this grey porch
‘It was through thinking on these
mysteries and marvels, and on that horrible change to silence and decay which
he felt sure must sometime come to him, as he had seen it come to so many of
his flock—as it came to all living things except the birds—that Haïta first
became conscious how miserable and hopeless was his lot.’—Ambrose Bierce “Haïta The Shepherd”
afternoon… fell. grey old porch
that does not remember the fire words of the lantern-eyed poets who laughed
here when the world was full of flags and eggs (there was tea, sometimes
scotch, whilst they hailed Atlantis and dedicated their meadowlarks to Hypatia),
or any mouth that spoke of the shape of green leaves.
old man,
long time after immortal vanished. his elbow is rooted to the railing.
empty hangs
from the trellis.
nowhere feels foolish (and irritated) for
not sleeping.
he’d like
the earth-flavored breath of a cigarette, or a drink, but both have quit his
cupboard.
unseen
tonight, the stars that repealed company are cold and quiet.
open eyes
can’t see the mailbox on the silent street. not
for the likes of you
looks at his
hands. hands that no longer spit at the war. closes his eyes. the utter
blackness does not cease.
(for my friend, Mike Davis)
[Lyle Lovett “This Old Porch”]
Letter to a Dead Man (or) this grey porch ~~ the sequel (sort
of)
(for Cavey!)
bEast:
[at WAR w/ one word in the text.]
Muse: Just get on with it . . . Idiots.
bEast: [looks at cold-hearted bitch w/ all the napalm
he can muster.]
Sam Beckett: I believe our Sisyphus is not having fun
today, John Henry.
Doc Holiday: ‘Long pacing in the to and fro of the gloom.’
Lyle Lovett: Do you think he’d do a “Somewhere Over the
Rainbow” if he had a boat and could row fast enough to get out of the Tower of
Song?
Doc Holiday: My money’s on him empting both barrels,
then sitting back down and crying again.
Jack Spicer: [looking up from the map that goes on
forever.] Ghost of Lorca… empty boats, all the roosters booing, stairs the
postman won’t climb, that’s a big, dark carpet to try to escape.
Doc Holiday: [sees the bet. raises.] No one gets out of
here alive… that’s the fragrance of this river.
bEast: [creaks a bit and keeps spiting vocabulary at
the WAR…]
[Lyle Lovett "An Acceptable Level of Ecstasy (The
Wedding Song)"]
(c) 2012 Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
