The air is crisp on a December morning
a truck just outside the window
pours concrete filling in holes
where gas lines were recently replaced
patching an infrastructure
as glorious in decay as this city
where the lines of desire,
death, and disintegration
intersect with such
heart-stopping poetry.
Papa Legba is at the door—
St. Peter at the gate;
Baron Samedi looks on impassively
seeing into two worlds,
absinthe and unmarked graves;
and Our Lady of the Three Marks
sitting in her silence
one hand on her lap the other
holding a pipe to her lips.
The Desire Line,
parallel veins of blood
salty and ferrous
connecting back through
ancestors and bonds
stronger than genetics,
cables of semen arcing
their current through the air
keeping this whole show
on the tracks.
Ambushing ghost memories
powerful enough to permanently
etch themselves into consciousness
a temporal existence
now retained in stylized
partially idealized recollection
I meditate with ancestors as petite gods
I sit vigil with their existence—
one that is as present now
as the last time we met,
spoke on the phone,
or touched in intimacy.
Present now but different,
blunted, worn soft at the corners
like the remnants of the history
in this city that push
through to the present
and so frequently lift its residents
out of the everyday
like disused streetcar rails
and cobblestones
break through cracking asphalt.
A catalog of artifacts:
my father’s pocket knife;
the smoky smell of
my grandmother’s scotch;
the naked santa from George’s mantel
from Oct 1 through 12th Night
hairy chested and priapic;
a rectamgle of agate
polished to reveal the devil
with flames at his back
and a monkey’s face;
plastic St. Patrick Day beads
with its lucky clover—
shiny and metallic;
the gentle testing hand
of a handsome stranger
in the charged darkness.
The handwritten dedication
at the front of your last book;
a siouixsie & the banshees song
randomly playing in the background;
a red velvet dress and blond wig
when we helped clean
out your apartment
that last time;
and the memory so strong
that it lingers despite the loss
of any physical mementos—
lost to the breakers of time,
to frequent moves of youth,
and the endless petty dramas
that eclipsed the long story arc
but could not dim the light
radiating from a smile
in the few pictures
that survive.
Shelves of textual ancestors
form the backdrop of my shrine
Burroughs, Ginsberg, Gysin,
Acker, Karouac, Wojnarowicz
Dreams, Cats, and Alcohol.
Straight Heart’s Delight brought me
into the real world.
“Kraj Mahales” gave me
the red string of second birth—
Dharma Bums my original jukai;
The Wild Boys and Port of Saints
my shamanic initiation
between the worlds.
The lands of Plague. the bardo, and
the dangerous road to immortality.
Whiskey soaked reality visions,
new myths, scars, and magics.
Chanting your words as mantras.
La Madama, fortuna,
the Nine of Cups,
a blue candle to open the road
the color where memory
and prosperity intersect
on the octarine spectrum.
The blanketing sound of rain,
the steady drip from the eaves
onto the air conditioner,
the glow of candles
smells of pomegranate and cassis,
Eau de parfum Reve d’Or.
Snifter of water and
a touch of bourbon.
