Mascara-Viscera Part 6

MEN OF SHADE

All the candles are pa.s.sing out, one by one.

They have evaporated their brightness, overpowered limpid cracks in their own flames, seized the outpouring air with hesitant breath to brave a flicker of new hearth while knocking holes against the warm men decorating fireside shade.

KNIGHT-ERRANT

A well-thumbed book like a well-thumbed life, "whilst you walk this earth"

yet nothing is "afoot", as so many small boys throwing stones through the funeral parlour gla.s.s door.

A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting across the face of the mult.i.tude is terrible algebra running into unfathomable sums.

"Doing your sums", my grade school teacher used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper, learning lessons in a strange stamina sort of way.

One of the mult.i.tude died last night & is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.

Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek at the a.s.semblage chasing thru rain to see his last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the month to go packing. Finale.

"Going down to the sea in s.h.i.+ps". Death as voyage escaping prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses into the apparent.

One sees a lot by the moon.

Crisp, fall air and leaves yellowing frightened from their wits to end their brief, balloon walk. Such faraway faces of Eve and a boat moored to a dock.

Crossing streets-- a gray, fusillade church, knight-errant, breaks the night.

Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.

Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the stained gla.s.s window I see her. She seems to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?

Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating are the mourners. Das.h.i.+ng thru the sleet in brief poignancy; shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.

Hardly a.n.a.logous to being "called home" or "going to their reward".

More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's cork.

This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist collecting, watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a glade.

The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black funeral vestments for me.

Standing close to the clock and thinking.

A luxury bought with time, in every evening weeping in the corner.

WATER FAST (THE PEARL FISHERS)

Shopping in their heads --a man a pair of shoes right colour (tan, off-white) shape-- only good physiques need apply, degree, tall; self-confidence a "must".

Not yuppie, really, more consumerism as in I made the grade (she really thinks this; meanwhile, she's plump, dull).

Standing in the showroom window, she spies the mirror image of herself.

Your att.i.tude is your alt.i.tude.

Of course, he's "polished"

(tho' not worn), urbane witty--this goes without saying.

Well-travelled, maybe, though potential liability, here, suggestive of footloose.

Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts of hedonism--a dangerous portent.

Feel I've stumbled back in time, holding court with Cesare Borgia, Lorenzo the Magnificent significantly transformed to a Renaissance courtier.

Harpsichord and madrigal in hand (& head,), I recite my litany.

I pack a mean wallop-- humour, I mean, for no one on this spic 'n span planet wants somebody too droll.

Intensity is a ripple from the sixties.

"Relations.h.i.+p", kickback to the after-glow on-glow seventies.

Eighties women love "feedback", "interfacing". Its fas.h.i.+onable to think chic. Restless troubadours should be dyed in their own ilk.

Sporty chaps are in demand, ones with visceral longing for babies & the peroxide smell of Javex in diaper pails wafting thru their nostrils.

Heady brew, Perrier & BMW types.

Chrome-plated men with the razzle-dazzle of the Boardroom tugging at their cufflinks.

Mutual funds equates with mutual interests.

The man's wishes?

A dollop of Dijon mustard on you!

Hitting the nail on the head.

Holding up her middle finger to dry nail polish, I see my future and, golly, does it ever s.h.i.+ne.

TALES OF BRAVE ULYSSES

Artists (astrologers never lie) are birthed when Venus is rising-- not against cat's whelp (eye of newt, tongue of frog) calamitous mist or London fog; far, ferny forbidding fenn.

When Venus rises, yes dons Botticelli's cloak or was it her hair gathered in tresses long by lovely handfuls parading it all on a patty sh.e.l.l --her twin oysters ambrosia a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea, purpling color of a robin's egg.

Artists are born in something of Venus . . .

conceived along coral-corral highway lariats, foam of pa.s.sion modern cowgirl lowering the drapes.

INSIDE SEAM

Having wilderness cracks in emotional facades c.h.i.n.ks within to let cabins in.

2 Porous wind examining pavement, foot-sore maybe loose winding entrails of our hearts into lavatory paper; would that it pleased riddled trees --more whistling, poked holes across oasis tracks wandering s.p.a.ces.

3 Blistering thought, paint flecks chipped in the mica-afraid heat of wan-ton pa.s.sion; (acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine) a wan smile left from which I pretend to remember all.

4 Love-smitten to lend the reach of your arm-- sighs, droop to hips heaving a droll verandah (like curtain's edge across the exhausted wall).

5 Besmirched stain, The lavender hoop of your belt is a winding lizard's skin or perspiring rope to anchor the filmy edge of letters written, not sent.

The breeze, quiet wind-- a chipmunk with woodchips poked into a grin.