x marXist the spot... Sopot? or Hel?

*
ELeCTION dAYLIgHT
*

pourquois les références vers la Pologne?
have you seen the zagging of epitaphs?
the Great Danzigian Bay, imperial wit?
yet they say, he is here to confound,
with inexplicable (yet understandable) French
inserted like a string of modified starches,
with 12-carat mischief clenched by a democratic hand.
There is always an abrasion to communication,
a diamond-held finger cutting the layers of a golden cake,
there is remant food (nourriture) housed in strange buffets,
and votes to be served... still? somewhere else,
maybe trailing a plane that circles a city skyline
it may be written, that words and pictures cannot be objectified,
yet here, plain, invalid here, I can pretend, I understand the message,
I can say, I have heard the people and their power.
*
I suppose the resulting anger was devoured by an inconstant fear,
by red lights ascending to the tips of bells and parliaments,
to benches stripped of their blue and green,
to orange juice squeezed from Caribbean Cafes
into glasses inured with feckless spots.
These are the times when the roomy tables of the New Proletariat
are infested by the ranting of political thieves, children smiling
in the background, daughters as pure as those lonely girls
on Bikini Beach (Wasaga not discounted), daughters as dour and aplomb
as the feelings for their one inherited brother,
the ones the reporters have named (gratitude Rich?)
the one that waltzes away, tabulates,
and spends each last pellucid moment of the everyday
scouring for safety.
*
Perhaps it's also true that their long, slim hairlines,
and slender mouths, have yet to spark riotous acts in suburban grottos,
have yet to tremble beneath the poor brinkmanship of indebted contractors,
have yet to waste their gorgeous (and stubbornly generous) ulcers
on small wooded ravines that tussle the roads straddling the city,
have yet to feel a day going by that couldn't be won...
*
Later in the evenings, whilst the elder Richard
ponders an inconstitutable sky, white yet puffy,
the clock passes the time of Szymborska's Universe,
and brandy becomes a flicker of pine-scented verandah,
and that daughter with bikini entrails,
with waxed poetic legs and polished germs --- seeks nothing
but the hypnosis of a good photograph, of the ridges that linger
on rouge'd pursed lips, that cleanse the teeth
of anything leafy or green. And in those ravines
where the city is safe, unusuable 2x4's are now discarded,
a discomfiture of metal and glass bubbles towards life,
escapes its 4x4 past, opens its mouth and gazes at the iridescent stake,
with tepid indulgence it sends a shiver of momentum onto the roadway...

sadly, the sun has turned around again!

Physics, they said. Ergonomic heavens, and salutations from a smiling (solarity)
re-drawn by children in the last hours of the school-year. Hurrah! Hurrah!
What happens to the universe when the faint strands of grassy fields need
moments of watering? What happens to -----saturated------ apologies! I've
summoned myself to a momentous cause, to making the sky feel less debilitating
at five in the morning...

Sadly, un-sporadically, the day has dawned for the sun to turn, return,
to take back what it once wished was given away [like a cave man (woman?)
who decides a hut of straw is better than a cave]... alas I loathe this
celestial timing almost as much as the seventh hour of the seventh day
after finishing a marathon. One thinks then, what's next, is this Recovery
all that I've waited for?

Contagious congratulations (con-graduations) to the true Pillars of this post.
Les enfants (not really enfants, are they?) who move forward into the next biggest
challenges of their lives... to our f****ite (careful, Uncle) niece who's roamed
thru Nice, who is very nice and kind (and loves her Frances). Congratulations on
your awards and accomplishments, and get ready for all the new challenges and
successes of high school: those next "best years" of your life (at least until
university or unitl your 35 anyway)...

To our f*****ite nephew who's climbed the hills in Vaduz, who once said, the last
step's a doozie!. Well, (to paraphrase Bob Cole) I can tell ya, the next step
IS a doozie! Have fun in London with school and athletics, and remember that from
here on it's not one's talents that are not so imperative: it's all about Hard Work
and Determination!!!

the resulting fire was conceded to the onrushing foam

Mon Etape,

où disparaît-il ?

ocean sphincter - say what? quoi? qui-vas-la?
okay juvenalia, sumpsimus retort, a bientot, "GO --- a-way!"

from AFM (EP, pg 138-9)

SONNET OF ESCAPE

Even the body's resistance transforms
a sky delivered without sight, eyes lean
with the weight of blood, gray-worn mountains,
or a Winter's breast disguised as motionless ice.
Sleep prepares for the pulse of dusk,
for clouds contoured like bells or parliaments,
like humanity bleached and absolute.
Even the heavy hollowness framing the body's
absence passes further than the protection
of a glacial shore. Beyond the valley melting
in its own distant remorse a solid singular stone
flickers with gravity, hue, and a fountain
of vacant colour straining to perceive...
Here, a narrow ray of flesh, a mineral
as grateful as any ore, unveiled, remaining
ever so briefly, like a spark
only those who've never been free - could feel.

track & field reality: happy, skippy, and a little bit jumpy...

~*~*~

Today then, with a little conjuring from the wind,
and a little disguising from an adjustment in attitude,
the brave issuers of joy
will prevail. Today, the stops
and starts of hammers and nails
will not cause the world to concede its pain.
The swishing of moisture that once was home
will subside like oil in a field of unused locomotives...
nature has its way of returning the grain, the miniature
grroves that seize the day. Never mind the arses in AVPs,
the cold filaments of their egos...

I've never met an emergency that couldn't wait.

And mon ami Pat, congratulations on your ninth place
jump. it may not seem so ascendant right now
but perhaps, in the middling years it will become
more inspirational (optimistic?).

Get this day over with.

Flush!! (a soldiers' armour in decline?)

+*+

FATIGUE and EQUILIBRIUM

for no-one in particular (again!)

*+*

At the sign beneath the airport
which says no smoking or firearms,
walking amid dust and reconciliation,
a mysterious gray passport draws no attention to itself.
From its eyes comes the conduct of a bland ocean, whispers,
while the limited carrying of foreign words ascend
like resolute ramps, like a conqueror whose downfall
from an endangered disease never felt more imminent...

Yet before the hero understands the ambiguous guard
staring at a stage made for a many-headed Paris,
the true face of dying light looks, not only of Athens
or Rome (or the views of an Empire
in decoration and narrative),
but of mysticism against those scenes through which
the blinds of another 'better life' seem transparent.

My favorite act in this perception
is a narcotic we've called enviroment,
as practical as a cannon
or a television screen: (easy to inflame).
Yet the one who engraves this flag-induced participation,
this cynical escape of gallantry, yields nothing more
than the staggering last stamp of a cause that resembles
a curse.