Dinard (1928)

in 1928, the beach at Dinard
seemed less sinister when the bright blue penis
was inside the rented house north of town
and a tempting back door was sealed shut.
but when that door was opened,
his secret shadow crept outside looking for
an eighteen-year-old blonde who would have
been an easy target for predators.
his Queen of Hearts, after convalescing,
came ashore with her single bloody playing card,
protecting their son in his costume
as they walked together to the annual beauty pageant
held for young girls in bathing suits.
a few hours later, Miss France didn't see them enter the Hotel des Terrasses
even though they made no attempt to hide from the life of the party.
the secret shadow came along, overplaying his hand with ironical
amusement and a rather long-nailed little finger.
after all, his son was in a costume not of his choosing.
in the crowd Charlie Chaplin made a face and everyone laughed.
the blue penis liked him well enough, but thought he talked
too much in a language requiring translation, which soon
became boring, even when all dressed up in furs.
a girl caught the blue penis stiffening and he handed her his key.
inside their private room, her golden pubic hair sparkled visible to his naked eye
both when he entered and when he withdrew.
inside the deadly decorum of the hotel
the judging continued for the contest
while the Queen of Hearts played with her bloody card.
in town the blue penis throbbed with life!
his secret shadow saw the bathing suits flap on clotheslines
and heard the wind around the middle of August
pick its way through the branches of a tree.
a little blonde bird was hiding in the tree.

the lark

i handed her a goat.
she placed it directly inside her throat.
i read the lovely poems she often wrote,
falling softly on my knees.
the summer air blew past carried on a steady breeze
and i heard her curse,
shifted myself into a full reverse.
she was always in high demand;
i saw her cracking open an empty hand,
bits and pieces starting to fall.
i felt myself completely thaw.
an intention was newly painted on her wall;
little bricks of iron and polished brass
filled with tears and laughter of finely spun glass;
it felt like magic was stirring the air.
i went looking for it everywhere.
people running came streaming in;
she started to grin.
there was a burning candle sitting on the floor
i saw it shrinking and asked for one more.
she tried a new technique
it faded disastrously within a week
and became a blend of blond and dark;
i found myself on a chair in her private park
looking toward the sky where i finally saw the lark
still bravely singing she hardly ever cried:
she shed a single tear the moment before she died,
leaving a simple design scribbled on my head.
i couldn't read her message but i understood what was said.

The Waltz

and on the subject of her hair
or lack thereof,
i've already commented
on several occasions that
her loose strands were set free to create sexual mayhem
and sometimes
kept dormant in the maiden style of Carol Burnett;
that's no stand up joke, my friend.
oft times there was nothing funny about a fine tuft of beautiful hair
especially when it was located in the moist center of the known universe.
in other words, it could be closer to first-rate
than that famous crack in the Liberty Bell of Philadelphia
and equally rare & precious.
i once went to a protected area near the local river
where I unrolled my favorite blanket;
i remember it was a foggy afternoon during a humid summer week
and she was already there waiting with a warm bottle
of Strong Merlot and a plate made sweet with ripe strawberries.
her hair was unkempt.
she still had on a pair of thread-bare shorts and nearby
were her leather sandals neatly placed on the wet grass.
without a shirt or bra, it was pleasing to see her oblong areola deeply pink.
for some reason, i thought of the waltz, a song made for dancing.
she wanted to dance.

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Twenty four girls in San Francisco
An even dozen around the floor
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Coming in with the entire cast
Knowing Friday will be the last
Unless someone finds a Fairie tooth
Reported outside the photo booth
Skates for rent or skates for hire
Dancing music to inspire
Come in one and come in all
Be careful of the alcohol.

Woman in an Armchair

it might have been an unprofitable project,
but once all the political guests had departed,
i went ahead and mowed my lawn.
to safeguard my reputation, i used an edger
and a leaf blower around the standing nudes
guarding my celebrated pond.
inside the backyard cabana, i used a commercial
cleaning product to disinfect all horizontal and
vertical surfaces which might have been touched
by a woman's public hair.
although it was a very private place,
i didn't want it to seem evident
that sex was on my mind or that it became an obsession.
of course it wasn't, and by placing the morning's paper
on the single canvas seat, i was disguising the cave-like
interior by making it similar to an airport waiting area.
everyone, i thought, enjoyed a good flight.
but in my haste to be neat and tidy,
i overlooked the Woman in an Armchair,
on whose lap a skinny and sharp-colored boy was being held.
he was younger and she perhaps the poet-hero older woman
full of joy with a big bronze bust and elevated forehead
which she used effectively to put holes in his heart.
i went ahead and polished that bust before departing
for the nervous streets of my hometown.
i planned to wander from one neighborhood to
the next, keeping an eye out for another discarded canvas seat.
i found one the previous summer.

a green pea

She was alive
in an elegant and secluded
hotel around the corner from
a famous church
whose name I have never known.
how she got there,
i can not guess and won't begin to try.
instead of hiding in her cozy home
and sewing throughout the day,
she unnerved friends with her untimely disappearance,
leaving no word or written explanation to
satisfy those curious few.
at first, i accepted her absence as a rumor;
however, the more obsessed among us believed she fell ill and
some even said she might be dead,
her head shrunk to the size of a green pea,
breasts flat against the wooden floor,
tiny mouth agape and lovely teeth already loose.
i went to investigate and made the trip in several
slow minutes, but she was not home, nor were there
any stray cats about or any peculiar odors to notice.
in one room, i saw new drawings and was surprised
by their highly finished aspect.
mostly, i realized, i didn't know that she knew how to draw.
her mother, who had not seen her for thirty four years,
was the owner of the hotel where my reclusive, once missing
and thought ill or dead neighbor
was now staying.
that was the latest rumor, at least as current as this afternoon,
and i, like a bloodhound on her scent, went to find her.
at the hotel, when i dashed up to the front desk and made inquiries,
a polished young man told me it was closed because
a convention was being held and all the rooms were
now filled with important monuments.
at least, that was the latest rumor.

Three Women at the Spring

if she suffered a breakdown
i didn't hear about it;
yes, she was a neighbor, but
she was a shadowy woman
who loved her sewing,
often tying herself into myriad knots.
it's possible i could still see her through the
window across the street.
she once left a rocking horse on my front porch
and a bicycle without a chain.
the bike had an Italian frame and her
name was scrawled on the down tube.
in her spare time, i knew
she planned to do nursery compositions.
she once showed me a short piece about
Three Women at the Spring which i said didn't
seem very appropriate for a theme about morality.
she insisted that i knew nothing.
to prove her point, she removed my shirt
and made it into a rag with the intention of selling it
to a New York shaman.
i can't be entirely sure, but i later heard she received a
great deal of money in that transaction.
the following rumor had it that the shaman called her a bandit,
and for months waited in ambush to be repaid.
i should walk across the road to end this silliness
since i do want to solve the mystery of her health.
and with the answer i could feel fully entitled to a few
quiet
moments
of
rest.
i'll need to remind myself to go without wearing a shirt.