METRO LACE

III (continued)

April 30

Very vain, no doubt, all these

villagers asserting mastery over Vlad

just when the fashionable audience

is ready to don its masks and drink.

How shall we alter what we dislike

into reasons for remaining?

If I'm not secure in the dark could I appear

elsewhere?  Give freely

to those who suffered the setback

of losing everything now that it's clear

old movies and new theories

will never protect us from what is,

though perhaps theater may,

if only because spectacle is us.

If you accept the abyss as it nears

you can always claim they shot first,

when you were happy on the sunny street

and took pictures of the shop window

and strolled like a magus slumming

or a cub reporter with a hangover,

ready to sink into the next wave

by sundown.  Once the tape decks

have ceased to function, let’s store

vitamins in the vaults prepared for them,

vacant otherwise.  And in a flash

the way of life you valued vanished.

Make your peace before it’s gone.

***

We watched and what we knew

waddled off into a makeshift swamp.

Catching hearsay in a sieve

leaves only hard clots of doubt.

If I were you I'd check to see

if the circle's closing, or if

the tired cows still doze standing.

Droves of servants memorize menus

but it doesn't help us invent meaning

at least not when a drawing is needed

to get us through the dark passes

where longhorn sheep were last seen

posing against purple mountains and sky.

Crack me open a new piston,

I'm not ready to fling my tourniquet

into the cold millstream.  Yet.

What did you think when the hand surfaced,

and why was it so important to stay here

though it had already changed, become

weaker, more questionable, wilder too

if the lost clothing was any sign?

Wresting agreeable insight from wasted time

could be a commendable vocation

and where would we be without such fine regards,

such ragged offices, old haunts,

and casual acquaintances?

Meet me in Milwaukee, why not?

I’ll bring the projector.

***

“Xylophone, x-ray of,” of course,

x-rated too, I shouldn't wonder,

if only because of the exposed charms

of so much faith in sound,

that the patterns of bright water,

drawbridge and late traffic

can't alter the hearing or dim

the heart's delight

                                    in spoken things,

exhausted they may be

because not bright with charity

or placed on show in the best stores

where she bought me my fabled jacket

and made me feel a prince of thieves.

“Except my life,” Xavier reminds us

as we walk off down the lane,

High Street, or Wall, or Hillhouse,

shadowed by planes barely glimpsed

in the blue

                                    of earlier days

when simply finding things to improve

gave us pause, or reason for starting out

on those long walks before dinner

or just after, as those blossoms

like milkwood, and those others

the color of cranberries, pinked and delicate

on the lawn, expressed the thought of presence.

Dark eyes, green eyes, eyes so blue.

***

You yanked the chain and later

yielded to the pomp all hailed.

How easy for you to clamber up that scaffold,

to hold your breath while gliding down,

making eyes at your advisor

as he clasps his hands in prayer.

Yesterday returned as a box to its proper attic.

And the best dolls in the market, so

young, relinquish all pledges, content

with the costly accoutrements of

secure form.  You aren't having any,

are you?  Mimicking this Morris

will leave quite a few in the lurch whose

recurring folly does amuse.  I see

deep water on the horizon, and shoals,

as we continue to band-aid the seepage.

Yonder stand those bottles Audrey washed.

If I could question your magic, it's like

climbing into a car after the rain while trees

stand dripping and the ride back is lit

with skies like daguerreotypes

perfect for framing in some joker's wallet.

Without doubt these dreams have emptied me

of grander superstitions.  I'm deuced

if I have any better sandwiches to serve

and wish the table d'hôte were enough

whatever street it fronts, your honor.

Here we are, forced to pass judgment,

and those arrayed for our verdict pace

like gypsy workers in our memory,

so many we know, so many strangers,

and the best of them deserve what we give

if only the cost could be shared equally

or endlessly deferrable.  Questions?

***

Zestful zombies approach.  And our

zenith shall be to say we knew them

at once, shaped by the pointed vision

of none other than our own Zarathustra.

Quests take time and even the Prisoner

of Zenda knows when his time has come.

We wanted better lodgings in any case.

These lost causes circulate like viruses

and I'd like to nail each hero

to his hobbyhorse, bait him with

a stooge's curse.  How stale this duel,

how unilluminating all your verbiage.

Zounds, man, can you not come at it

more clearly, carry it off with sport

and rehearsed moves, zigzagging

as you go?  We wore it down to a nub,

left it in an inner pocket, like a bulb

we pretended would save us now

and at the hour of our bitter cheering.

The aisles leading to the denouement were reserved.

And bruised cats dragged elegant flowers, grabbed high icicles, just keeping limber marvelously.  “Now obvious, pressing questions return,” said Thomas, unflappably voiced without xenophobia. “You've zilch.”

***

©Donald Brown 2010/2013