Irish Cathleen plays the grand piano three blocks down the street
from this keyboard. She is like a bright ship I have known fifty years:
she has carried me through the storms, she has fucked with Poseidon
only to return to land where I had never left, although for others
I was the storm. For example, I am approaching the shores of death,
and for me they give upon the ocean, no river Styx for Juan Flores.
These lines are all for the sake of remembering where I did not go
without bringing them back intact as they are, and with great love
for what happened–and did not happen: let us be grateful for great
favors the gods bestowed upon the foolish who follow the ways of folly
that seem to occur always on shores of rivers with women so lovely
their names are carved with mine in stone in the human halls of folly.
You–I–do not forget if there is a choice. And it all rises into a condition
of music. The blonde creature whose tiny body stands and sings out
with the strength of angels whose lungs direct you to their cloudy
houses, and there she gives balm to the aging, near death, brother
who handed her the other half of her soul and she kneeled to give
him pleasure, who knows how many days and nights away from death . . .
I do not forget. There is no use for us but what the past has to say of
its remnants twisting and curling in the cold air and being remembered
by one who wakes only to pray there be many more such remarkable days
when he is carried over the threshold of sleep to find what it is lies here
with her beautiful body of knowledge naked as the night she remembers
one by one, all the days a flurry of love’s bristling music, aria without end.
Juan Flores picks up his feet one at a time. The ice pack relieves his pain.
Irish Cathleen volunteers to bring him things, whatever it is he may need.
The ten cats wait to be called, they seem to know when the humans hurt.
Frances in her blonde allure comes for a kiss on the mouth from both
her beloved man with cock and woman with clit. There! you knew what
was coming! She is one of the old souls whose singing recalls all the blues.
These are days never to be forgotten, you can be sure. I remember what
there is. You, my darling, recall the rest when your own wonder of a mind
permits such passage. Let there be the dark blurring the light. For so it goes.
And comes. And is always there. Once upon a time ago they say in America,
discovered, those wearing high white collars stepped off their Mayflower
and were happily fed there by the dark-skinned ones, on this day of lore.
(25 November 2010)