he was very alone in this room filled with winos so that year there was a sudden midnight harvest
pernicious spring came in splendid pastels and tendered kisses
of polychrome, veins authentic ochre and a Shotakovich tune
and i would also
with a silk-lined lovely, this is true,
and tan or dark or pale with all the sensual charms
as if a spongy painting pulled to Bohemia
of some distant Ukrainian landscape or orchard blooms
along the Hood River or an apple orchard
with apple scented leisures
of her lips betwixt, to rise
loud with softly soft voices, gentle fine,
with many many delicious drops
of honey plus our eyes the more casting sunspots across
the sleek shoulders thru the gates of the Alhambra and each other
swirling notions of liberty, belief in the light, smoky nebula
the sighs of surrealist postcards
starry woodlands in great number, the terraced gardens of Tivoli,
buttermilk lunar skys of calicoe, rosy lusty crocus lusters and rivers
shall run down between her polished paradise
Roman frescoes from Boscoreale and afterwards
she would read Tom Robbins but pet my hair too for seasons and seasons
her fingers are chrysanthemums or just long enough & he would skim Frank O'Hara or something
maybe just watch tv and talk but when we
went to town we would all get dressed in cartoon clothing certainly
in our hands a Zulu African assegai certainly & we would all go
rrraaawwling down streets of mystery
like spumifers at le catalan and we would render unto Ceasar
nothing.
- Image: The Spumifers at Le Catalan 1948 by Georges Hugnet
