I'm going, goodbye, here is a rose to wear on your wrist at the cotillion.
Tomorrow, wriggle it down your erudite fingers in front of the Balzac
dressing mirror through which I shall always see you & I drinking
absinthe from the ancient and heavy glass goblets we bought that
night in Boston. Held each other in a moment before The Library
In The Storm.

In a black and white dream, Chirico buildings supplant the Aspen Music
Tent burning as in an old movie treasure parchment. A map of Edinburgh
Fringe the doctor snatched from me on Neptune ward, dressed in tennis
clothes, looking like a young H.P. Lovecraft, to impress the nurse in the
morning. She distracted too much by him for "cocktail time" meds at
"C# diminished" -in-the-afternoon.

I've a tattoo of the Wabasha Bar here on my filthy chest like a scary man
with a snub-nose. In Trombone Alley, Edna St. Vincent Millay makes her
lovely way and, she too, powerfully armed; then on down to E. Bishop
pouring poems on the river....which turn to sails; while I concatenate a
larger body of spasms, hoping she'll sing inside the hollow of my canvas
and poles.

I already feel the crows nest shout, James Mason's Bayreuth Titanic
hypobass of 1/220 millionth beat per second -- monolithic deep dream
in hidden love-depths in oil slick arabesques surfacing midst glints on
Krafft-Ebing's thanatosis tide. The doppelgnger: 2/3s water, 2/3s wine,
2/3s deck chair, I am William Wilson chasing Ulalume around that
nightclub in Belmar, New Jersey, like the Marx Brothers, all white with
sea moonlight showing through the cracks; where the Broadway girls are
so glamorous.

And Ulalume (Usher?) of Venice, CA remains by a worn wood bar there
so I can buy her sedatives -- British and sere -- for "the Unpleasantness".
Small ‘lectric ‘larm clocks: feels like soured garbageggs in my fingertips:
her frozen left-over L.A. corruption cat-blued bean sprouts' light tube
overhead; below, in Stockton, she must have been waiting for me, going
to wear know where nowhere know Weir no ware...

Would you like to come -- I know you'd like to... Are you already here?
Take a cruise ship, I know you'd like to; see how it's done. And, when you
come, bring a shower of golden roses from The Valley to our offspring,
Morgen Usher Brindle,

for her poem-papered chamber; verses from Venice writ in a Jersey bistro.
That other florescence, mine, full of raining-bows of 'lectric alarmists
charming the burn-scars into a wooden bar -- with its own cat -- a cat
of excess stealth, seeing with the gray eyes of a Miller Moth in the Fall...

© W.D. Brindle
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Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
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