June 22, 1992 Semaphore Café
Oaks Bottom Park
June 22, 1992 Semaphore Café
Thanks Linda & Esmer
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1.
Pilgrim and Companion
tramped past the rambling brambles
of hardy himalayan blackberries
and down the descending path
to the bottom,
past the concrete conduit
gurgling like an idiot,
spraypainted with a botched swastika
and white supremacist slogans;
down the dust that was
105 degrees of white,
to the bottom,
down and down dust
to the bottom.
2.
The Pilgrim's Companion collapses on the
trail,
wipes a wounded hand over a sweating brow,
croaks despairingly for water from the
wineskin.
The wilderness beckons. They must press
on now.
3.
In the bottom below,
elaborate candlesticks,
A gilded service of dry
4.
Clamoring and invisible
5.
We wore smutched cloth,
At our backs was a plastic groundsheet
6.
Pleasure craft
Donkey boat
The fond wind ruffles
7.
I'm in my cups at this banquet
8.
This grubby urchin and I
I send Sancho Panza to the powder room
Of course I don't
There are so many things we are not.
10.
A promotional placard
JACK DANIEL'S
A glass of this confection
12.
There are so many things we are not,
13.
I sit and sip my ice tea
Grace
Now it's almost five,
14.
Fellow-traveler, I won't lie; 15.
Down in the bottom,
the silver platter of meadow,
a feast of greens
and golds;
silver chalices,
the tall teasel,
beggar ticks,
purple tassels
of gristly bristle thistles.
grasses rustle to justify
and testify.
like a scullery staff,
the traffic behind us rattled by.
earthy fabric,
as we sat on the shady banRoman">as we sat on the shady bank
of the mainland shore,
looking across a raft of logs
to Ross Island.
someone had left for posterity.
An empty sixpack carton lay at my feet.
A dried puddle of what must have been
chili
once, had been vomited down the slope.
Last night they had fun, I hope.
with waterskiers buzzed past
the quaking log raft
too fast.
riding low;
steady and slow
the tug tugs
its bundle of wood in tow.
the tousling surface of water,
scattering bright
multiplicities of light.
of brightness. You can have your white
powder –
I'll take second sight
in 105 degrees of white light.
step into a nearby café.
(The weary peregrines draw looks of disapproval
from the local bourgeoisie.)
for a mopping. The waitress' mouth purses;
I want to say,
"Weren't you ever eleven?"
since maybe she wasn't
.
9.
A painting on the wall
troweled in with a palette knife
is the picture of what is no longer in
this land
and maybe never was.
old rugged
cross,copse
of autumn
birches,white house
bereft, bare
black branches,
<>gaping open,
rough and ready
simple and lofty
country steeple,boarded-up
storefront,outhouse
with its door
gaping open,
and below
it sit
country church
with no
country people, abandoned trolley car
overgrown with
ragged grass,
the
neighborhood regulars:
a
geeky girl gossiping
with
two old farts who wear
white
polyester slacks
and
the ruddy complexions
of
arteriosclerosis.
11.
helpfully tells me:
DOWN HOME PUNCH
1 Part Jack Daniel's
1 Part Peach Schnapps
1 Part Whiskey Sour Mix
2 Parts Orange Juice
1 Part Seven-Up© or Sprite©
Splash Grenadine.
floats as in a vision
across what I imagine to be
the green hills and coves of Tennessee.
so many things we imagine we might be,
and those things so simple,
so utterly out of reach.
and the kind light percolates
even through the tinted plastic panes
here in the mini- Roman">here in the mini-mall café.
for me is a slow sifting . . .
but now it's getting late
and I'm drifting . . .
so I buy
an evening paper at a Korean Mom &
Pop,
and my Journey's Companion and I
cross the street and wait for a bus to
arrive
at this subindustrial stop.
like you,
whatever it is I am,
I am
I,
which is who.
in 105 degrees of white,
Summer's dry
grasses rustle
to justify
and testify.