I sing a shattered song of someone else’s youth the melody forgotten the words faded into odd syllables heard in my dreams. The coyote stands at the edge of a gully staring at me and wondering why I slip from the hogan through the hole punched in the back wall slinking away in the encroaching dark. The priest, his saffron robes pulled tight around his legs in the morning chill, stares as I run my hands across the giant brass bell feeling its resonance. I hear the dirge as sleep nips at the edge of my consciousness grabbing the frayed margins of life
One deep and abiding beauty of dreams is that it is entirely logical for Marina Tsvetaeva to be engaged In an animated discussion with Corso and Ginsberg where none will acknowledge that the world they wrote and imagined is a total mess.
Over in the corner, Mandelstam and Reznikoff have agreed that for eternity every game of chess they play will result in a stalemate, if only to drive Brodsky to distraction, that and having Osip say he prefers Reznikoff’s free verse translations to Brodsky’s ponderous rhymes.
I am looking forward to a cup of espresso with Sylvia Plath, but she says here she only drinks single malt Scotch until it’s at least 5 P.M.
a day, clouds drop rain replacing tears locked inside stones and cloth red and blue unseparated still worlds apart orderly ranks all at attention and silence thundering anger a mad world soaked in peace only until midnight.
Christ and his disciples walk slowly through the lobby en route to the bar, discussing the evil of war and blind obedience. They push three tables together and slowly drain the pitchers of Bud draft, laughing over the sound of the Karaoke. As the evening draws itself into night, he boasts in Aramaic that he has translated more than half of the Bhagavat Gita, although he much prefers the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Satan, he suspects aloud, is still trying fruitlessly to finish Spinoza’s Ethics, but without improved understanding the old devil is doomed to failure. As the night draws on, the hooker hovers ever closer, and for a moment he wonders if she would moan as she feigned orgasm. He lights another Camel and crumples the empty pack and throws it, knowing it will miss the can and roll on the floor under the bar rail, and he curses in the ancient tongue.