On the Bus to St. Louis

Dear AG,
Don't know why this, now,
on the st. louis bus—thinking
of you and the letters,
your history etched in its
genetic chains.
It's coming up Samhain again.
Another centenary birth for you.
So now I am keeping careful notes
of your dreams, attempting to reap
the metaphor, the strictly crystal
cut of this frame & that image
of the woman with woven red flame hair
(like Medea who I spoke of last year)
I'm thinking of you, of course
and the strictly personal power.
This all opens like a line shot
gone braille, touched with silvered fingers
pressing at your focal points.

And now I love you like the wanton you are,
expect your story to follow more of the
genetic spiral than the others.
In May, Walpurgisnacht, I'll celebrate
with Gary D., burning your memory
in an iron bowl, calling it out,
fearing your incipient fate
and you—in Ireland—are you
riding a storm on an interdimensional
timeline? are your words only experimental breath
in this personal relational geometry?

In this time
on the St. Louis bus
this pen defeats me.
It will call no souls this evening
on the greyhound, (I am) lapsing
into commmon speech.
I will find no holy cards
in the passing night,
no true dreams, only your
bitter kisses preserved
in these dark hours.

This is a re-write of a poem I posted a couple of years ago. I can't quite pinpoint the year, though I know it was the time Alison Gaughan went to Ireland with her sister, Carolyn, which is thoroughly documented somewhere in the notebooks. I note this poem once again offers the idea of multiple incarnations and relationships that exist beyond a single lifetime. I suppose this must come from too much science fiction and a liberal dose of hindu wheel of life information. Walpurgisnacht is the northern european day more properly termed Beltane, May 1st. Alison did have a recurring dream of a redheaded priestess sacrificing a male victim. Very celtic, actually. He was burned in a tree. There is no doubt that Alison had both celtic genes and viking genes. Later in her life, she reproduced with a latino, so I'm sure her son is an interesting mix.

Sometime in the early seventies I published a long, imagistic piece in a magazine called Kalligraphia that Sandra Martin published via a class at SSU. It was entitled "Understanding Medea" and was an attempt to deal emotionally with the events surrounding the spring of 1973. That was the period of time Becky McGovern threw me out of our house. I was seeing Pat Smith, who was still married and living wih Larry, across the street from John and Sandy Knoll. Pat was also "seeing" John and had been for a couple of years. Ironically, these many years later they are married and living in St. Louis. When Pat and I abandoned Springfield for Chicago, John took up with Alison Gaughan, who was of course linked inextricably to the engineer boy, John L. John Knoll at that time went through quite a list of the locals, but the thing with Alison was primarily to punish me for being with Pat.

I will note that John and Larry both invited me to have threesomes with them and Pat during this period. And Pat and I did eventually have a couple of menage a trois, but not with them boys. I'll never forget John detailing his sexual conquest of Alison, over the phone, while I sat on the floor in the apartment at 1907 South Bissell in Lincoln Park, listening to him. I wasn't exactly jealous, not having been with Alison myself, but I actually knew she was already trying to figure out how to get the fuck rid of him. Something that happened repeatedly to John, usually about two weeks after he started seeing a new woman. Alison eventually told him that she had to give up sex, entirely, for awhile. She lied, of course. She truly was a wanton. Today? I have no idea.

breaking fingers

leper in a paper jacket
watching for rain: illinois,
transparent a perfume of hours
an epoxy of belief
the author is a codifier
choked his chicken categorically
his women, collared, black satin
lace anagrams—
all a conceptual migraine
re-establishing all my poses
no matter the fingers I break

sunday on televison
tarzan and his drums
tuesday it's village of the damned
golden child's eyes giving death
for otherwise valentines
these successes bartering
years of dying
the chamber closes
her teenage lips are wet with fancy
anyone is anyone's lover, possibly,
or enemy, at least
walpurgis is past
Marley is dead

At the time, 1980, Marley referred to Bob Marley, who died in his early thirties froma brain tumor. Looking back at this life I can see, clearly, that there is a reference to Marley, Scrooge's partner, here. I played that part on stage in the early 90s. "In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley." I did it in Boris Karloff's voice and it was uber successful. But, here, it is Bob Marley's early death that is the surface concern. The movies noted are of course Johnny Weismuller's Tarzan, and the Village of the Damned is indeed a Brit sci fi with golden haired alien children who's eyes light with with laser death. George Sanders is remarkable in this kind of cheesy movie. Later he committed suicide, leaving a note that said, essentially, "I'm bored." A good enough reason, I suppose.

I know recognize Walpurgis Night as Beltane, the great Celtic feast. That night the fires would be lit, the liquors consumed and anyone could fuck anyone in the darkness and the children born of such unions were called Merry-made. And were legitimate. This was, obviously, a way to deal with the smaller gene pools of the english countryside, after having wars had given way to mere political fighting. Without rape and pillage, the odds of genetic problems rise dramatically in small populations. But not if you whirl the gene pool once a year, allowing anybody to be with anybody. No need for that now; modern medicine can head off the kind of dark productions inbreediing brings to the race. With the exceptions of rich twits like George W. Bush, of course.

What does this poem mean? Something about figuring out how sexuality was fucking up my life and its meaning? Or creating my life and its meaning. Yes, I have many interesting fetishes. What can I say? Catholic upbringing. Wide ranging reading as a child. The Richard Burton book, the Jewel in the Lotus. Never mind.