An Intruder 5
But I wanted to be sure so I called my next door neighbor-
Not really a friend, but whose advice I entertain from time to time.
'Look, ' she said, 'there are plenty better things to worry about-
Every day more and more, thanks to people's gullibility,
And the disaster mentality created by the press.
(Daphne is fiercely anti-media) Haven't you noticed?
E.G. the same supplements that were said to promote longevity, yesterday
(And which cost an arm and a leg at the health food store, not incidently)
Now will kill you. Take anti-oxidants, for example. Take vitamin E.'
'Take what? ' I asked, not following.
'Surprise! ' People who take vitamin E die sooner. It's been shown.
The whole thing's a scam, cooked up by the pharmaceutical industry, for...'
I didn't know. But it made sense, now she mentioned it.
'You're sure? '
'Sure.'
'But what should I do? '
'Just eat a balanced diet.'
'I mean about the pigeon.'
'Oh, that. Forget it. I'm glad it's not my problem. I detest pigeons.
There's nothing you can do about it, anyway.'
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The Ideal City
Consider this marvel of Renaissance wit:
The Ideal City, by Lucian Laurana-
See how the canny master contrived in it
To lead the eye along the polished piazza
Back to a single point on the far horizon
By dint of planes, formed ny the great arcades
Of noble pallazi, their window-lit facades
Tinted shades of gold and green and dun;
At center fore, a temple, double tiered
Whose coffered, greatly-pedimented doors
Are gained by a shallow flight of marble stairs;
All around, the whole is pillastered
By half-coluns crowned by leafy capitals
While over the roof, so gently conical,
Capped with a charming, fluted filial
Is heaven's azure dome, sub-tending all;
The fore-ground, too, is decked with well-wrought wells
Calyced alike with steps octagonal.
No pollution, smog or plastic waste
Mars the sheer perfection of the place
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Ceyx and Alcione ll
Alcyone, his daughter, had grown up in her father's house, and watching far to sea had seen the damage wrought by the winds when in bad temper-not that she failed to notice them when calm-she often observed sailboats gliding under the influence of the gentler kinds of winds outside the rocky ring that surrounded the island; but the storms were more spectacular and more devastating than their lamb-like counterparts. She had seen pretty ships spun willy-nilly onto the sharp rocks and smashed to bits, and since life-preservers had not yet been invented, there were only floating timbers for the sailors to grasp, and the chance of seizing one of these was dim. Many a good hand gasped out his life in the over-topping surf, and pulled below, visited the star-strewn sea bottom once and forever, since there was no Red-Cross in those days to teach people to swim. People did not yet realize that by stretching themselves along the sea-surface, inflating their lungs and flailing their arms and legs sequentially, they could keep afloat and reach the distant beach. Nobody bothered to learn-though most people lived on islands, and why they didn't is a mystery. Evidentally, between storms the weather was so good it wasn't necessary, and during the storms unavailing, so high were the waves and so sharp the rocks. Only a merman (or mer-maiden) could navigate them, and no-one land-born was that.
So, she worried...
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Fifty Years On: for Bastille Day
The East was rent with sabor strokes
that bled a ruddy hue-
angry welts that opened up
to let the sun pass through.
Did we, the folk who lined the rue
or watched from upper stories
discern in this the birth of some
extra-ordinary glory?
It was the month of vintages
when tender grapes are thrown
into the hefty press and crushed
beneath the cruel stone,
give their juices to the sluice
and finding clarity
get racked in flasks and later tapped
to make a baron merry.
So still it was, the loud and dumb
had since reversed their roles
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Anatomy Of A Song
The thing was finally strapped down tight and quite asleep.
drip, drip, drip, from the bag, thru the tubing, under the skin-
dewy fluids and a rapid, sliding bubble, round first, then oblong,
How thru its medium it squeezed, salmon-like!
graphs, monitors, stainless, blips, bleeps;
and, like camels padding a silk road, the up-thrown glyphs, evidencing life, tireless;
the easy purl of snoring:
snore, snore-this was anesthesia!
the gentle rise and fall of the rib cage.
'Let us begin', said the technician.
'Keep your eyes on the screen'.
In came the specialist, gloved green, who even masked, bore
an uncanny resemblence to Eddie Poe.
From a table she chose a scalpel and a pair of sterile pinking shears:
crunch, crunch.
Soon there were feathers-over the walls, on the floor,
sticky feathers everywhere; then flew out,
arpeggios, glissandi by the score,
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The Night
Much can be said of the night-
its slow caravan of hours-
glyphs of chocolate smeared on wet, pink velvet;
black velvet
smeared with pink lipstick, its canvas punched
with small, silver holes, the stars
glinting like mirrors that catch in their glass
the humors of candles glinting;
utterly, utterly swept of polemic,
its hours all queued like patient horses at a Victorian funeral
harnasses close up, creaking,
soundless from distances,
creped, each, and nodding a black plume toward a certain horizon.
Quavery canopy pumped by the warmth of music
billowing, ballooning
to the riffs of a never-copyrighted duo for dove and siren-
you know it all, you do,
its crypts and villi, its mists, its yawning corner stores-
O numberless convenience stores of the night! Tears
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Seige
'I can't believe it, ' murmured old Valette, in toney Italian.'The nerve! '
His secretary's quip was earthier. He revered the old man and his crazy bravery.
'Who does she think she is? Thanks for nothing. Can she think of noone's interest but her own? A chip off the old block. Scandal! '
And so on...
'Oliver, she's your sovereign.'
Oliver said nothing. True, he didn't like siding against his queen. Say naught, regret naught. But he wanted his loyalties clear.
Looking out the corbelled window, across the harbor toward the ruins of St Elmo's, old Valette watched the crumbled western rampart and the stone-filled moat and the searching figures of the engineers on top. Like ants. He remembered the battle-those long, awful, bloody summer hours and days he would rather forget, but couldn't.
He thought of the men-how bravely they fought, how gladly and horribly they died. Looking nearer, he saw the ochre fronts of cliff-borne palaces. Like graceful outcroppings of the limestone they rose from.. Both turned fiery gold in the low sun. The in-between expanse of dozing water seemed an overspill for descending angels to bathe in. It turned back the sun's rays. Magnificent.
'As it always would be, ' he thought. Thanks to him. Anachronism, indeed.
But he didn't really think that last part. He just felt it.
Turning from the window and limping to the fireplace, he swore an expletive in Italian that must have sounded mild to Oliver's ears. Without doubt, English was the language of expletives.
On the great...
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A Visit From Diotima l
MM Diotima!
D Who were you expecting?
MM No one. What are you doing here? What time is it?
D It's only three. Sorry. I brought you my latest love song.
MM Diotima, you know I don't like love songs.
D That's your problem. Everyone else does. Move over.
MM Can't it wait till morning? Oof...be careful!
D No. It needs to be heard by moonlight.
MM The moon is on holiday. Back soon.
D You don't want to hear my love song?
MM Is it long?
D Not at all.
MM (sighs) Well, ok, then, shoot.
D I'm glad you asked. Here it is: Ready?
(sings)
'Our love is so unusual-
Different, different, different-
Different, different, so unusual...
MM Ah, Diotima...
D What? Do you like it? Then it goes:
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Histrionic Personality Disorder 2
I'd read of the plight of poor Sandusky. What rot!
Puritanism strikes again: where will it end?
I'd even googled the disorder. Took my sun-glasses off and read:
Defense today depending less on motive than diagnosis;
But I seemed to have all the symptoms: naivete, gullibility, low frust-
ration, strong dependency. The whole ball of wax.
After reading about it I did, anyway. And these were just the good things.
But how could I know for sure? Don't most have these traits? Somewise?
As for the causes, these were foregone:
turbulent both oral AND genital phases, in my case.
So the search for certainty'd brought me to this office.
As the expert, she was really supposed to know, no?
All I wanted was certainty. 'And, if it doesn't exist...? ',
I asked the translater, still staring at the floor
paved with lovely green travertine that felt good underfoot.
In reply, she just shrugged: these people are good at body language.
'Dunque, non'. That much I understood. She rose,
looked out the window, remarked, I think, about the good weather.
As she studied the sky I was impressed by her expertise.
'Would you like to have lunch? ' she asked, turning, in perfect English.
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A Near-Drowning
Once, when I was a kid, I nearly drowned.
The sand of Old Orchard Beach was in-
dustrially pure, each grain
slipperysmooth and round.
Here, like a Ferris-wheel on its side,
to calliope strains, a horsey carousal
cranked itself dutifully 'round and around;
There, like a carousal on end,
while a Ferris-wheel fenced the horizon-
so far off none could hear
the wails of its coming-over-the-top riders.
its spokes shot glints of silver
toward the red perimeter. So clean, the air
could fry babies in minutes-
fresh and very Maine. Colors were brighter, then.
I stood at the shifting shoreline
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