METRO LACE

II.

April 10

Some say the internal logic of events

will speed up just before the end

but I wouldn't grant that idea

much credence—“no street cred,”

someone said, and I concurred,

the way you do to a clever remark

heard in passing.  Meanwhile,

prepare for me a smoke from a bag

and that sort of thing, I was just thinking

about pastel shades of green and purple and blue

with the best vibrations coming from yellow,

famous for its wholesome camaraderie,

its way of rallying the troops,

often making babies grow placid.

“Someone should bottle and sell it,”

as Granny used to say when in her cups

and about to inveigh again

against the man in office, whose

sweating brow and beady eyes

would cause fitful dreams.  Once,

she said, she dreamed she flew

but in the end awoke as an anaconda.

“So that should teach you,” she urged.

I never knew what she meant to say,

I simply rationed out the pills

and emptied the slops, you know,

on a whole ’nother level.

Whenever I look back

at the bliss of those days,

it's as if someone else

starts speaking—I think

it's the kid who owned

his own motor scooter

and had nothing

but derision

for a boy and his tree,

me, in other words.

I wish the truth weren't so fishy,

could be reached in plain words

or at least with no fancy grammar,

but whenever I catch a hint

of those little corrections

for the sake of form or etiquette,

I can never get back to believing

what I'm told.  It's a sham,

and we're all sitting ducks in range

and there's no help for it

but to push forward into the moat,

out beyond the bridge abutment

and further—past those shadows

in which others would be happy to pause,

but not us.  Forgive me

if I take the liberty of saying

your left eye twitches a little

when you get excited.

No, no, pay no mind,

it's really quite charming.

And there you have it.  It's not as if

any of us will be called before Caiaphas.

There's no point pretending much rides

on what we say, as now I hear,

you know, the long, withdrawing roar

of history in the widening gyre,

and all those things poets have said

to sound profound once it's clear

the jig is up.  Cancelled, if this were TV.

But it never is, or not really, though

we're often told we can't tell the difference

by those who are supposed to know,

and yet one can't blame them

for wanting to be popular

since what else have they got,

poor dears.  No, it's best to sit in the tub

after lights out, concocting choice means

for revenge.  There should be

a special program for that or at least

an advice column.  I'm not judging,

have no statuettes to hand out,

and I'd be the last person to ask

for what I'm owed.  I'm like that,

she said, I always hold open the door

for others and never ask for payment.

After all, isn't sleeping the best way

to avoid speaking?  There should be

people who still say “Go to, caitiff!”

on occasion, but, alas, no more.

Whatever was untoward has been

phased out, as if some central

planning committee is looking out for us,

really wants us to eat and sleep better

and think of the children.  And maybe

it's so, maybe I simply missed missives

that would have alerted me in time,

too busy looking for bulletins in clouds,

discarded scraps, desktop scratches,

traces of lint and dust that mark our passing.

“Everything conspires to ignore us,”

someone said, or was it “exploit us,”

I'm sure it could go either way, but

what I mean to say is that, at that level,

well, you do the math, it pretty much says

no one is exempt.  See you in hell.

I wouldn't want to be accused

of accusing you of something,

I don't have cause for complaint,

you've been just swell, but the shoes

I wear pinch my feet sometimes

and nothing you say helps. We're always

on a road with a long way to go

each time I see you and you like to pretend

you know where it's going and that irks me,

the way a repeating drip or car alarm

punctuates the rhythm of my breathing

and implies that systole, diastole

is a rather quaint and creaky way

to get on.  The pleasing economy

of such moments is what makes them

memorable, Chuck said, and it was as if

someone had beat the bushes

to make birds fly up so they might

be shot.  If we're not careful

I'll begin to feel sorry for you

and then where will we be, adrift

like two survivors of the sinking

of a major vessel, holding to

lanyards or something, whatever keeps

the raft from coming apart

like bread in water, a sugar cube in tea.

One gifted morning

there were motor cars

for the first time

and it's useless pretending

it makes no difference we weren't there,

but I like how my memory of it

always features sporting gents

and gay ladies all decked out.

The sky is very blue, the grass

electric green, and the smoke

so very black and generous.

I'm always nervously holding

mother's parasol in that scene,

worried about dirt on my flannels

and hoping the tiresome chat

will soon be over

and we'll be motoring

past the hedges

with some clever and rakish chap

at the wheel.  Oh yes,

we all remark

the steeple in the distance

and how swiftly we arrive at its foot.

There's an impression left in the carpet.

You can see that something sat there

of considerable weight and bulk,

but now it's gone.  We too had

leaded windows once, maybe even

an escarpment, but never a chandelier.

There was a special room for your boots

and for all the fruits of so many seasons

stored in jars.  “No one shows love

like a woman who preserves,” Gramps

would say, and then the festivities

would begin.  We all knew our place,

they tell us, but I never see myself

among their number.  Was I hiding

behind the door or beneath the bed,

or are there more sinister reasons?

Each time I circle the grounds

it's a different house at the center

and the exploits of the inmates

become harder and harder to fathom

till I'm quite willing to be airlifted.

Nothing for the sinuses like ozone.

***

Breaking the reverie

The book you ordered

The moon and me

Tired chickens home to roost

Fix the kitchen

A great adventure

With a becoming rustle

Dark hawks hear us

With this ring

Where the great tree once stood

He'd send in the army

Back there, the ghost-town ghost

As one who had come that way before

Advance the plot

Catch as catch can

A serviceable villain

And now a word from our sponsor

When in doubt

Unfounded rumors

You and me, kid

Tell it to a marine

Come a cropper

Within reason

Your blue car

Read all about it

First in his class

Take no prisoners

* * *

It's not as if beneath

an amber moon there's just

my love and me, but so what?

She'll still take the train

and I'll wonder why I care.

Hoof beats arriving on schedule

can be quite satisfying, like

pie charts and other impedimenta

of rational discourse, the kind

you were always running out of,

slapping your pockets for a pen,

or the right-sized screwdriver,

no matter, the circling harpies

of your inner vision give you

no leeway, you have to admit

you lost yourself in work,

that staid habitation,

where it was even easier to lose

everyone else.  Whose dog

is barking now and why beneath

my window?  Oh, the irises

I would plant were there but time!

Fix me an egg sandwich

and I'll be on my way, whistling,

stepping over the dung.  Purple

clouds are worth remarking

a bit longer, till all goes gray.

* * *

Silence those polite foghorns,

let my dim ship not foist itself

upon the rocks, dismasted.

Approximate language

does bellyflops in the pool.

Pointing toward the grocery store,

he suggested that what we needed

could be had for a price.  Squinting,

I was inclined to agree, and yet

deeper reflection made the entire scene

doubtful.  Was I really

grasping at straws, a man of

no country but with a name to come,

or was seed better scattered abroad

like rain in season?  Ask my hat

if it can come in or if the talk

I attended had room in the aisles

for acrobats and jugglers, those

old souls reborn in feckless youths.

I'd like to walk a mile in her shoes,

well, no, not with those heels,

but with time to alter conclusions

as seemed necessary, never

believing she could do me harm

or really even want to.  There,

I've said it, give her a gun

and let her take her best shot.

And with that, the tall galoot

walked off into the dawn.

* * *

We couldn't find room for all the parties

that wanted to appear,

simply asked those concerned to address

their petitions to other aims,

secure in our belief that the best among us

can take care of themselves

and will never need ironing or aspirin in this life.

And yet the dismal cries

of those left behind can still disturb our sleep,

just enough to be unpleasant

without the silken breeze we take twice nightly,

grateful to tireless workers

in our country's defense for all they have done

that we can't rightly question

or even enumerate convincingly on television.

No matter, if all is free

to be disgorged, then it were well the tide abates.

“Clever is as clever does,”

she said, with her finger on the trigger or button

and all the balancing acts

of our future peril were champing at the bit

to appear to best effect.

Even now I detect traces in our drinking water

but only when the sky is right

and all the proceeds have been properly pledged

to their long shores of day

and the netted catch exceeds my strength

and thy coveted voice

speaks to me with the old chant, the old roses.

* * *

We're in the grip

of tremulous cadences.

Someone send out

for Chinese.

I'll make up the spare bed

and hope for the best.

Don't leave the light on in the basement,

it makes the insects angry.

Try now to rehearse with me

the story as they told it,

the old ones who were mostly

all there when they learned it,

and never took back the gold

they left for you beneath the seesaw.

I'm trying to remember where I put it

and why everyone suspected I'd lose it

and why that boy with the squint

was not to be trusted with matches.

Don't stop the tailspin on my behalf,

I'll gladly walk till dusk

then try my luck with swimming.

The puddle in the closet has grown.

Nothing seems able to stop it now,

and not for want of trying,

but whenever I get chilblains

I have to exercise violently

and every tire screech

becomes a sizable investment

in culture.   We are fortunate

that's all, you said it,

and now for something

completely determined.

For what are the best reasons for crying

if not this ample piece of cheese

left where none can get it,

and all our yesterdays but temples

in which uncouth heathens

track mud on the floor?  Still grows

the maelstrom, and gladioli

bloom on deck against all sense.

The tired positions we've adopted

do us evil in the end, or, sometimes,

justice, depending on who's watching

and which airline

calls your transatlantic flight.

* * *

True, I don't like

the smell of me when I get like this,

but you wouldn't either,

being me.

She invited me to try

her açaí berry drink.

Please, take only what you need

and leave the rest for others.

No matter what you do,

you always leave a clue behind.

Close your eyes till you can see it

among the toys you played with

and left out in the snow.

When everyone races for the top

some must fall, and all dogs

clamor for that brief pleasure.

Enumerate your visions

if that gives you patience, tally

your failings, stare into the fire.

A change is coming.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013