63-37. Bush vetoes. I feel a scowl crawl my face.
Ken Lay dies, coronary artery disease. Sure. And, my stubbed
toe put me in ICU. I turn onto my side.
August
Nothing happens . . . or . . . maybe now, I just don’t care.
I turn to my other side.
September
U.S. marks five-year anniversary of terrorist attack, 9/11.
Let me sleep all this away. How “the world is too much
with us.” The Illinois Governor has just been sentenced
to six months for racketeering. Welcome back to awareness.
The Pope reads a 14th century manuscript, decrying Islam
as evil and inhuman.” Rolling over, going back to sleep.
October
Hamas and Fatah tear pieces of Palestine away, leaving
10 dead, 100 wounded. I am awake and bathed with sadness.
A lone gunman enters an Amish school, kills three children.
I’m being prepared for dismissal. I fear the world outside
these walls.
The Artist and the Model
I turn my head away. I can neither look at
nor draw his face. Not for reason of skill.
Rather, because of deep, straight lines of pain
that run from forehead to eyes and into lips, like scars.
I turn aside and draw from the top of the canvas, beginning
with only the tip of the strong chin.
As my pen and pastels move just beyond the neck,
I find myself dancing to the black ink and the sepia color
I hold in my hand. His stirring torso movements counter
his frozen face. I hear the music, unexpectedly, of Rilke’s
Archaic Torso of Apollo: “. . . his torso is still infused with brilliance
from inside.” And, I know, as Rilke knew, that I must
change my life. I must look at . . . I must look carefully
at, pained faces.
Accordion Dreams
Breath smelling of Sen-Sen, sweet—licorice,
weight of a sable, 120-bass Excelsior accordion hanging
about his shoulders, black albatross. He leans to the boy
playing ragged, wheezing D-scales with small, clumsy fingers.
His own, long like unspooled thread, glide over imagined Steinway keys—
Carnegie, Albert Hall. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3.
Napoleon Brandy dreams. All his life he dreams.
Shocks of silk and velvet at his wrists, brightly ringed fingers.
A quickness of light. Audiences of other places and times.
Orchestral Hallucination
I sit comfortably in Row E
Seat # 74
as a Punchinello man Seat #73
oozes over
the arm rest
occupying a portion
of my seat
the conductor enters
polite applause audience members eschatalogically cough
orchestra shifts toward
stillness as baton
is raised
with the swift
downward
sweep
of the wand
a coronet screams
frightens the yellow oboe
which turns into a combative saxophone
each does vitriolic battle with the other
as blue violins and violas sigh at the madness of it all
basses with red bows already strung out
complain
but only the harp fathoms
the depth of the musical problem
and says
go pluck yourselves
rattled by all that is happening
the snare drum
shouts at them all enough! enough!
while in the very back row
the french horn makes out with the pink triangle ( not ménage à trois) understand
but lots of french kissing going on
the young flute whistles yowee!
four trombones stick their noses into it
piano thinking itself far too grand for all this
gets keyed up
then a chorus wishing it could be a cappella
sings glaringly
to the conductor who startled
thrusts his baton overhead
brings it sharply to the floor
and the turquoise kettle bass slams the madness
to a caustic
finale!
Rider
