METRO LACE

VI. (continued)

May 24, evening

Sooner or later,

they slipped him the big permission,

otherwise it was all about

the darkling thrush. He'd seen

starlings gather, knew their habits,

the posturing about Shakespearean

provenance, and knew there would be

waves that never made it, inching

away depleted, like an idle

breeze in the Virginia Creeper.

Not that it mattered, but he noticed

a smattering of German had become

de rigueur, a guise to be sported

like a white suit, with an air

of apparent ease.  No idols

weeping blood this go-round,

no need to signal what condition

his condition was in, twitted

by those in the know, online friends

still swimming upstream, breathless,

clear as a dividend, culpable

as a bank in Greece, or maybe Iceland.

From this chair you can see Bulgaria,

get the gist of the Graduation Blues

while homing through a Pandora's box

of known tunes originating in the '80s

before most of you were born, or

just barely.  Anyone got a wish

for the birthday boy, a mainline

from New Orleans to Jerusalem,

a prayer for anything extinct

before we are?  How far back

do you want to go—just enough

to say we've been there, possibly,

or at least as high as the thirteenth floor.

We're true blue all the way, Chief,

not backing out or ruminating

finitude, watching the thick legs,

the sheen of the drippy firmament,

the slick upholstery like icing.

It was a veritable romance of lust

in the cheap seats, or in the alleys

where known users hawked their wares,

swapped poisons in Tokyo, fed fish.

Flinging down your shoddy gauntlet

isn’t going to clear the back room, señor.

There're pros in here tonight and, yeah,

it’s positively obvious heroes have

gone bad, attached like flayed meat

to cables that keep them poised,

swaying, lucid, above the vat of acid.

All those faces facing me in the name of art,

wrung by aura, doused with presence,

glimmering with words unspoken, breathing

the chair’s space, a communion offered

from one wrought countenance to another.

Drastic precision.  Pointed eclipse of signs.

Each picture speaks, empties, fills again.

You're probably gonna keep it to yourself

as though expecting to live forever,

constrained to some outer suburb of hell,

or packing it off to a picturesque Welsh village

to rusticate with a gnome and glockenspiel.

Summon the governor, he needs the press,

tell him the next swindle has unfolded

and spent shells litter the lawn.  With

a tattered sombrero we salute profuse

tumbleweeds decorating canyons

where nobody feels any pain,

shrugging off vibrant clarions.

Our claim is our undoing, friends,

gifted in the midst of this sacrifice,

this suffering for originary ethics,

an accounting we tally as any alien,

dispossessed and determined as sin,

might relay to his host family after

a day spent pushing a food cart

where lawyers gather gossip

before the institutional gates,

too tired to debate loyalty and exit.

If we get it done, it will be a miracle

and we'll walk again those dredged sands,

a whole year in the making.  Untroubled

because eternity is what you make of it,

she eyes the tide from her favorite chair,

a vantage long ago surrendered, now gone.

Put the readers on full alert.

Share this screen.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

METRO LACE

VI.

May 24, morning

We tried to keep ourselves

free of hazelnuts, yet somehow . . .

he never sat in milk anyway.

No glasses on the shelves

but was it so very highbrow

what our son meant to say?

She was surrounded by them,

those kids who never seemed to cry

unless the ball went out of bounds.

Then she proffered a rare gem

whose blue swallowed the entire sky.

They stood transfixed, making strange sounds,

hoping to find the only door

to the other side left open

with enough time to write a note

so others lost on the moor

trying to cross that slow fen

could avoid the treacherous moat.

But the air here is so dank

our comforts all come from above

relayed by the man on TV.

He's the one we have to thank

for the sights we so truly love

and the songs that set us free.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

METRO LACE

V. (cont.)

May 22

If it's not later, it must be now.

Or so we'll say when the procession begins.

Unison brings out the best in some people,

the rest shall keep as they are,

or maybe take a few drags on a Djarum

and reminisce about how we all

liked what we liked then.

She said she found his hand on her thigh,

uninvited.  Thereafter, a shambles

of all that high-minded sham,

as if pierced with insight, again.

Men will be boys, always prepped

for some great anointing, riddled

with gifts out there in the sticks,

planning on someday making a comeback

with a discourse on confidence tricks,

what we mean when we say “deficit.”

Were you hoping for something original,

like an effort made on behalf of us all,

a tower with high-toned gables

so we might move in next door?

There are reasons they're leaving

and won't look back, but taut silk

and blousy muslin have nothing to do with it,

those are simply signs of indeterminacy,

of forgotten persons, like Einstein's daughter,

or phantom entities like Prester John.

We've stacked the chairs before the door,

have gathered hats in case of rain,

distributed tops and blocks and kites,

and stored the nunchuks, shivs,

and brass knuckles with the boomerang.

Inventory is the secret god

of mercantilism, or that's what

we were told at sleep-away camp, those

gladsome days among the pines, the water

mind-numbingly cold, and the cabins

humid at twilight.  Printed photos kept

our identity intact until now,

as the light comes up outside the window

we realize at once how much the others

depend on us to maintain discipline

and not simply shrug off discomfort,

for without the fresh eyes of dawn,

the round mouth of night, the trick thumb

of noon we'd have expired for sure,

unaware of chat-room protocol, teams,

and all the guests that come with them,

many with attractive gadgets

that need to be recharged.  No surprise,

the plaster dust got in the gears

and made the clock wheeze.  A joke

at first some thought it, but later

as if in a trance or on a commercial,

we took stock of the staff cuts,

the pay stubs, the circulating sheet

for signatures.  Eventually,

officers came and carted him away

in an ambulance, but for an hour

Dave lay oblivious to us all on the steps

of that sustainable shop, swallowed,

we could say, by the abyss behind

the eyes, or afloat on the unruffled brow

of an ageless, nameless god.

These days parking lots

are filled more often than not,

especially

near theme parks and airports.

People gather

when they travel,

hand themselves over,

publicly,

to a uniformed contingent.

When the doors open,

we find ourselves

somewhere else—

reason enough

for shared fantasies,

flashes of sudden

vertigo

or claustrophobia, the odd drop

in air pressure or explosion.

The quiet of the street is quite inspiring,

this late.

            On the shadowy patch of pavement

the odor of the trees closes in.

                                                One feels—

if attentive—as if one's head is in a pine box,

oh how cozy.

                        Like a tunnel, you know

you're through it when you are.

                                                Every step

creates a space for itself, have you noticed?

And every voice joins its face in creating

a unity, a gestalt, a game of matched attributes.

We're mostly trading laughter when we're not

comparing maladies, aches and pains, losses,

and where to get a good deal on drugs.

What's rare, it seems, is interpersonal continuity.

Those we recognize may surface at any time,

others are too far back to reappear easily,

and still others reside like a low hum in the ear,

so constant you can easily overlook its presence.

But the ones hardest to account for we forever

associate with a particular time and place

that, no matter how vivid, lively, and suitable

for framing, slips away into a special folder

rarely opened, though there's no cause for alarm,

yet.  In most cases, the contents will emerge

unscathed when called upon—but sometimes

we find it empty, nothing appears, and we're

shocked to admit we've seen the last of it.

Rounding up what pleases you

shouldn't be as selfish as it sounds,

you can always remove the hard drive

and make it a paper weight or door stop,

hedge your bets, collect your funds,

withdraw your support, withhold

your vote, remove all traces

of your participation except

the minimal ID tags, your

uncanceled check, soft

money, last words.

Standing flushed at the party

as the lights come up may be briefly

disappointing, but how elated you'll be

at finding yourself among the others.

That's the way I'd always remember myself if I were you.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013