon.

A little twisted cripple in a sable coat and hat

Laughed a curly ha, ha, and pointed

To the brat who smirked and wiped his forehead

With a scrap of Union Flag.

Cynthia was tracking down her own intentions

When all at once and suddenly she could not

Bear to mention . . .

What’s true in motion pictures is not the color nor the tale

And what you see in movies can make your picle pale.

The marzipan magician made a kerchief disappear

What rag is this asked Robert, lately home from the war,

It’s not a fit vacation till you’ve had one lusty roar,

But Charlotte closed her window to shut out

The sound of cripples singing psalms.

It takes a lot of work

To get a little done

Which leaves so little time

To have a bit of fun.

Felicia gave all her men a personalized,

engraved gold Cross pen,

As insistent an instrument

as any in Tiffany’s window.

James lost his gift first off

And Felicia bought another,

To make her point and he thanked

Her and asked her to keep it for him

So he would not lose it again.

In time, Felicia found herself with that gold

Cross pen with his three initials and she tried

To wipe off J. D. S. and forget that James

So disappointed her and then disappeared.

Crushed kisses and Heathcliffe limping on broken

Sidewalks shouting orders to Isaac Slug, carved in stone

astride his granite steed in uniform with helmet,

side-sword and pistol. Ever vigilant, he guards

the river, an excellent river, deep and wide

enough for ocean liners and freighters, ships

that pierce the ocean. Slug sits, mounted in stone,

ever watchful for danger, remembering dangers past.

Below the gaze of Isaac walked an old woman

On wide set legs with heavy hips like a barrel in black,

Demure in her cape with black silk lining. She was lost,

Like an elephant on the loose on cobble stone streets

Below the highway where a laxity of rules governed

The few trucks that dashed back and forth below

The old, abandoned highway beneath Isaac’s glance.

Highly polished verse

Reflects what it observes,

like a large sphere,

an oversized mirroring

Ornament on a Christmas tree

That distorts what it reflects

Don’t pick up the New York Times

Until you’ve said your prayers:

Every page can make you cringe.

The plan for space sure scares

The rest of us who ask

What secret stuff went up there

When Atlantis blasted off,

And why did they call it

“Atlantis”? Our space wares

commemorate the lost

continent---everyone

swears ‘tis splendid progress—

technology must

advance by leaps and blasts

and who cares if the thing

works for a short while.

All the night stars are mostly

debris. What’s a little

more? Who cares if the sky’s

become a junk yard” it’s

roomy enough—like the old

deficit which dares us

not to laugh at money.

Sometimes it is hard to be amused

Or even crack a smile.

She was hard,

Pure hard

Like stone,

Like crystal,

Like lightning

Like diamonds

More than the sunrise

More than the mountains

More than the thinnest crescent moon

More than the blue light of dusk,

More than the spring’s first rain

More than the faint light of dawn

More than the willow’s first yellow

More than the daffodil’s first blossom

More than the ocean

More than the summer’s first rose

More than the pink gladiola

More than the autumn’s riot of color

More than the early setting sun

More than the winter’s first soft snow

I love you more

and our love is endless

Our love transcends time

The poet felt the ocean

And praised the ocean’s purity.

He saw the moon spread

A wide beam on the water

And stop at the surface

As if the black depth

Of the ocean at night

Were impenetrable, discrete.

He rode the tide

And his blood took

Its rhythm and his ship

Rolled at once with the ocean.

The ocean heaves pure and blind,

Faithful only to the moon:

It casts its song to every wind

And sings its airs like the witch

That conjures life.

And the ocean is untrammeled.

I am worn out with good wishes:

Good wishes sent;

Good wishes received.

Let us be silent now a while

And rest quietly

Before we must once

Again summon the energy

To send good wishes

And get good wishes.

Love Poem

You're the milk in my oatmeal!

(I hate love poems).

You're the sun in my heart

(But I will persist).

You're the rain on my garden,

The bloom on the rose.

You're the crease in my trousers.

You're the stars at night

When the moon is new;

You're the morning breeze

(One metaphor is good as another

To a reluctant poet).

You're the blue in my skies,

The colors of fall,

The white on the snow.

You're my recurring dream.

There are two distinguished "T's"

in "Literature,"

and like stanchions in a bridge,

they uphold their suspended

"era,"

but never have "T's"

held forth with such sway

as those two tipsy "T's"

in "Tits."

Consternation

Every now and again

to my complete surprise

I find myself behind

the not so mythic rock.

Never have I envied

Sisyphus' aerobic

lot. Up that hill he'd go:

strong legs, strong back, and will

for the climb. He'd not be

undone by hill, his rock,

fate, or the gods. Atop

the mountain he'd look out

over the fields and watch

as his work came to naught:

did he sigh as his rock, let

loose, rolled down the mountain?

Or did the spectacle

of a huge rock jumping

and bounding, gathering

speed as it fell down hill

please him, make the journey

worth his while? Did the gods

laugh at him? Or did they

too, in time, grow weary

of the repetitious

spectacle of a man

pushing a rock uphill

to watch it fall back down

to the bottom where he

began. At least he knew

where to push his mythic

rock. I have no idea

what to do with my own.

Once it was an issue

between the lady and the man;

who held the sway domestic

was said to wear the pants;

In time, the clothes designers

put the ladies into slacks,

to which the fashion factory

for skirts needs must fight back;

Thus in this age of woman's right,

in this the age of rockets,

the skirt designers taught us all

it's not the pants, it's pockets!

Whatever happened, the trees would not tell

though they whispered softly to a passing

breeze, nor would say the chipped concrete sidewalk

and curb that lamented disfigurement

in stoical silence, nor the shallow

brook that flowed slowly in hushed ripples past

a wooden bridge, round curved banks, cascading

quietly toward the dam it had ruined,

and the gorge it cut in turbulent times

when the winds blew and clouds fled hurriedly,

oblivious, as if summoned away

suddenly to answer a cry for help

like the police cars, and fire engines

and ambulances, that raced with flashing

red and blue and white lights and loud sirens

screaming, screaming, to the road by the stream

near the walk bridge late last night.

Ordinary Time

Simple grey boat

anchored, afloat

on still water;

a grey perfect sky

merged with tree tops'

rich subdued green;

white grey lake fog

risen;

an old wood dock

gone black

with age,

we sat alone,

at peace,

away.

Never Knew A Hooker

Never knew a Hooker

didn't say that she was clean;

never struck a worker

didn't lose more than his gain;

never blew a blow-hard

didn't blow the final scene;

never grew a garden

didn't get some heavy rain;

never sat the juror

wasn't guilty of some crime;

never lived the poet

wouldn't kill to make a rhyme.

Some motives run deep--

unfathomable

as oceans, decep-

tive as keen edged seas

that cut the sky

along distinct horizon lines.

I forget where I’m from

I’ve been here so long.

Life can be sad sometimes:

What you forget, and

What you can’t forget;

What you remember and

What you can’t recall:

There are places I’ve been

And people, more people

Than places, whose names

I forget. Some people

Made me angry and some

Made me smile. Sometimes

I see a familiar face but can’t

Remember the name. Now and then

I meet someone who knows me

but can’t recall my name—

I’m perfectly happy then

to let the forgotten past

trouble someone else.

Steering By The Meteors

Everyone ought to have heart, lips, one dominant

trait, sox, soul, a rifle, baseball cards, gas, fingers,

feelings, tulips, spacemen, a beach ball, toes, lake front property, sex, snow, grandparents, luck, candles, "it'sneverbeenlikethisbefore," at least once; shoes, shoulders, strawberries in June, a fancy car, moods, no need to care for one full hour, Irish Whiskey, felt-tip pens, birthdays, luxurious lamb skin now and again, a flat tire, Lenox, a nice carpet, remote control, peace of mind, one pink rose, elders, a full portion of fish, God, cabbage, an adjustable wrench, rest, style, hair to last a life-time, daffodils, cheese-cake, an elegant guitar, birds, sea air, children, a light drizzle, autumn leaves, grass, annoyance, soft hands, a bookcase, cherries, neighbors, cash, a dog, split infinitives, good teeth to chew a steak, a walk along the brook, no sense of time, a long coat, wine, feet, Ds in math, a waltz, pain, boots, chocolate, jeans, Waterford, fountain pens, rocks, dreams, tennis, good legs, cognac, books, ghosts, sunshine, ties, an understanding of James Joyce, a rosary, video tapes, a bike, trash, paintings, a chain saw, memories, a cordless phone, remorse, a good baseball glove, a little fear, Knicks tickets, bank hours, purpose, silver dollars, Halloween candy, one gold ring, true love, warm nights, sound sleep, and a good laugh!

I saw you on the street last night;

although we've not met for a long time,

your face was pretty

as ever it was, and you saw

me, too. I caught your eye and yours

met mine, but I could neither stop

to say hello, nor remember

your name. I walked quickly away

to my next appointed chore.

I tried to conjure your name.

I dressed you in a white uniform,

placed you behind a store counter

to no avail; I sketched your face

and searched for your name like one

walking through dark library stacks

searching for a familiar title,

but I could not find your name,

and today, your look of recognition,

your brief look of disappointment

when I failed to acknowledge you,

whose smile so easily comes

to mind, trouble me still.

Late Winter

Sometimes we endure,

without joy,

without pleasure,

though the sun shines bright

from blue skies,

and crocuses

tempt cold march winds

to bloom white,

blue and yellow,

and daffodils bud

and flower

yellow beside

purple hyacinths.

sometimes we endure

without joy

without pleasure

though love shines constant

as the sun

from cloudless skies

and we endure like

the dormant rose

in winter,

awaiting the spark

that will bring

us back to life.

Meticulous fish, schooled in the arts;

no word from Fathom who studied the stars

to chart his course between Venus and Mars.

*******************************

Who knows the scent of fishing boats,

the slippery feel of live bait?

Who knows the endless hours afloat

on oil-slicked bays in hopeful wait

for the subtle bite that rarely came?

*******************************

The Bookend Diner's thin chicken soup

tasted like puddles, but it was worth

Fathom's dollar to be out of the rain,

a tranquil summer day's shocking turn

with sudden lightning, thunder,

and wind to make the city howl!

*******************************

No rest for the weary, thought Fathom,

hearing Sandra's scorn blasting the sun

from bright blue skies with torrents

of bitter invective spit like this wind driven

rain against the Bookend's glass facade.

*******************************

Some things still make sense, he thought,

sipping weak Red Rose tea. There's nothing

under heaven like a pale blue fifty-seven

Chevy. You could trust Ted Williams to hit.

Count on Ray Charles, Henry Fielding, Portia,

Marilyn Monroe, Little Richard, John

Lennon, Davie Crockett, Constance Reid,

and Premium Saltines in cellophane wrappers

to kill the taste of thin, bitter red tea.

*******************************

Fathom watched an old man, fresh

from the sea, the scent of fish

on his hands, he sipped the Bookend's

tea, and listed to one side and then to the other

like an old boat rocking gently on still waters.

He seemed not to notice the storm.

Fathom bailed out his shallow

soup bowl with quick scoops

as if to keep his ship afloat.

*******************************

The Lone Ranger did not ride alone,

Fathom thought, chewing his saltines.

Things are not always as they seem--

there was Tonto always near, and Cisco

had Pancho, Don Quixote had his Panza,

and who knows what went on between

Beatrice and George, Tom and Sophie,

Rochester and Bertha, Les Paul and Mary

Ford? Well, there's always Natty Bumppo

Abbey Road, Saint John's Gospel: it may

be so for all I know, he thought, as he pushed

hard to open the Bookend's glass door

and walked out into the wind blown rain.

Early Spring

The new year bounded along like a rock

jumping, bouncing down a severe incline.

The sun seemed to lose its way; it settled

in the south west sky as if gone astray.

By March the Sun eclipsed the moon and Hale-

Bopp's comet appeared like a misguided

star, too bright, too close; it forcibly stepped

on the brakes and kicked up enormous clouds

of trailing star dust as it skid across

the sky. Crocuses bloomed, and then came wild yellow daffodils and forsythia, purple

and white hyacinths. Magnolia trees

blossomed pink and the dogwoods flowered white.

Easter rushed up like an over-eager

child in pursuit of chocolate, and then

Vas died, as he said he would, on Easter

Sunday. with overcast hearts and tearful

smiles, we walked with him to his bright,

Spring Grave beneath a blue sky and a brilliant sun

on Friday, a little numb, a little

stunned, sad and lonely to be without him.

a blank sheet of paper

has marvelous potential

possibilities abound

like the stars on a clear night

when a new moon

tugs at the tides from

invisible heights

Nothing dries

sooner than tears

not the rain

not the dew

not the first

frost of fall

Love

Too close for words

to say what we mean;

too close to mean

what words can say:

is that love,

or is that love's

ghost: the old cherry

tree that failed

to blossom,

or the recurring echo

of a rose?

Evening Song

Twilight descends like a delicate threat;

the silent breeze whispers an ageless tale

of darkest night--harmonious discord

evoking quivers of unremembered

fear. Between the moon and night runs Venus

dripping sea-brine, the brightest star, astray

like an errant diamond, rife with cosmic

sentiment. There's magic in the echo

of the Jimson lily's silent song--sung

like the sirens' symphony to enchant

the moon. The ocean rushes a high tide

to soothe the weary shore: wave after white

wave smooths its face worn with foot prints and sand

castles: fleeting dreams wash away like bright

clouds blown on late night winds. Faceless figures

of sleepless dreams emerge from within tall

ancient oaks to cast deep spells and weave old

yarns of joyful days and estrous nights when

Brigid danced and Patrick sang and Hope rode

a brilliant white stallion from North to South

across white lily fields and rainbows arched

the land from sea to sea and happy were

we then, yes, for one brief, lasting moment.

Sunset

burned gold

without glare;

spring and such

a dry spell.

The lawn

turned earth's best green

but sparsly;

rain came,

light, fine;

half-a rainbow--

formed

then faded

slowly

imperceptibly;

a sheer cloud

hung before

a perfect

round, pale,

setting sun;

we watched

with wonder,

near fear,

to see the sun

look so like

the perfect

placid, dead

full moon.

Hypocrisy’s

blinding glare too

often obscures

the hypocrite

whose face appears

In the mirror.

What do you live with?

Everyone lives with something;

What you live with

Shows: on your face,

In your eyes,

In your walk;

It gives meaning

To the furrows in your brow;

It colors your smile,

Deepens your frown,

Paces your gait.

Does it lend beauty

To your face?

It can, you know.

The Salem Witch

Once I'd

seen the witch

it was difficult

ever more

to find

the comely

young woman

in fur and plume

who first caught

my eye.

Long standing

intolerance

begins to look

like patience,

in time.

Conflict and

contention,

the ritual

argument,

create one sort

of intimacy,

but a smile,

a kind word,

an uncalculated

kiss will do

as well if

what you want

is intimacy.

Christine and cookies,

Oh, Margaret a lot,

Hester’s green tea and

The morning was shot.

Breathless Virginia

Crammed plans into plans,

Fifteen for dinner

All stuffed in three vans.

Clara rode donkey

In boots with her smiles

While Bob kissed the princess

In back of the files.

Stale chocolate cake

Was what we all got.

Jane cried out loud:

“This coffee’s not hot.”

Gallery

The curator paced--window to counter,

counter to office, office to window . . . .

Brassy, old, imperious, a woman set on thin

legs waked an aged strut, impervious,

her look pursed in thin-lipped wrinkles:

"Tell me how I can assist you."

I could not tell, had no idea, wondered . . .

and smiled.

The curator paced--window to counter,

counter to office, office to window . . . .

The far wall was full canvas: clouds.

White and blue, tops of clouds:

deep contrast: bright to one side, dark

to the other. More clouds to the right.

Two walls of clouds, tops of clouds

"It's like being in a plane," said

an elderly woman with a happy, bright smile,

as she felt her way along the clouds

to find a door.

The curator slouched in his chair,

worn down with his rounds.

His tough-barked hostess had vanished,

leaving the room still as its thick carpet.

Alone above the clouds, I wandered

and was startled to find two long poles

with rocks tied to their tops, leaning

precariously against the clouds:

ancient missiles from a simple time

when we threw rocks.

I found myself pacing from window to cloud,

cloud to window, window to an overlooked

wall with a small canvas: two beetles

on daffodil, one atop the other, in "Yellow,

Magenta, Cyan."

Catherine came to mind: she liked to grit

her teeth in pleasure. Her eyes alight,

her front teeth slanted forward, her jaw

set, tense, triumphant. There was something

unseemly about Catherine's mouth when

she grit her teeth in pleasure.

Like an apparition among the clouds

the thin-lipped woman reappeared,

"Would you like a champagne?"

she urged with her head slightly tilted

toward the right, her thin lips pursed

shut with wrinkles, her dim eyes narrow,

estimating, calculating.

"Thank you, no."

The curator paced--window to counter,

counter to office, office to window . . . .

I felt my way along the clouds.

I followed the path of the bright-eyed

woman whose ageless smile shone

like the sun above the clouds, .

until I found the open door.

Between you, me,

the post and pillar,

Cinderella's story

of that nice prince,

a pumpkin coach

and slipper,

sounds fishy

as Moby Dick.

At times

The dead are real,

Their presence

Palpable as music to the deaf,

Color to the blind

Song to the mute.

The dead are real

And incomprehensible

As death.

The sunset sky was blue,

Blue, bright blue near the rooftops

Just above the yellow at the line of the roof.

Below, six stories of brick and window,

more window than brick,

were dark, as if night fell

early in the narrow street.

Down the front of the building,

past arched windows and rectangular windows

ran a metal stairway,

of rusted wrought iron,

the skeleton of stairs.

Parked cars sat

heavily, inert,

like the blue grey slate stones of the sidewalk.

From the dark street shone

neon lights of blue and yellow

and red and white and gold.

White streetlights carved vague shadows

On blue grey slate stone sidewalks.

The corner street light flashed

“Don’t walk” in red.

Blue lights and white lights shone from windows.

A bicycle with an over-large basket

and a wrapped packaged

waited for a rider.

No one walked and no one drove

and no one looked from the windows.

Bright green traffic lights turned amber,

turned red and held till red turned green,

no matter that no one came.

No matter that the sky above was blue.

We agonized along hot city side-

Walks in summer and picked a careful way

Over ice in bitterly cold winter

Winds to find tea and scones while we studied

Ways to explore, perfect, perhaps justify

Intimacy. Were we intimate

Then when we wondered aloud if this con-

Fusion were love or what might it be if

Not and why such fascination, why such

Urgent desire, why the desire

To check desire, why the concentration

On one another when we were apart,

Why the cautious first moments each time we

Met?

When we were together,

Sensitive to one another

Protective of ourselves—

We saw ourselves as if in an odd

Light that shone in two directions

At once and revealed one thing to you

And another to me.

The stone behind the dark glasses

on the snow cone is the King

The queen is in her pantry

eating pies.

Crawling down the hallway

past the butter, past the sink,

the prince is having visions

with his eyes.

The Joker traded motley

for a pin-striped vested suit;

His wife puffed out her cheeks and

picked his ties.

The priest is running groceries

to the revels in the hills.

the nuns are painting checkers

on the skies.

Princess Carolina dressed

In crinoline contrives

To raise her skirt and wink at

all the guys.

Robin Hood lit Marion’s

Dessert while the friar

drank a punch that blackened

both his eyes.

The inevitable,

always comes

As a shock.

I have arrived at that point

In my life

When the need to be polite,

Diplomatic,

Inoffensive to prevailing sensitivities,

Sensibilities,

Is exceeded only

By the inveterate need

To have my say

right or wrong.

Discarded Past

Winter Olympics. February. Lent.

Snow. Snow. Cold. Like sea shells tossed on frozen

night sands, memories rose in dreams drawn

by full moon tides: scattered images vivid

as her face, staring out a bus window:

sad, mysterious--I felt her look. Why?

What? She would not say . . . young. We had just met,

she, her girlfriend and I. Coincidence:

a day trip--she was the guest of her friend's

parents; I the guest of an old teacher.

Bright, warm, summer sun, afternoon--her face

had changed--her slim friend: I had come to see

her--we knew that. Her pretty face eludes

me now. Roy Orbison--"Crying," "Only

The Lonely"--on a small diner jukebox.

I tried to smoke a cigarette--my first

pack. "You look silly," she said. "Let him be,"

came in my defense, though I played the fool.

A beach in summer, change: I was taller;

she was thin. Her mother had a number:

a house full of girls. I called. "She's not here,

now. I don't know where she is. She starts work

at five." I said I'd try my luck. My friends

from school were with me--my ride--a car full.

A huge beach house: I knocked. A girl answered,

curious. "She's home now," and she appeared

looking rushed, unsettled, slightly annoyed

by this surprise visit: she tried to smile.

She worked as a waitress in the evenings--

they found her on the beach and rushed her back.

No time to change: make-up, perfume, her long black

hair pinned back, her thin legs tan in shorts pulled

over a bikini, a light sheer blouse--

she did not know why I was there, or why

there was a car full of boys at the curb

staring, curious as we walked toward them.

I felt shy, stunned by her beauty--the change:

subtle experience, savvy. She found

me naive. We climbed into the back seat

and sat close to one another: she was

one in a crowd of strangers, my polite

friends. I felt warm in contact with her, tongue-

tied: she sided with my crowd who teased me:

"you look flushed," came from the front seat. She touched

my face, "Yes! He's in heat!" That got a laugh.

A sedate party in my father's back

yard--we'd finished high school. My home town crowd--

she had somewhere to go, but she would stop

for a brief visit. She arrived I heels

and stockings, a darkish dress, her full black

hair perfect--she was at her loveliest,

her face smooth, her smile relaxed, her eyes dark

and bright at once--a beautiful stranger--

the crowd went silent as she found her way

through the roses in the fading sunlight

and smiled. One night, a year later? Summer

vacation. College. I was home from school

and a strange classmate appeared with a car.

I called--she was home--we drove to her house--

she and I sat on a couch in a large

parlor with a stereo and my friend.

He felt like my ride, sat alone, apart,

unsure of his role--he tried to ignore

us, and we tried to include him. We talked--

now and again we held hands--discreetly--

the touch her delicate hand was soft

and warm. When we were leaving, she stopped me

on the landing atop the stairs and kissed

me and we held one another . . . gently.

I was surprised, naive as I was. Long

afterward I could still feel her presence

like a comfort. The memory faded,

though, in time, like the passing of roses.

A bright autumn evening--I was engaged

and she was seeing someone--we asked her

to come with us to see the film version

of The Sound of Music in a large, old

theatre near her house--she declined but asked

us to visit before the show. When we

arrived she and her mother sat us down

to dinner with her family--she was

sensitive and alert, in touch with us

and with her mother in a quiet way.

It felt odd, though, to eat and leave her there

in the driveway, waving good-bye to us.

The wedding was a crowded, rushed affair--

she was radiant, coming down the church

stairs to greet us. She introduced the man

who would become her husband, an older

man. I hoped to see them later, but no,

they would not come to the reception hall--

was she, by then, and in the company

of her own fiancé, uncomfortable

in her role of the beautiful stranger?

Time went by like a subway ride--a blur

through darkness and light--how long ago had

I spoken with her? I called her mother

to ask how she was. She said she could use

a call from me--get her back in touch with

some of "the old crowd," now that her baby

was born. I called, eager to hear of her

husband and baby, her home, her new life--

I hoped to persuade her to visit us,

meet my boy, and I was stunned by, "How did

you get my number? Why did you call me?

I'm married! I have a baby! I have

a husband!" "I know." I was shocked. "I met

your husband at my wedding." I did not

know what to say. "I'm sorry to trouble

you so. Did your husband dislike me? Us?"

"No. He said you were a 'nice young man'." "So . . .

What's wrong?" She wouldn't say why she was so

upset. I was shocked and confused, sorry

to feel I threatened her, though I did not

understand. "I don't want to trouble you.

I won't call again. Don't worry. Good-bye."

I felt embarrassed, foolish, discarded,

like a shameful past. That was twenty years

ago, or more--a generation--then

there she was again--vivid as her face

staring out a bus window--a winter

night's dream tossed memories like old

sea shells on cold sands, bright, beneath a full moon.

Random, random, random in tandem

A coke can rolled down the road.

The circus train crept past the park

Heavy, like a tanker sitting low

In the water, inching up river

Exhausted, on the last leg of its long journey.

The phone rang. I woke. Lost.

Where am I? What time is it?

Dream merged with waking:

I was in Cincinnati when the phone

Rang and I ran to answer and woke

From my dream more real than

The ringing phone.

“Tending bar is not respectable.

He should not tend bar.”

She spoke with disgust on her face.

Disgust easily found its way to her face.

A smile struggled with her ready-made

Lines of disgust. She could not distort

Those lines to make a smile, so deeply carved

Into her face were the aged lines of constant disgust.

The paperboy walked stiffly, his back to the wind,

His cap pulled down to cover his face.

The wind cut through his blue jeans and iced

The front of his legs till they were numb and stung.

The wind sliced sharply across lawns buried beneath

Snow that obliterated boundaries and hid concrete

Walkways and curbs and streets. Snow drifts rounded

White by the wind peaked and sloped as if they covered

A long, plush meadow that rolled uphill from the brook

But the heavy snow could not disguise the small,

Uniform houses that shot up suddenly like patches

Of corn that divided the field into barren lots

Where greedy men planted cinder blocks.

Christmas came like a winter storm

Of wrapping and bows and boxes

And it went in light black plastic bags

With empty wine bottles clinking to get

MORNING

"Introibo ad Altare Dei . . ."

Father Wily would say, too fast, all too

early in the day for me to call up

my memorized Latin. "Ad Deum qui

laetificat juventutem meam,"

I would answer, nervous, not quite awake

so early in the morning before school.

Not much of a crowd those dark March mornings.

The church was cold and every sound echoed:

a stifled sneeze; a late comer tiptoed

up the aisle; a cough. Someone turned a thin,

stiff missal's page, trying to keep pace

with Father Wily's quick, breathless Latin.

I smothered a yawn and my eyes watered

while I sat through the Epistle: Saint Paul

complained about rough seas, ship wreck. Dawn's first

glowing light colored the stained glass windows:

Saint John, in dark blue, emerged with a book;

Mary, in blue and white, stood on a gold

lined cloud and rose toward the sky; a young man

with long hair and a halo, his hands tied

above his head, slumped down beside a tree

and looked upward while he bled from arrow

wounds: seven arrows. The rising sun's shafts

of light trapped brilliant specks of fast moving

dust and rose to light up bits of gold high

in the cathedral's dark mosaic dome.

A steady, cold draft blew round my ankles

while I knelt, watching closely for my cue

to ring the gold bells when Father Wily

raised up the host and his bright gold chalice:

the church became still for that long moment;

a huge silence would gather to embrace

the music of bells ringing their finest

tones, and like a great organ sustaining

a note, the empty church echoed and sang

the bells' cheerful song, then let it fade out

slowly, gently, till it was the faintest

hint of music gone from perfect silence.

The taste of the host was still in my mouth

when I took off my surplice and cassock:

it made me hungry. The cold sacristy

chilled my coat and made me anxious to leave:

I took my books, my lunch bag and I hurried

down the aisle. The church was dark, oddly still,

vacant; the sun now sent shafts of colored

light down through dark stained glass windows.

Each dim beam lit an empty space in the dark pews.

My quick steps echoed through the hollow church

till I pushed open its heavy, arched doors.

The skies were blue and not a cloud behind

bright sun that warmed my face and eased the chill

from morning air. I was awake and glad

for a donut I found in my lunch bag.

The last church-goer drove his car around

the corner and the grey stone parking lot

became our school playground: I wandered

alone, curious to find beer bottle

caps, cigarette butts, broken glass, bobby

pins, the telling signs of a playground's

life after school and before morning Mass.

The school was shut, silent, asleep; its sand

colored brick sparkled in the bright sun

like the brief, faint smile of a pleasant dream.

Not a soul about and the place so still--

it seemed impossible that soon noisy

bus after yellow bus would come to pour

streams of boys and girls in blue uniforms

scrambling onto the playground to await

the shrill, piercing bell that signaled the start

of another day. Such a fine morning!

I wished I were free to go home and play.

Conversation with the Wall

In mocking hesitation,

old Whiskers bowed his head:

"It's mostly of this era

to live in fear and dread

the push along the subway,

the stranger with a gun,

the organized militia

armed and having fun,

the nuclear reactors,

the IRS, and more,

the nagging threat of living

through the very last world war.

No telling what they're thinking,

down there in Washington's Mall,

but everyone who goes there

sits on Humpty's wall.

So fare you well this fun house,

wisely choose your way:

we'll know you by those things you do.

Not by those you say."

Whiskers and The Victorian

She was a shallow stream,

a wader's dream,

and he liked fishing

up minnows.

Hers was a fetching gleam:

the moon's full beam

conjuring a steady

under-tow.

He splashed on self-esteem,

to an extreme,

and thought to give her

a good row,

but, t'was her secret scheme

to reign supreme

whilst he was bathing

his ego.

Their puddle sure teemed

and raged, till it seemed

like oceans about

to overflow.

Good Friday

Lily's eyes stared wide and round

as if stuck open with startled dismay.

"Come on," she said, "what's all these

clothes doing here? I didn't finish

yesterday's wash yet . . . ."

Pink Floyd's Wall filled the hall,

too loud--"We don't need no . . ."

The washing machine clanged;

the vacuum cleaner roared its angry

scream and the dog barked and jumped

as if he would attack its every move.

An ill-conceived Spring with sudden snow

burying limp crocuses too quick to live.

Easter eggs boiling for dyeing--

at three the stress of Lent is gone.

Lazy, graceful, languid snow dancing,

drifting down, floating slowly down

this Friday in April.

Melancholy lilies hang their heads

in mournful shame in Shepherd's

chilly hot-house. "They've been forced,"

Shepherd said, "along with the mums

and azaleas. Lilies don't take it well.

They're no fun," he chuckled.

Tomato soup and tuna fish--

dinner for a damn snowy

Friday in April.

Vietnam is a memory now:

remote as Korea,

World War II.

Once Nam was everything:

once,

for a long, long painful time.

"A brief war, as wars go,"

will say the books.

Hard to face then,

Harder now:

men, grown from boys,

eighteen, haunt

street corners like lost souls,

they beg in frayed uniforms:

spare change can not change

a life spared in war, doomed

to haunt lost souls,

victims themselves

of private wars,

wounded, scarred, numbed,

their own horror

haunting them,

they cannot hear

the anguished voice:

"Spare some change

for a vet, friend?

WHAT I DONE FOR SUMMER VACATION

my old man got sick and he got operated on in a hospital in new york and got better after a month and come home but he couldn't do nothing for a long time after that. When he was home he told me what to do for the summer--paint the picket fence white. Cut the grass. Pull weeds. Trim the edges. Plant the garden. Weed the garden but don't touch the cucumbers--kills 'em. Wash the car. Clean out the garage. Catch worms at night for fishing. He fished in a lake and never caught nothing. Then he heard about the bay. Didn't need worms for that. We needed other fish to catch little fish. Small blue fish that were only sort of blue on top and white mostly. Then we caught fish. Lots of little fish. I learned to clean them. You cut off their head at the gills and cut them down the middle of their belly and get the little skeleton out and scrape the scale knife over them and get rid of the scales and when you're done there's not much of a fish left. But we had a lot of them and he liked them. Or he liked that he caught them after all the time on the lake with nothing coming up after the worms and the bobbins still on the water and the lines got tangled and we had nothing to eat or drink out there in that boat and there were mosquito bites. He liked seeing the red and white bobbins dive down into the water and stay there while something ran with the line. And the reel sung out. Then a priest that taught him something in school came and told me about girls and nice girls don't like it. They let you do it if they like you but they don't feel nothing and its a sin but I knew about girls and was scared because I wasn't supposed to, and when he asked me if I did, I said no. So I made faces like I was surprised and my face hurt after a while. He liked talking about it, and wanted to make sure I was going to be good. So he finished up and we went downstairs and ate, but I was tired. After a while he came back and I had to make believe I liked him and was happy to see him again. They talked and left me out of it, and I was glad, but then they came and said I was going with him to Canada on a bus with some people from his church. I wasn't sure I liked that much, but they wanted me to pretty bad and I made faces like I was happy. I stayed at his house and didn't like getting up early for mass the day we left. It rained. I met two girls I liked, one in a white pleated skirt that hung nice over her and made it look like she was nice and her friend was shorter and had nice long fingers and nice hair and eyes and she was pretty, and the priest kept trying to make me sit up in the front seat of the bus with him but I kept going to the back seat where the girls were. He didn't like me leaving him up there alone but I couldn't think up nothing to say to him. Couldn't think up nothing to say to the girls either. But I liked them and I liked sitting by them. We went to these shrines up there. They gave us little candles at night and we lit them up and walked around holding them and said the rosary in french. I didn't know french and it took too long but it sounded nice and they had crutches hanging up in church and wheel chairs from people they said got cured out of something without getting operated on. And when I got up the last morning, I met the girls and had coffee and I never had that before and it wasn't good, but I kept the jar they brought it in. When I left the restaurant the girls made believe they were shocked but they put it in a pocketbook and walked out like nothing. Outside the restaurant I saw newspapers in english standing up in a rack and one said ernest hemingway killed himself last night. Biggest print I ever saw.

Ordinary Time

Week Six

Have you seen that homeless

man shuffle off to bed:

cardboard on a subway grate

his hands around his head?

Have you seen that tunnel

lady advertise her breast:

she winks a blackened, swollen

eye that says she needs some rest.

Have you seen that drunken

man talking to the wall?

Have the windshield raggers

scared you with their drawl:

"May the good Lord bless you, Mister.

Merry Christmas one and all.

Poetry Night

I rode the elite elevator and stood among the elite

in elevator silence as we sped to a vertiginous height.

A man in full, greying sideburns with a smooth,

shining head perched atop a blue turtleneck sweater,

his three button tweed jacket buttoned up tight, stood

silent and glossy as his polished mahogany umbrella handle.

A woman, separate and large in shining black fur looked

soft as a panda; her black boots rose well into her long

fur, and her dark eyes glowed as she stood apart; her acrid

silence hummed through tight clenched, dark red lips,

like the sealed elevator that hummed its way upward.

I stood in a metal corner and watched blinking lights

flash numbers from left to right where it stopped at twelve.

Dull metal doors parted slowly and disappeared.

Black fur exercised female prerogative and pushed

her way through the crowd and the opened doorway.

She turned right turned right and lumbered away,

making haste with short, heavy, slow strides. The shining head looked round with the quick movements of a small bird,

and marched off.

I stepped from the emptied elevator to a brass picket rail that overlooked the floor twelve stories below: the distance tugged and drained blood from my groin and my legs felt weak; the fall was steep; the distant floor of black and white rose in three dimensions, jagged like hewn rocks sadistically set in perfect diagonal rows--an Escher etching, over-enlarged, magnified, compelling, dangerous.

****************************************

An elder sentry in thin lapels, his hands folded over

his zipper in watering hole pose, barred entry to the hall:

a slight woman of some years sat, officiously stiff, behind

a bare table and exchanged entry for cash, tickets,

or passes. She checked off names with practiced, and absorbed concentration.

Three tiers were expected: those who would pay, those above paying, and those beneath paying: the coerced, students of the venerable Whisp, the uninitiated.

I produced my summons; the elder lady found my name

and with a stiff back, a serious look, and her short pencil,

she carefully drew a check mark and waved me on with a nod. Her quiet sentry, politely chagrined, winningly mustered a bland smile, and asked, near embarrassment, if I would be kind enough to point out to him the young lady, Laura Blume.

Ms. Blume had risen lately, beyond elite, straight

up from coerced. She'd ascended, some said, indecently,

like helium balloons let loose.

"No," I smiled. "Can't say as I've ever seen her."

Who has not heard her name? From behind me

came a feeble voice that said, "Yes, I can." I looked

round to find a fellow student who overheard

the gentleman's hushed question and could not

resist the urge to raise his hand with a right answer.

He leaned toward the tall, thin grey sentry, surveyed

the room with a shrewd eye, and careful not to point,

stood still as a dog trained for the hunt, aimed his

deliberate stare toward the very center of the gathered

crowd, and said, "She is the one in the white blouse."

The distinguished old gentleman followed the line

of the young man's nose and blinked in recognition:

"Ah," he said as he slowly, politely licked his lip

and wrinkled his forehead in some slight confusion.

Laura Blume, her hands folded and buried

in her ample lap, sat straight up with the plump

calm of a queen planted like the center-piece

of a small, unruly garden.

Professor Whisp, the main event, had not arrived.

******************************************

The crowd, fully swollen, was lost in the hall

whose rarefied air breathed with détente,

disappointed in this small gathering,

whose loudest din echoed like the buzz

of an insect circling high ceiling lights.

I chose a seat near a side exit and surveyed

the door; a heavy dark grained wood hung

snugly on elaborate brass hinges. I stepped

to the door and turned a smooth handful of brass

knob to test the route of my early escape. A shrill

bell sounded a shocking alarm that echoed aloud

in the hall's spacious quiet.

The crowd's buzz died of a sudden: a startled hush

fell on the floor. Stunned eyes searched round

and found me standing below the lit exit sign:

I was caught as if with my finger in the pie.

Disinterest returned and the silent pause gave

way to a slowly rising hum that reascended to buzz.

At length and later than she liked, a lady, whose pure

antique charm shone like a mirror veneer poised

with a stiff neck, stood. Her head tilted slightly upward

and to one side to display, to some advantage and without

ostentation, her short string of yellowed pearls:

"May I have your attention!" she insisted, leaning toward

the microphone, "May I have your kind attention!!"

She waited with watchful persistence.

A deferential hush fell over the hall and amplified

the echo of metal folding chairs banging: a moment's

clamorous clanging shuffle and all were seated.

Laura Blume rose up in mid-declaration and trotted

heavily from her central seat, her head slightly bent,

she picked her way modestly, slowly hurrying till she

sat at the long bare folding table beside the podium,

next Whisp's right arm: for Whisp had arrived.

******************************************

"It is our enormous good fortune," the stiff necked

pearls insisted into the microphone clamped

precariously to the podium, "an honor and what

a distinction, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, and extreme,

talk, talk, talk, among above, talk, talk, talk," she smiled.

Up popped Whisp, though not far enough. He reached

up for the microphone, pulled it down, then down again.

He fumbled his thick black-framed glasses, caught them

in mid-air and struck them against the microphone,

nearly tossed his papers, grabbed them, slid his glasses

over his ears, propped them on his nose and opened

a book of his own doing . . .

As from a cupboard, like a politician cock roach,

with a bow and a blink, Whisp nodded and began:

"The purpose and aim of the poetry talk talk talk talk.

I'll show you what I mean by reading a poem talk talk.

A blurred title and on sung Whisp:

something a mermaid off on her own in the sea.

The microphone lisped and hummed,

Talk, talk talk talk," and Whisp had done.

******************************************

Laura Blume rose up, bumped into Whisp

as they danced round one another in a tight

circle. Whisp sat, smiling broadly, while Laura

stood, discretely raising up the microphone.

With intense calm in her tight, quiet voice,

Laura lamented that her light was dimmed

by forever trailing Whisp's golden glow,

though her tone told the silent she was every

bit of it equal to the task: "It is the bane of my

life, the curse of my career to have always

to follow Professor, dear Professor Whisp. Talk,

talk, talk, talk. Talk, talk talk talk . . .

******************************************

I leaned back in my folding chair and thought

of the river as it was when I drove beside it on

my way to this chair: the water was still, frozen,

jagged; it gleamed like glass debris, stuck, caught

as if in a ragged mood while the sun settled

distant and cool behind the factory silhouette

skyline on the Jersey side.

******************************************

talk, talk talk, talk, talk, talk . . ."

Laura was suddenly reading a poem of her own:

an Irish coffee, a misty field and shadowy exchanges

between vague figures in the dew cook rain talk, talk

talk, talk talk talk, talktalktalktalk!"

"Are there any questions," she paused.

Whisp blinked hopefully, dangerously

drawing his glasses from his nose . . .

An elderly gentleman stood, and as he stroked

his beard, he said he thought Talk was good

so far as Talk went, but it made too little sense

to him and did not at all account for talk, talk, talk,

and talk!

Whisp restored his glasses to his head and looked

though his papers, leaving Laura to lurch for herself:

"Talk means talk, and talk, talk, taalk," her voice

pitched higher, "talk, talk, talk," and squeaked, "Talk!"

Whisp drew his glasses from his nose and shone

brightly: he did not rise, and from his chair, while

Laura stood turning toward him, he said, "Talk. Talk.

Talk, talk; talk--talk? Talk: TALK! ! !" and he conciliated,

"I should have grown a beard for having said that,

it was so wise."

The silence tittered and the gentleman sat, shaking his head.

Whisp beamed for more when up popped declining elegance

to say the hour had come for this distinct honor to end.

"Some of us must go and others can stay, but all are welcome and we must express our deepest gratitude, talk, talk, talk . . ." She'd not finished before chairs began to bang and raise a metal clang that echoed in the grateful hall which breathed more easily knowing that this buzzing insect would soon cease to trouble its solitude.

I squeezed into the first elevator with the crushed elite,

hopped across the jagged stone floor on my way to the door, ran to my car and raced to be gone.

Apocalypse

In the end

it's over.

Done.

If it starts

up again

as something

new,

it's not

over and

done.

In the end

it's done.

Over.