Born Twice

Orson Welles Picking His Nose:
"Who shall we eat today?"

The boy
wore his coveralls, covering up
the instant possibility of an endgame.
His fevered selfishness disguising
moments of mendacity as a fey
tic. On the widdershins of this seamless
life came that ship of days; a buttload
to be precise. & suddenly out of the
beaded player arose Orson Welles
with an eye on a blonde or two and
a persimonious rap, waiting to be
absorbed by the dark sorceress.

How many days do thusly pass?
Enough to anchor the seamy memory
of what was that girl's name again?
Heidi and her father who denied him.
While we watched bad television,
smoking endless amounts of cannabis
on Pat's dime, no doubt. & Our Boy
consoled himself with thousands $
electrical toys and books and records
beyond a normal appetite.

Mata Hari, she styled herself, joked
about his "Toy." She, not quite right
herself, ran the silver insult like a
stream of honey down the days. No
escape, like Shelob, she removed
what juice she liked, and handed him
over to the bookstore girl. Not as
kindness, but as placeholder. Dark
lady she reached over to his old friend
and gave it a little tug. & that & a
perk or two took care of that. Left
him in a similar cave on Lowell

with a wife & stepchild
& ever closer to the widening
gate that had once closed
before him.

photos man! beowulfian friend!
co-owner of the red star! amazement
at the spiral of the hours! see you
in its contemplation! You who
were once so close! You who
kept track of your single shrimps,
afraid of being cheated! You
who taped all the movies on SLP
so no one's eyes were undamaged!
you are the last edition of your family now
no fourths in sight
nothing in the record, a fug's discography
the story about eating an infant in the uk
passing passing passing

slouching off down the road to the underworld
not persephone no, but
a monster, coveralls muddy
and ripped. hands empty after
so many seasons, taking nothing