{"id":168,"date":"2018-03-03T13:40:51","date_gmt":"2018-03-03T13:40:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/svendavisson.net\/?page_id=168"},"modified":"2018-03-03T14:06:45","modified_gmt":"2018-03-03T14:06:45","slug":"the-desire-line-2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/svendavisson.net\/index.php\/the-desire-line-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Title Poem"},"content":{"rendered":"

The air is crisp on a December morning
\na truck just outside the window
\npours concrete filling in holes
\nwhere gas lines were recently replaced
\npatching an infrastructure
\nas glorious in decay as this city
\nwhere the lines of desire,
\ndeath, and disintegration
\nintersect with such
\nheart-stopping poetry.<\/p>\n

\"\"Papa Legba is at the door\u2014
\nSt. Peter at the gate;
\nBaron Samedi looks on impassively
\nseeing into two worlds,
\nabsinthe and unmarked graves;
\nand Our Lady of the Three Marks
\nsitting in her silence
\none hand on her lap the other
\nholding a pipe to her lips.<\/p>\n

The Desire Line,
\nparallel veins of blood
\nsalty and ferrous
\nconnecting back through
\nancestors and bonds
\nstronger than genetics,
\ncables of semen arcing
\ntheir current through the air
\nkeeping this whole show
\non the tracks.<\/p>\n

Ambushing ghost memories
\npowerful enough to permanently
\netch themselves into consciousness
\na temporal existence
\nnow retained in stylized
\npartially idealized recollection<\/p>\n

I meditate with ancestors as petite gods
\nI sit vigil with their existence\u2014
\none that is as present now
\nas the last time we met,
\nspoke on the phone,
\nor touched in intimacy.
\nPresent now but different,
\nblunted, worn soft at the corners
\nlike the remnants of the history
\nin this city that push
\nthrough to the present
\nand so frequently lift its residents
\nout of the everyday
\nlike disused streetcar rails
\nand cobblestones
\nbreak through cracking asphalt.<\/p>\n

A catalog of artifacts:
\nmy father\u2019s pocket knife;
\nthe smoky smell of
\nmy grandmother\u2019s scotch;
\nthe naked santa from George\u2019s mantel
\nfrom Oct 1 through 12th Night
\nhairy chested and priapic;
\na rectamgle of agate
\npolished to reveal the devil
\nwith flames at his back
\nand a monkey\u2019s face;
\nplastic St. Patrick Day beads
\nwith its lucky clover\u2014
\nshiny and metallic;
\nthe gentle testing hand
\nof a handsome stranger
\nin the charged darkness.<\/p>\n

The handwritten dedication
\nat the front of your last book;
\na siouixsie & the banshees song
\nrandomly playing in the background;
\na red velvet dress and blond wig
\nwhen we helped clean
\nout your apartment
\nthat last time;
\nand the memory so strong
\nthat it lingers despite the loss
\nof any physical mementos\u2014
\nlost to the breakers of time,
\nto frequent moves of youth,
\nand the endless petty dramas
\nthat eclipsed the long story arc
\nbut could not dim the light
\nradiating from a smile
\nin the few pictures
\nthat survive.<\/p>\n

Shelves of textual ancestors
\nform the backdrop of my shrine
\nBurroughs, Ginsberg, Gysin,
\nAcker, Karouac, Wojnarowicz
\nDreams, Cats, and Alcohol.
\nStraight Heart\u2019s Delight brought me
\ninto the real world.
\n\u201cKraj Mahales\u201d gave me
\nthe red string of second birth\u2014
\nDharma Bums my original jukai;
\nThe Wild Boys and Port of Saints
\nmy shamanic initiation
\nbetween the worlds.<\/p>\n

The lands of Plague. the bardo, and
\nthe dangerous road to immortality.
\nWhiskey soaked reality visions,
\nnew myths, scars, and magics.
\nChanting your words as mantras.<\/p>\n

La Madama, fortuna,
\nthe Nine of Cups,
\na blue candle to open the road
\nthe color where memory
\nand prosperity intersect
\non the octarine spectrum.<\/p>\n

The blanketing sound of rain,
\nthe steady drip from the eaves
\nonto the air conditioner,
\nthe glow of candles
\nsmells of pomegranate and cassis,
\nEau de parfum Reve d\u2019Or.
\nSnifter of water and
\na touch of bourbon.<\/p>\n