Cover Page 1 Sympathetic MagicPaul Cameron Brown Copyright (C) 1985 by Paul Cameron Brown ************************************ Cover Page2 "... The language is that of a poet whowho knows what he is doing and howhe wants to do it The Malahat Review "He moves... At the edge of lyricexperience. " Quarry Paul Brown has a carborundum eye forthe most extreme poetic minutia at atime when most of the younger poetsindulge in introspective rhetoric, dulling that faint minority of poemtasters. J. Rosenblatt "... Mr. Brown demonstrates his ability tocarry images, word play and fantasy througha poem from beginning to end. " Canadian Book Review Annual ISBN 0-919581-25-0 **************************************** nopage1SYMPATHETIC MAGIC *************************************** nopage4Sympathetic Magic1985 Paul Cameron Brown ThirdEye would like to thank theOntario Arts Council for the financialContribution to this publication. Published byThird Eye Publications Inc. 31 Clark Side Road, London, Ontario, CanadaN5W 5W5 Sympathetic Magic Paul Cameron Brown *************************************** nopage5Dedication"Yours is the earth andeverything that's in it ... " Rudyard Kipling ***************************************nopage6By the same Author POETRYWhispers, Three Trees Press, Toronto, Ont. , 1977Eyeshine, Three Trees Press. 1978The Long Necked Bottle, Swamp Press, Oneida. New York, 1980Coming To Grips With White Knuckles, William Wallace International, Toronto, Ont. 1982 PROSEThe land of look Behind, Three Trees Press. 1980 CHAPBOOKSIsles & Rivulets, Killaly Press. London, 1978 BROADSHEETSThe Rake's Progress, South Western Ontario Poetry. London, Ont. 1980 Acknowledgements Many of these poems have appeared or areforthcoming in: Amelia (USA), Writers' NewsManitoba. Germination, Repository, Arcane (USA), Jimson Weed (USAJ. Lron (U. K. ), Muses's Brew PoetryReview (USAJ Northwoods Poetry Journal (USA), Lucky Star (USA), Winewood Journal (USA). *************************************** nopage7CONTENTS The River Cuts a Channel 9Primavera 10Sanguine 11, 12, 13Hamomlette 14The East is Red 15, 16, 17untitled 18untitled 19Rocking Horse 20Rouge and Gray 21Cubits 22Buzz Phrase 23Ambergris City 24Wincing 25Toronto 26Crying Scene 27Night Sky 28The World of Tezcatlipoca 29In the Cenote 30Belize 31, 32, 33, 34Picaroon 35, 36, 37The Cable Car 38IL Giardino 39Every Man's Hand 40, 41, 42Ending Up 43Offerings 44, 45, 46, 47Regalia 48San Cristobal 49, 50Guadalquivir 51Leaves of the Cecropia Tree 52. 53Southwark 54Kublai Khan 55, 56, 57Homuncular Forms 58Antarctica 59, 60Blue-eyed Grasses 61Moccasin 62The Bullfrog 63Ancestral Memory 64Entry Point 65Bloodcount 66BloodStream 67Rogue and Privateer 68The Camera Cage 69Fence Line 70Adversaries 71Bargaining Unit 72Palais Royale 73Alcatraz 74When Labouring to Break 75This way to the Sixties 76, 77Pogrom 78Baggadocio 79, 80, 81Dress Rehearsal 82. 83. 84 *************************************** page9THE RIVER CUTS A CHANNEL People with money but no fortuneor stomach for the life of an albatross, watch him soar on self made wings, fetch the dingy rednessof morning's, first catchwith a long necked bottlehe calls the captain *************************************** page10PRIMAVERA A poem is perishable and, like it, so much of life is spent in intervals --the jarring second regaining consciousness, a post-mortem flick of the lank equestrian eyelidthat signals, morning's first crepuscular move. . . . A little salad consciousness about the tumescent roomwith the sentient purr of a Cat, her musky oilsa green verdure lapping primordial scentto engross a little readiness as the day progressesto its oedipal stage and arrested development. *************************************** Page 11SANGUINE "The clock indicates the hour but what does enternity indicate?" Whitman Imagine, being told cubism isn't painting. ThatBeardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy geniusor Corot didn't come to Paris after all. Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, theintelligentsia sitting down to a ragged tablesurrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not beingable to write his name. Now that's splendour -- that's in-depth "feeling". That's emotion to pull your socks or catch the bus ona brittle day. It's easy. Try to "feel" the event. It's 1896. People areperturbed (or so we are told) because the century'sgetting old. Time's rushing by. There's an alarm clockset to buzz at eternity's gate, Midnight 1900. In probing the malaise that hit Europe circa 1881, psychologists would have us believe the world grewdespondent. Despondent because a whole hundredyear cycle was about to elapse; despondent becauselife itself was running out. Those poor Edwardians!Poor lovers of the elegant, the late Victorians, belleepoquers. A penny for their thoughts whenconfronting a Picasso without the vantage ofhindsight. Page 12If Europe and its child bride, America, grew uneasy inthe declining years of the past century. How then ourera? (These same psychologists pinpoint people'sspirits rise in the opening years of a new century. )Now we're poised for the "really big one": thecataclysm. What a boon for the absurdists. Peachesand cream -- not just one century dangling but theculmination of ten. There's even a word for it. Millenium, I'll say it again. Better yet, a mere two millenia since Christ'sdeparture, we are poised again on the threshold. Half& half. Like a party twelve pack -- six of one, halfdozen of the other. Remember. When contemplating your ennui ormalaise (whichever word is currently mostfashionable), you can hardly figure for less. Eternity'sgiven to you, my peers, a singular opportunity. Andfrom what we know of the 20th century. It should be agrand slam homer. Already the clean-up batter isstaged for action. The bat looms over the plate. There's so much bad news it's enough to make anoptimist greedy. After all, with this much horror thereis caused only for danse macabre celebrations. 1985. Only 15 years left before the digital watch rollsover. Before the cannon with the flower pops out. Those forward looking voyeurs of hundred yearsback must have felt cheated when mentally reversingtheir lot with the denizens of the 20th century. Page 13In 1885, you could only gripe about the aging processof a single tenth of one component. In 1985, you've gotthat and the Millenia. Trendy things like atmosphericpressure, negetive ions, adverse body rhythms and awelter of other pseudo impressive formula abound tohelp out in your witchhunt. Surprise. 1066 saw comets, omens. Signs coded instars speeding ecross the sky -- a host of ditlurbing. Natural phenomena to boot. The vigilant saw meteorsat Caesar's, death. The National Enquirer predicts Australia will breakinto the sea. Californians will be upstaged. Thefuturists will all need waterwings. The Club of Romehints the next years auger more chilling holocausts. Everywhere, survival scenarios proliferate. Pro-liferswill rearrang proverbial deck chairs on theTitanic. Soothsayers will become all the rage as weplot myriad escapes. A year's supply of canned goods, anyone? 1885 has a lot to teach us. Umbrellas, a gentle ennuilike fine mist compounded by traffic in & out of theMoulin Rouge. Perhaps a surfeit of absinthe helps justas its equivalent does today. "Cheer up, there willalways be an England" doesn't sound so bad after all. And there's always that one recruiting poster, "Whatdid you do in the Great War, daddy"? *************************************** Page 14HAMOMLETTEA VICTIM OF INDIGESTION OR PATRICIDE?MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORECHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARKINGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THEHUMAN CONDITION, SENSELESS FORCES THATRAGE AND DESTROY A MANCOOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLYA PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICKI KNEW HIM WELL... ***************************************Page 15THE EAST IS RED We can survive a nuclear War. It's scarcely credible, Iknow, but listen. The human race has great resilience. We've come backbefore -- all those plagues, the Black Death, despoliations, scorched earth policies "prove" it. We're proliferate and we love the sex act. It won't behard; human fecundity is a count-on. There are somany of us, see. People have overstimeted the alleged horror. Afterall, (Khruschev pounding a UN table with his shoes). Somebody walked away from firebombing at Dresden. Look at at all the escapees in Hiroshima. Get the drift? A Bomb's a Bomb. Really. The really big one (to takeEd Sullivan'a phrase out of context) is just more of thesame. Try to absorb that logic. Ergo, Ignorance mustbe, in toto strength. Enraged by the impropriety of it all? Anyone whodisagrees with this is coarse and vulgar. Of course there would have to be "preparations". (Ifyou have "to prepare" to be a hairdresser, it stands toreason you would have to ready yourself for this. ) Confronting, facts you can die only once. After that, the mushroom cloud is anticlimactic. Remember theMagic Mushroom -- the cult that centred its teachingsaround Christianlty's debt to hallucegenic drugs?Some said preposterous -- Christ a magician dopinghis followers and using the Cross as a stage prop. Amazing. In this world anything is possible. We havefinally created a mutant of people who ecceptanything. And God just another man, albeit a trickydevil at that. Imagine fooling everyone for 2, 000years! Next, we'll be told we're actually dead. I know some ofyou have already suspected this but It will be Page 16"confirmed". Our leaders will troopse out impressivesounding "flow charts" and backup statistics. Therewill even be a special chamber to experience what itwas like before you knew you were dead withcarefully monitored "response signals" to give theaudience a "sensasound" aura just like living throughan earthquake, only fake. Just remember MontyPython and "possibility". Meanwhile, in ensuing preparations for war, noaspect of the psychological preparedness should beoverlooked. We don't have to be told there is nosubstitute for victory. "The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscienceof a King. " Hamlet knew. So does The Kremlin. TheKGB can "prove" a nuclear scenario is winnable. According to the most painstaking calculations, aconventional war of any duration "swings" into a pre-nuclearstage. That's when the nuclear optionbecomes "viable". That's when Gorbachev and theboys calculate "target readiness" and plummet thedepths of the human spirit. The East is Red and ready. The Chinese have been toldby Mao 300 million or their number cremated is asmall price for global supremacy. A human dung hillis being set in motion for another generation ofpoppies. Marx lends credibility to this, but with adifferent opiate for the masses. Thelumpenproletariat can hack it. Such clever playingwith facts, now I understand genius. For a young physicist, a 100 megaton blast is theculmination of the creative spirit. Certainlyirrefutable evidence, this quintessential "spirit". I read Toronto would be "messy" in the event of anuclear strike. Half-baked and eviscerated thinkingOr just inescaspable? Chin up. We'll survive or at least part of us will. Wereally are "malleable". It will be a "transitional stage", Page17a step upwards on the evolutionary ladder. Radioactivity and genetics are at work with oneanother. When the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic device, the pilot was later to go mad. Maybe this has already happened to the world andthere's no one to discern the difference. Maybe a forest of "maybes" has already sprouted andleft a forest of dust clouding the collective vision. Maybe it's all too terrifying to be taken seriously anddisbelief is the escape hatch. Like the pilot's lapse intocomforting drugs for reassurance or the dervisheswith their Magic Mushroom. Maybe it's closer to what Harry Truman announcedafter "deploying" the first "device" or exercising thenuclear option in the jargon of the strategists. They started it. We prepared to end it. No regrets. Turned over on his deathbed and went to sleep *************************************** Page18happy happyhappy happytrigger happy happyhappy happyt happy happyhappy happytrigger *************************************** Page 19 ENERGYENERGyENERGYENEn Being alive ne wastes er energy rg gy wastes B wastes y e i n g a l i v e *************************************** Page 20ROCKING HORSE Fate is a mahout astride a large elephant, impersonalas dark sun with winds raging across a desert. Fate isthe old bones of dead Indians being resurrected asground mist on the edge of a salt marsh. And not knowing what to call personal destiny weresort to the clunker "fate" -- "beggar and king"enjoying, or so it is said, the dust together. I prefer wetleaves breaking canisters of restraint and calling tothe earth as little paws digging into the humus of thesky. *************************************** Page 21ROUGE AND GRAY So much time has passed& time is a hooligan run wildlittering the streets, squeezing toothpaste at the wrong endshredding clothes with a razor blade. Time is never called into account --lives like Peter Panin a flying abode above it allscot-free, the surly bandit. A perilous acquisition --tiny pinpricks above the eye-browscrows' feet-- all too visible rending offleshy corners bulbedto puffiness. Red-handed, I caught timehis knife in Youth once morestill-water decay, brackish trouble-makerwith tint of rouge and gray. This school-yard toughstill picking on the corner weakling. Braggadocio and upstartspoiling for a fightfirst elbow up, each foot in a fray. *************************************** Page 22CUBITS A woman is a troughhardly that -- a river, a pond to sail a small boat thru, rapids to manoeuvre. A woman commandingly tallreceptive as water, quicksilver to the lightyet mirages all. Two cubits to an arm's lengtha bridge to span, virgin territory withthe compass needle jumping --a plane dusting crops. A woman once, parchment twicewarm treacle to the core --a marshmellow for a heart. *************************************** Page23BUZZ PHRASE Down on your luckor, as they say, "financially embarrassed" ... With little in the way of hope, less palaver --drifting in & out of theme parks not unlikeEl Paso, Prairie Junctionbetween jobs, causes and wives... letting "it all hang out", in the jumble of the moraneseletting despair and the pig iron law of economicshave their say --shouting "moral support" in the face of the rocky"well-wisher". I read all the plots and each ends up as a grave... Once in a single afternoon I even gave up ongolddiggerswho, though just passing through meant dress rehearsalfor the bigger jive, "long_term"and since when should "patching up and catching up"make starry-eyed even that slip of a girl, commitment. *************************************** Page 24AMBERGRIS CITY Felt no pain against the water, the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrathilluminating ambergris city in spot checks below. The sperm whale population was in decline. Little or nothing remained of former commitments. A bitter legacy consumed itself in half-truthsagainst the sound of upturned lies. Winding alleys come as the conscience of well plaid cities. Are open zippers revealing the indecent poor. The fire hydrant lives of cellar inhabitants strainthese urinalsfor wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls. Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls findingtheir waythrough the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazaswith thestately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trashcansagainst indentured snow. *************************************** Page 25WINCING You can't go back, to Love, a home. Memories of Pearl Baileyeven a scatterbrained jobcurled like a Morning Gloryabout the ribs of day. Everyone repeats not going back. A sly ripple on the cape of wind, peaking withabsentminded glee, into that bulge from withinyour past, beyond your left arm, called "before". Dismissing angels, refusing tocourt hardship, not to mentionwincing that comes from attachingthe mouth too fiercely on privale partsand all flasks with firm memory;wheeling drunkenly on her thought. Her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mindwith little fingers each repeatingsane warnings. *************************************** Page 26TORONTO In Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a themeor at least end in "S". It's an unspoken rule. In-spots(notice the "S" again) recall the Lost Generation:Garbo's, Hector's, Lucille's; though less thematicallyinclined imbibers can indulge at plain soundingSammy's/Charlies... The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcapswhich more than suffice: while those seeking purity intheir draught can take consolation at the commonBrunswick or Molley's. There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers. While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the KonTiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middleof the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys, Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in thelush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviouslysuggestive supple Fingers. Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism poweris the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded orthose otherwise afflicted with ennui and creepingmalaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. Andwhat was that Montrealers say of Toronto?Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh DiamondEyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count andtwo Persian lions carved in wood. Salads Nicoise. Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Torontoequivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoalin the forest. I drank a cocktail with the girl of thewhite polo coat. Or as the cynic said, my pipe is thetent, the tobacco the days of my life. *************************************** Page 27CRYING SCENE If you're going to drop the gauntletat least put on the dressof a full warrior --paint, rouge, lipstick, sheer stockings andenough powder to smothera savage;then form a straight lineand chant the litany(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)and a good poundmaker is so adeptat keeping score. *************************************** Page 28NIGHT SKY I can call a lake a kettlea splendid, ivory comb a snare --tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain. The night sky my ariel home. Nothing matters with my heart at my ribsa collarbone of doubtinching into my anatomyEverest-wide. Surging canals into my throat. I am a pianist plying my tradeplaying to waves --the wharf and pierpassionate onlookersentranced with joy. Sailors wearing blond capsin stout approvaltheir tall ships wavy as decorative pins. Smashed bottles accumulated days at sealapping the dock. *************************************** Page 29THE WORLD OF TEZCATLIPOCA*"... The fourth state of water in its plasmic state ... Elements as plasmic water have programmed goals whichthey follow like earth encompassing genies. In soft lightamid huesof barbaric green. Walled edges ofthe cenote's fortressshine as eyes of the Cyclops, bloodlshot and ringedwith nettled stone A break in the clearing --then ramshackle growthbroken with vengeanceof uprooted vineconfronts the eyes of a jaguar*(axe-breadth apart)between canopies of treesmillenial rot, algae and monkeyscarved ina jungle settingthe shape of an iguana's room * the same *************************************** Page30IN THE CENOTE Under a candlelit operettaof stars, the vertigo horizon trailsto a shudderuntil, swallows the size of kiteshandstand in flying motionabout pools of waterthen glide within reach of the cenote, *cisterns deepand flagellantscars in earththat cradle still handsof pale, pumice stone. All the tearsof old Mexicorefurbish this soil, anxious in blessinga brittle toilin sisal* grovesharvesting hennequin*to symbolize pityin flat expanseof Mission stone. * A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin. * Hemp. *************************************** Page 31BELIZE Giving myself permission to write --points from Ciudad Juarezas well as the compass wheretaboos complete bayonet-sized memoriesa tadpole of doubt gleaned fromshallow Canadian upbringingsojourning in the South. A stranger came --his beard the Columbian hillcountrymustachioed, the voice trailed offwhisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles, the Black Mamba or boomslang beforebrief rictus of pain. I am writing thiswith an eye on fortune, it's not the cantina is dryjust walls above this cotsqueeze the soul like a padre's blessingbetween rosary beadsand the day is hot. Extend a cigarette, fumble another Spanish syllablepretend houngans are hombresHidalgo just another green wine. This utterance is mutilatingand paper scrolls are an oathto take their tollpockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood. Page 32Buenos dias, sênor, only don't sayS a s k a t c h e w a nlike light over mountainsit's of little importance, really, won't, change thecabfare one i o t a. The sea may cough little starsor an emerald coffinsit like a lampshadesomethings go on... Begging your pardon, ma'amthis train would do wellto leave within the hourand the ferry from TopolobampoOut of persistence to formhas never arrived early. "Piratas ingles" read the muralnow I knowseedy tropical portsharbour wayfarers like the Marlboro manadjusting his image, (inspiration may well be poeticbut the instrument's blunt)bare feet the colour or lanterns, white duckspressed too mucharound lean shanksand a visageto trouble Satan Page 33Taking a profit, Mozart up in smokedown the tubeswater reverses itself, runs counterlockwiseimpecunious in thisjuxtaposition of a hemisphere. Poor Mexico -- far from God &so near the United Statesa snippet of history rememberedthough the Gadsen Purchase seemsirrelevant. How a propos& natty toothe moon is a hummingbird& painted porcelain flask for you. Backstreetsa la seductionthis demimonde, a whole continent as intriguedo twin fists poundingon a doorresemble gunfireespecially at dawn oris that just the muleso obstinate in you--the poor creaturespressed into service, litter the landscapebedbugs thrown from cars. Page 34At the Ponce de Leonadrenalin with white capscomes up bareas languageforced into riot, not a humble metaphorin sight. The occasional half-witted vowelstaggering under the onslaughtpirouettedclamouring about the edge-- no easy familiarityhere with the English language. *************************************** Page 35PICAROON Scouting the sunthin clouds threadbare vestsbarely to cover the horizon. The heat or the day, canine, a hot tongue's intensilysplashing yr face. The docks are quiet, prawn trawlers unloading geargar fish at the surface of the waterechoing little fins liketiny waves greeninto the shallows. Bubbles anchor the lagoon --changing rivulets into sandstone walls numbered in shards of glasstrade universal currencybut, beware, the proprietorcobblestones up to his door, a candle in the window-stoop, a creeking gate opened as an afterthought. Come the picaroon. Spanish adventurerlesser known rogue, thiefa smile like piano keyshuevos sent back. Page 36I've seen the parfumeriethe snake pit, mongoose burrowing into the hillsafter serpentine fer-de-lance, want bigger things waves can't splash away, scrawled slogans to turnthe human tide. A bottle sits menacingly on the table --a universe on its own, imagine her little water dropletsthe key to unerstandinga woman firm to the graspbare-shouldered, lips to the moon in twilight. A coin stepped on in the streetperhaps a sou, a centime, centavoa petty returnfor rusting bells wedding the pavement, a centotaph alluding to sacrificeor toil in the fieldsto gain one circular disc. Bring a case of winethose Puerto Rican girlsare dying to meet you, the tune belts outand I see a yachtriding emerald waves, think of swimmingout to greet her, my skin opening the waterlike a lizard's tongue, Page 37a sheaf of leaves pressed back, a rock pitched to dislodge a noisy cat. Who tempers desirein the tropicswhen the air is to eat, sand golden griddlesa harvest of warm wealthpiled as a miser's hoard, green & more green skirting the city, experience my sacred vessel of purity. Think or cliff vinesmucous, little curtainsthen pathways up to the final alleypsychologically taut. *************************************** Page 38THE CABLE CAR The Haitian effect of starsgrinds the blue firmamentlike a cable car by night. Transfixing energy. One hears myriad tokensfalling into a collection box, then the twitter of bellsbefore the trolley steps roundwinds near Russian Hill The night sky is a reservoir, a cistern stored with disturbingelements prickling the unknownin a man. To watch as life forms, more intricatethan lavender curls, so hushed their tonesproduce melodies like "Castor and Pollux", "Leo", "the Three Sisters", seizes any boarding passalong the remaining train of thought. *************************************** Page 39IL GIARDINO Cloves on the table. (jardin parfumelare like ladyslipperswith the jargonof their sweetmeatspreserved inaromatic slabsabout a garden wall. Spanish ivyis the pastramiof this terrace --thick, white walls, Hispanic style, unite with prim elasticityto quickenPicasso's sunshinelike a ukulelestrumming the grave. *************************************** Page 40EVERY MAN'S HAND raised against themhussars, cossacks, zouavesthe renegade janizaries and corsairsin for an indeterminale stretchassorted soldiers of furtune, never-do-wellsor just low brows duelling crusts of breadscarce precious little elsewhen for pennies more, (Wellington's phrase)the scum of the earthenlists for drink. Too harsh. I think, imagining the Foreign Legion, kepis of scarletthe near requisite haggard looksmoving in waves across the desertpitting date palms with bayonets. The occasional fellow ravaged by French pox. Then dunes where water should be --storms granulating blown particlestwice the perimeter of a camel trainfrom whence decent men become driven(as the desert fox) to crouch beside themselveswith poor material, loose flintlocks and cartridge beltsrotting to the touch, Page 41The pitched camp (I see brackish oasis glare)stars big as pebbles in potato whiteNapoleon before Cairo his soldiery andragged tents flapping like tonguesof pillaging Arabs (or later battlefield carrion wolves)on the run from Allah and sweet date wine, their torpid hooves sound against rockmatching wits grown sluggish in still more driftingsand. Noon and blood purringlike a two minute eggover and overthe spitting, cursesmandatory flies and sweattrickling on sandbagsfrom manured liveslittle to eat--C rations a century away, the good populace begrudging mealsto vagabonds and trash anyway. See the last desperationin classic termsbetrayed by finite trength Page 42brisk elements raise the oddsa measly temperature climb, a few more driving winds to stir the potanimal suffering dancinglike stretched canvas on thin frames. The leading roustabout unflinching, waves a stony mutineer's salute. And somehow it always manages dawnand the heat of the day wicked, oblong in an empty stretchforever, it seems, before bulletsopen graveyardsmow the brigand down, take the corpse for its ownmummifying with precious handsabout the contours of her desert body, and firm cleavageoscillating between curvatures ofdesiccation, blanket heat. *************************************** Page 43ENDING UP reads likeliving down --a coconut arriving with the tide, bottles perched in sandthe blue glasscolour or imprisoned dreamsgenie of a bottle cap. Ending up. The brow or a gondola overturnedsees memories squared away --the window of the envelopean all too foggy membrane. Turning out likeending upno check-out time ornon-existant room servicein a flea-bag motel. *************************************** Page 44OFFERINGS (A Movement in four Parts) The night is folly without the moon, trees blank space against a frontal skywhere lattice work from a bled fish revealsskeletal markings will not administerthe red jack of hearts to a mistress sea. Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach(I don't recommend them) to offeringsof white linen, cold squares atopa stone diamonded floor. Palaver shacks drone in ghostly lightcommunicating some message about eel runsup the black river, the equivalent brushof tombstones against dark nightsoil. Tiny bars open as cubicles. Proverbial flashes of the coming evening, haciendas to count every blessing. The road to such placessnarls a dusty pleasureand will heat thin bloodto boil in the daylight hours. Page 45II Sweat corrodes the cork's emplacementabout green bottlenecks, its azure breath tossing backpools of sparse liquid. I picture ships placed within such bottlesas bannisters along corrugated highways, seawater rusting from within the steamfitters'stonsorial edge. Haze thickens as sails blur to an artist's brush, then squiggles in the oilpaint of memory --her sides fashioning red wounds as pigmentsurfacing from robotical crustaceanslancing the bottom of a deeper crevice. III My steps clank to the gaoler's keyto become, within, handmaidens to thorned plantsacting as fuselage along the building's exterior. Afar, a white seagull sits as a bespectacled touristgracing a buoy like a madras shirt. Early stars in an afternoon skyare expansive in Chateau Lafitte finery, the Rothschilds of the universe playinga cosmic baccarat. Page 46A girl in a brandy snifter of a dress --dark, sensual, runs through tomes of my mind. It's a hall of mirrors there;the radiating glass of the sea, twilight splendour in tall grass, the hands of thick mahogany chairsgrimacing against perspiring walls. I sponge water like a good midshipmanoff the brow of a leaking vessel. Nowhere are there signs of more thanpartial seepage though smoke in theback corridors exists from the fiery aguandine. IV Green palms unfurl as flagsto the accordian of my eyes, blinking back the strong belt of sunlightthat precisely floods the room. Sailors jostle this crowd of memories, some surly lipped with broad tattoes. A naked mermaid presses her thighs 'gainstmemory door, then winks as thestellar crust of oblivion takes me. *************************************** Page 47In sleep, waterfront toughs are transformedto storeowners that smile, exchange pleasantries inSaba. (French gendarmes embrace on the other sideclustering like starfish on the twin breasts of a beach. ) I devour cups not of riverwater in this cellbut the best pink champagne at the captain'sreception. With hatfuls of intermittent rest, blurred outlines recede into miststhin as General Winter's treasured April snows. The bony M of a hatpin, the passkey to better redress of fortune --the turnstills, concealed within lavabeds ofbladegrass. Beckon upon the return voyage home. *************************************** Page 48REGALIA If the rich are differentthey show it with theclarity of their tableas Scolt FitzGerald decreed, the breathless hushof their regalias, the manner in which wedgewood &crystal are cleaned to apolished exactness --the shimmer of expensive chinano less repetitive thanthe hulking boyswaiting in window stops;monsoon rain peltingthe upper Punjab plains. *************************************** Page 49SAN CRISTOBAL A gypsy sits in a tavernajoking with a sailorwho has leftbridges and maidensalong islets connectingmany a storied sea. Ducats tumble from acloth bag the waythe gypsy rememberscaravans and theremembrance of goldsteeled againstwarm flesh inmoonlight of his nativeUmbria. Lavender is the coat of dreamsalong navy blue hemmingsthe colour of the gypsy'seyes, the blood'scolour progeny whosemen of wealthboth are related to. Page 50The gypsy stares at the tavernawall and the ducats gleamingto outside rain. Men joke at rail depotswhere in a like fashion watersplashes mud into littlearches up a riverbank. Neither has the shallows ofminnows at his command. Bunched up stubble in the windcannot fathom liesor gender hope --it is lhe provinceof the mind, the coinage of perhapsa Spaniard on discoveringSan Cristobal, one's ownsieglo oro in fortunesquandered in sunlightwith only the sweatingAppolosa still strainingon this, the lasttaverna ride. *************************************** Page 51GUADALQUIVIR In a pleasureless world, pure pleasure exists. Particles of sunlight, exquisite with nightdrops &leaves stringent with dew, persuade tributaries with inset eyesto depart down foible breast, sticky fingersup delightful steps. And taking pleasure with an earthen spoon --sipped long and hard down tubes and windingentrails;soft relief canyons swollen blood vessels. For your brow shines like olive branches, Guadalquivir's river or nectar drawn from goldenwellsand, as such, unfolds loveliest eyesout from fond embrace not hedging lies. My darling, amongst flowering cherub treesa moment shared with you is pretty mirthaccounts all Arcadia's treasures, theangelic breath off passing wings. *************************************** Page 52LEAVES OF THE CECROPIA TREE And what of privileged thingsmur & frankinscenseor sandlewood --yes, teak, ambergrisor skies of indigo blue-- I cite these gifts, caravans offered as treasureChristopher Wren puttingthe domes of St. Paulin place like worn spectaclesover a cherubic face. The last gargoyle pops in sightnear Notre Damesuch cathedrals are whitened sepulchrestones in "statelypleasure domesdecreed". I see the Taj Mahalwhere Mahatma Gandhi might have trod. The utterance of a tulipin every parable Christ talked;rosebuds gleaming milkon the breath of lilacstheir shields of liliesshone where Solomon walked. Page 53Song of Songs is none otherthan the poet's heart, water across stones. A warm sun working double shiftsas a pitchfork stacking memorieson a summer's dayshooing aside leaves of the Cecropia tree;old Walt resting on a benchmumbling his prayers. *************************************** Page 54SOUTHWARK I noticed a bust of Shakespeare, an effigy in stone withlatticing to mirror the ages. In the same cathedral anotation commented John Harvard was baptized here. Outside, rain fell on tombstones scarcely readable, their letters frail imitations of what each manconsidered important in life. The church itself breathed renewal. We learn JohnGower, epic poet to the court of Richard II, worshipped here. I thought of translucence, then muirand gems the wise men brought the Infant Christ. Prayer candles glowed and fell into a lap of pyre. Thecrypt held Edmund, brother to the Bard. A handsome altar betrayed sentiments Gray used inhis elegy to another courtyard. My thoughtscontinued onto nearby Tower Bridge, steel and energydynamos before steps of the multitude released at five. A sign read no alcohol was to be consumed on churchgrounds. The very name of the place visited was poetic, halftwist of muscle, more pull of silent breath. *************************************** Page 55KUBLAI KHAN The Japanese are coming! Now there's a fresh twistand just when Pearl Harbor seemed poised to becomeanother Asiamerindian household word amidelectronics, megavision and technological hoopla. Surprise. They're outslugging us. We're cannonfodder amidst cunning economic wiles. The "sneaky"Yellow Peril (updated and given a newer "slant" fromthat 19th century prejudicial posturing) has goneawry. No death march at Bataan. No G. I. Blues. OldCornpipes General MacArthur at ease; Inchon stillyears away. Where is Emperor Tojo when we needhim? Who remembers the Aryans of the East? AGreater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere? Is SEATO still intact? If Korea, Formosa, Singaporeand Hong Kong are "little Japans" does that meanwe're to become, by default, the new coolies? Tha land of the Rising Sun is broader than a battleshiplisting in heavy seas -- it's the New world Order. IsNorth America being prepared as hewers of grain anddrawers of petroleum? Alas, co-existence bringsdilemmas: the Toyota outwits even a "K" car. Andthem outpacing our GNP at 6% per annum. It's enoughto rethink the whole scheme of things. They'reobviously in the forefront of the New EconomicPolicy. More than just "Nippon" -- that's simply a badpress release from the dark days of a misunderstood, but euphemistically labelled "second global conflict". Page 56Rubber and fibre sanctions will do it every lime. TheArizona and Oklahoma will testify to that. FeudalJapan would never have tolerated it, either. Who's tosay the Samurai are caught up in splilting hairs?Admiral Perry should have stayed out of Tokyo Bay. The Earthquake of 1923 just made things worse. Land's End means more than Manchuria and resources. Industry and wily opportunism have broader vistas. The Kuril Islands are a No Man's Land hut so are theAinus, a primordial white race of Asia. What's red and white and comes in with the tide?America. Compared to the Japanese miracle, it's allwashed up. It's hard to contemplate N. Y. C. As asuburb of Osaka, but try. The Japanese believe incommunal bathing, so will North Americans when therecession hits full stride. Remember, shower with afriend. Japan is a land of aura. Of mystery. Genghis Khannever got there in one piece but sent his legionsanyway. Flotsam and jetsam. A bully vanquished. 1066 in reverse. Britain was the workshop of the Victorian world. Japan is the Britain of the universe. The whole cosmosis borrowing her tricks. No one does things soefficiently. No one has developed cooperation to sucha fine "T". Nowhere is individualism shepherded tothe goal of the "greater good". Page 57Pierre Trudeau would be pleased. "To each his ownaccording to his worth. " Sounds impressive. Does thatmean Jaffa oranges are safe to eat -- mercury andcyanide poisoning notwithstanding. Will the Levantacknowledge the supremacy of the Orient? What's new about mulberry leaves? Are silk wormsinterlopers, too? Shogun is too realistic for the narrow orchestration offacts. The difference? They play to win. Hands down, Kirin makes a wonderful beer. Sushibars are all the rage. Leyte Gulf was more than atempura explosion, Corning Ware or "Made in Japan"labels produced in bulk. Coral Gardens is a real and legitimate extension of theRice Factory idea. Cipangu. As you like, what you will. No race hasundergone a swifter transformation in the world'seye. They deserve more than groping admiration. Theydeserve our admirals, too. Who else outfoxed militaryvictory reversing it from the insides cadaver out? Thepeter principle enshrined. The victors don't enjoy thespoils. The Lion's Share is as it should. *************************************** Page 58HOMUNCULAR FORMS Cape aux Morts. Cape Diable, Points of MassacreRocks and Islanda plethora of Wreck Bays. But on Funk Island, nothing matters. Brahmsian rhetoric could describe the islandProkofievian, the sound of Marshomuncular forms;an imperative monotone. Murrelings fell from cliffs into the sea, rose and floated in foam, screaming. Olivaceous puddles. Murres and gannets, kittiwakes, sun splashed white & pitilesslight on rock --argon, radon, kryptonseasons of millennia suffocatingin the original gases of earth:xenon, neon. Granite intestineswith its outer edge lostin the darkness between the stars. *************************************** Page 59ANTARCTICA Perhaps it is needed to balance the planet: to provideemployment for penguins, or that ice in the form ofcrystals calls forth tiny sleighs. That the orange hibiscus be associated only withdeepest tropics... Plankton learn to feed Baleen whalesAnd iron hulks, off ships. Submit to greater Masters. The elements. SECOND THEORIES Another supposition projects... Snowy wastes are but vapour trails of jets and tattersails. Sleet comes only from cannonized rain, galvanized byinclement ironmongers. Yet a third hypothesizes frozen energy is stored in theform of ice caps and that the lost amongst departedsouls are reborn with every powdery breath. Ptolemy knew of a southern polar continent. Cookand Shackelton attempted separate conquests. Shipsvoyaged as early twentieth century probes amidfrozen stellar space nudging Earth's feet. Footprints the size of muskets where left as evidence. So were a few red flags. No oxygen bottles trailed theascent like those that packed Everest. Amundsen asto Hillary across the South Sea face, yet thisMatterhorn has a logic and bedevilment all her own. Page 60Norway and Russia claim exploration of her frigidbody. The British in the first virginal thrustchristened Queen Maud Land after a brilliantcourtship. Shades of Spencer and his Faery Queen;the Kron Prins Olaf Coast, anyone? Ice. South of the Antipodes. The floor of the world. Magnificant pack to the drunken global jaw, growlersor submerged ice packs. A cold porterhouse steak toward off the combattive edge, the chronic boxer'sinflamed orifice and eye -- the nosebleed's staunchestfriend. Terra Australis Incognita, the supposed southerncontinent; hoof of the Cenotaur stringing men like abow across nipples like raw wounds. Clotted hair andblood on a precipice for a chest. *************************************** Page 61BLUE*EYED GRASSES Rocky shale, pale voile, sun lighting theclearness of the bay;come Moccasin Flower or Grass Pinkunto Painted Cup --big with primula eye, these septs off wildand inland seas. The delights of success and heartbreaksof failure among the peoplein the land below Tobermory;the rocks on the cold hill, the lilacs by the doors... And it was at their expense that this landcame to be suppliedwith vitriol, camomile and liquorice, yea some camphor and jallop, oft'times basil, lemon or rhubarb--- all sent from Glasgowin wooden boxesstout as pioneer hearts. *************************************** Page 62MOCCASIN Backwoods cabin, opera housefrom the pines awash with stars, skullduggery in place over spruce hillsdredged to open revoltagainst invading plough --where greenest leavesin a miser's hand partrotting gold bagsall nugget strewn, step to step, with water speaking magicover the sound of countless woodland ducks. Hocus-pacus, theflies are sleeves over the world, black granite pull-oversslung thru the aira twinkling of the eye invokesfuneral trees, deerskin in colour, the rabbit in the hat behindrich birchbark racing thru the dark. *************************************** Page 63THE BULLFROG He sat with no more compunctionthan an eel fishbig-faced, bloated, the complexion of a beehive-- a dragnet of emotionscrammed into a tumblerupended in water. His eyelids wore the effortof horseblinders, aspongy leathermasquerading as torpedoesand I saw himlonely at the crossroadsmatted grass, a strip of wire, cold currentchasing flecks abouthis person, then lunging greenexploded into rapacity --caressed the awaiting fly strewn stickwith emerald mouth &coffers of appetite. *************************************** Page 64ANCESTRAL MEMORY Patrician to my plebian, aristocratic leaning versusunbridled backwoods feeling --distinct Old World breedingcountering rudest colonial lean-to;his carcass lay, roadworthy, blinking back cold starlightwith all the forest as silent voyeurstretching for a look, black fur & quillsin disarray like Crazy Horse's warpaintafter the Big Horn, this roughneck Canadian porcupineshot clean with bumper & chrome. Then little hedge-pigquaint as porcelain china cuphalf a world awaygreeting pints of milkin an English doorwayhalf his scalp torn thrudirty, British lorry choking fumesthe petrol in its tank loose. *************************************** Page 65ENTRY POINT Ants colonized it-- huge abodes littered with the dead(leaves, sticks, the occasional granulated insectpiled high, totemic-fashion)reaping a fortune in scenery, though probably not food Ojibways were next --their tell-tale encampment bypocket-sized waterfall, inlets off a winding cataract& moss, loam-thick with black soila future arboreal dreaminching over rock, darling crevicefor northern orchid, then kissof red death the hybrid trillium& more sinister cousin, jack-in-the-pulpitfor Indian foragers. Animistic limestone shone hands, poked thru the forest with stealth, petroglyphic lava beds-- a cougar pouncing --runic carvings the cold in theGiant's stone nostrils billowingoff the lake like a presence. *************************************** Page 66BLOODCOUNT My mind had almost died. It had refused a game of tag on a commonwith surly children and they steadfastly took revenge. My fate like Blondin's walk across Niagarasaw cataracts looming large, hiss & foam, then visions of serpents, farawy monsters &inner tension of rocks opening. The churned, brown water opened like a basket before me. Maurading bubbles took on elephantine shapes, my barrel creeked. Faraway, the edge & drop yawned in indifferent harmony. The brown walls of my fortress barrel became like palates& sutures of my skull imprisoning the brain;the trickle of invading water ever a reminder. The close of the story?Nothing. What is there to record after a river passes?What remains of things unseen, of antelopes in flight? The shroud of Monte Cristo tossed carelessly intoseadid not fall open to the touch but was knifed with rifleforce. *************************************** Page 67BLOODSTREAM Camping out, a miraculous thing happened. The kaleidoscope of vision was focused on a precipice, caught endangered water about to fallunder microscopic attention. Moisture was shortlived; so, too, congealed lavasheets& bedrock over which the water flowed. The cabin in the distance seemed prisoner to mistwhile a rainbow gathered its wits for the nextperformance. Nowhere did leaves intrude though a fly madeheadway up a glass paneembedded in wood like antidiluvian plants have beenknown to seek amber. In their chorus, other flies droned then ran up & downthe ledge. In the iate sunshine of the day, a bastardized vision ofdirt farmers, pioneers imprisoned in similar toil. *************************************** Page 68ROGUE AND PRIVATEER The Squirrel, a corsair, rides the wind black armof a pressing sea, Tribal hostilities finished, she slinks into port. Traveling lightly across open ground, a squirrel upends a brigand sapling. Grappling the ragged ends of a thicketwith riggings shredded by heavy wind and storm, the arboreal sloop ascends to the highest mast;a bush re-taken, the Crow's, Nest reconnointered. *************************************** Page 69THE CAMERA CAGEAs a child, all common sense decreedpirates wore dear teeth --enamel white, with tusks to rout an elephant(the result from eating carrot sticks, I was told)-- not a solitary doubt clutched my mindivory mingled naturally with black cord and sashin the brain's Bluebearded eye. Then, it was so matter of factlike taking sausage to bed, saying a proper good nightfor the wisdom of the mother-providerwas similar to a pirate chief. The let-down came in advanced picture book form, childhood crisis accelerated on seeingKidd brain a member of his lusty crewbut the upstart taking the beatingwas toothless and soreno arcanely romantic rake at all, more like a strange woman in the parkwith whom no one dared to speak. *************************************** Page 70FENCE LINE That Captain Kidd scribbling of rock in the fieldsyellowed bristle of pagesback of a farm wherepiratical breaking of land knocksclean holes in the soil, gypsy dancers vernal growth beforea spy-glass hour moon. And black print smudgedon a thumb, a child's glossary of talesthick with terrorbefore the faceless wretchcrawls for grog, his peg-legin step withone part of my brainOld Phew hardlyany Smee from Peter Panbut the holocaust --the raven in the treeeyeing the baby Treasure Island, that fledgling reasonbutchering both nostrilsat the skunk cabbage whose nectaris the prize of cemeteries& wild reunion of the bees. *************************************** Page 71ADVERSARIES He held his hands like plastic --his vestments the finercalling of his trade, vocation as modern strummerof Nature's lawsEngineer in brief --wine glass in handbestowing the more salient pointsof mawkish disbelief withcigarette to numb the spine. The Reverendlooked down on fire, caught papryus smoke in the bellowsof his chest, made laundry ofthe Plumber's intellect --tore savage parchmentfrom the soft cheesecutter'scontemporary breath. *************************************** Page 72BARGAINING UNIT The man about to become a sparrowis shouting his head offwearing green trouserswith red eyes framing mustier tweed, he lambasts the ladfor not conductinghis person properlyin showing up for workin a white shirt. The fact the future labourrequires only lifting boxesto a shedis a fine pointabout as importantas the man himselfwho has transformedhimself into that sparrowwhere several would notspan the breadth of abigger man's handor four could be hadin the Biblical sensefor less than a penny. *************************************** Page 73PALAIS ROYALE The night cold as nuggets, dark as acorn, against your chest; snow fallinglike abandoned echoes releasing energyinto the spyglass, umbrella moon. A solitary figure trapping hapless sparrowsnot in a net but with his footprintsdoubling as dungeons against the sun --here & there rusting eavestroughs ballooninginto avenging shadows their harpsichord voicesspun on dreams Dick Whittington once used to buy acat. And once Tom Thumb Upstaged Peter Pan byappearingunder a petunia but this is not likely to happen soon. The dawn, forlorn & grey, is a court muffin'shandkerchiefwaved at a sailor far out at sea. *************************************** Page 74ALCATRAZ White ibis/blue crane, the arch of wingsin full sail over leafy barquesa wise stork scanning waterlike the Disney character, conductor on his trainwith eye-glasses& stop watch. Sift of wind, unseen hand exploring the pondthe stork ungainly on a single legthe bird-man Jolly Rogera pirate burrowing in the muckadd skull and cross bonesupending frightened fingerlingsthe snout of the bandita rifle shot awaycreasing the shallows. *************************************** Page 75WHEN LABOURING TO BREAK Perhaps one is in prison --fidgeting as timedraws to a close --a scrap of house tunicbetween the fingersor when labouring to breakcuticles on swollen fingerspressing both hands against earsthat refuse to hear the stop soundof rushing blood. Then again, in the last hour beforeend time, before dawn's arrival andfloodlit sky finds you --knuckles clasping bars, pitiless bayonet-likewith eyes swishing truncheons at all thegetaway air your lungs will never take;wheezing in growing fear to the sound of footsteps, clank of keys and gallow's humour as they prepareto Skuttle your short life, wall up clouds of theirown pestilence nakedly mask each firing squadgathering for its fighting chance. page 76THIS WAY TO THE SIXTIES:JOHN LENNON'S DEATH FIVE YEARS AFTER It was a red letter day and all within a decade, thesixties. Psychadelic and all because the Electric Circusopened upWalking Yonge Street in the December cold, aging"hippies", the word itself a joke, reminisced: National Guardsmen, for one, doing post-mortems ontheir rifle butts, record covers carrying the first life-sized zippers and mashed up rubber dolls; Cher Bonogetting up nerve and a career to name her childChastity but walking off with a card. By the end of the decade they were asking questions. We had landed on the moon per schedule but whowould have believed in the efficacy of Rock or theefficency of napham before Vietnam? Frosted hair. Body paint. The sixties produced a lot of it. With onebullet, the Beatles, the secular saviours, werebreaking up. Before they had finished reuniting theworld. Before the history of music could be written. Before John Lennon, did we dare trust ourselves, World leaders, gurus? That was the meaning of the assassination. Page 77History won't budge an inch for neophytes, TheClockwork Orange was instructive but didn't go farenough. Frodo wouldn't live in Yorkville today ifgiven a chance. Now for the most poignant mental lapse of the Candlecarriers, mourners and mock biers with frozenflowers. Simply the reminder half the populationdidn't share his vision. Veterans grumbled. The presspaid more attention to this solitary event thanArmistice Day. Schoolchildren tittered. What wasthat? The so-called generation gap seemed poised onthat comment. Then John's comment the Beatles weremore popular than Jesus ChristDonovan didn't survive tunes like Epistle to Dippy. Lennon won't survive the Elvis Beatle syndrome. The lights are going out on the sixties, The eighties are austere. Cherry cokes are the memory of a laugh. The Purple Onion only causes perplexion like CharlieBrown's Great Pumpkin. Forget about words like "catalyst". Lennon was the conflageration. Graffiti after him has renewed licence. *************************************** Page 78POGROM There is an unhurried resemblance to pain, here, this Fiddler on the Roof commodity, potables, fineoaken chestfor one and furs; but wait, the Czarist police are busting up the place --a program is having its desired effecton our emotions, the wine cellar smashedas tears are falling like bloody heapsin the red snow, cuttersledscarting off the sundry feelingswe've invested in, a relationshipalready staledated two years old. *************************************** Page 79BRAGGADOCIO Chess playing Death-- no, the reverseDeath sitting decked out and self-satisfiedin black no mandatory top hat but a shroudshouldering a cowl. There stereotypes end --appearances have to be kept uptho' hardly any cinematic gnarled fingersof Baron Samedi famerather pudgy digitals reflectinggentile prosperity(after all, Winners do take allhis fellow satanists bank on it). Of course, such things are fictitious. Death plays no favourites (and waitsfor no man when rivalling Time). Still, parlour games are one indulgence. Hardly comforting to know human beingsfunction at one purposewhen this Hallow of Hallows puts on the smirk. Dalliance with the victim is the upshot --the chess motif again. Sift thru the chicken bones a mite --let the chump stir the rubble of his dreams. Something of gallow's humour or gangster largesse. Page 80Offer a stiff drink (brandy will do), one last cigarette. Then, too, for beaten gladiators toiling bravely theapparent rewards accelerate. Truckloads of flowersat the funeral, for instance. Preferential treatment forthe guise or mercy must be kept up. All lies in appearances. Prepare the feast. Sit theguest of honour on a splendid cushion, then serve updish after sumptious dish. Dining splendidly on one's own childrenunbeknownst is a favourite -- maddens the victim noend. Brief success turning to bitter sawdust is the suprememoment of ecstasy. Serves precisely as metaphoricextension of all earthly reward as illusionary. (Adelicious ruse borrowed shamelessly from fellowrepresentatives on Earth --the Sicilian Mafia. )Further spin-offs centre about the Absurd But spareus juvenile intrigue with petty omens like a bird loosein the house. Rather, a swift check-mate served up inthe best Grandmaster tradition is more a propos. Therein lies the jest. Workaholics and their polar opposites, the dead lazy. Effortlessly come around. When realization hits homeall distinctions blur. No difference. Sharp laughterunceremoniously greets even the self-composed. Page 81Especially intriguing are the ambitious. Endlessquirks really. Concerted mockery recreates further patterns offutility. Basic strategy remains unchanged, though. Disguiseis paramount. Dress her in robes of tarter gray, implant a slight smile, then beckonfrom around each corner. Create a maze, but attractive-like with flower pots. Faint knockings behind every door. A cooling breezeoverhead. Genuine affability like an open air Swiss cottage in asummer meadow. The greater the false hope, the greater the finalsquirming. Funny stuff, for even Death at one remote corner of hisbeing partakes in occasional mirth (why not, with hismonopoly intact on everything else). *************************************** Page 82DRESS REHEARSAL "The universe is expanding". There's cause for reflection and bound to do wondersfor "who am I" queries. At this late moment on the Celestial Clock, man isn'tsure if he's stumbled into a Black Hole or just thedebris from the Big Bang Theory. Many of the earth's residents desperately want to beE. T. 's -- travellers with carte blanche passportswelcomed in any galaxy. Therein lies the ultimatetwist to "getting away". Alas, what if we're alone? What if the universe expands so much it forgetsthere's an inhabited world and obscures the planetfrom our collective vision? Sobering stuff. Meanwhile, on a spaceship earth preparations areunderway. Preparation to abandon the planet. Preparations to forget life is a serious matter. Preparations to drown protracted speculations aboutexistence's intensity. E. T. Mania is carrying the day. People adorn stuffed, life-sized dolls of imagined creatures on thedashboards of their cars. Children queque up forhours to get gingerbread designed from scary, monster dough. Everywhere, the question oneveryone's lips is "how many of'em are there"?When will contact be made? Will they want to throwin their lot with mankind or "take over"? After all, it'sour Arc. No one seriously wants reminders of VonDaniken's chariots riding again or the genetic mumbleabout intergalactic breeding. Going to bed with E. T. Is too much. It's the OuterLimits. Propriety still has some hold even if MarianEngel did slip up and get it on with a bear. At least Page 83that was recognizable earth life. Darth is too much ofa transition even if it's only a One Night Stand. E. T. Is just like Bambi. He wants to go home. And alone. He's not interested in sex. Too many other myriad problems are floating in hisadorable, gelatin head. Surely earth women can relateto that. Surely, if the universe is expanding, then it'sbecause of intrigue in high places. Because cosmicparticles are hammering out new definitions. Anyoneof a thousand theories. Star Wars can stuff it. We want "peaceful" contactand on our terms. Ask Orson Welles. Or H. G. Wells. Time machines are old hat and another invasion inNewark is too much to absorb. With NYC across the river, they've already got all theaction they can handle. We like our extraterrestial life tailormade andpreferably in our own image. We're prepared to acceptthem if they conform to stiff criteria. They have to belike us and prepared to cooperate. Seeing eye dogshelp the blind, horses were good draft animals forcenturies. We might even want to decorate it like theHindoos do elephants; make it into a "religious"procession such as a Roman Triumph. It would be thesame for outer space visitors. No mutants or RovingIntelligences allowed. Earth is "off limits" tomarauding predators -- we'll fight at the suggestionthey're here on "reconnoitering missions" as a preludeto Conquest or the Bermuda Triangle is one of theirmany "staging areas" or dress rehearsal sites. Earth for humankind carries more immediacy than"Canada for the Canadians". If they are "out there", they'd better behave. Page 84Hollywood's got it all figured out. There's no shortage or scenarios. Life support systems will be rushed wherever there isa sighting with artillery back-up. The Pentagon is in control. The Moonies have asked to be informed. Crackpots the world over await deliverance. The Earth has big plans for the visitation. Contact would displace Ihe Copernician revolution as"a first" in blockbuster events: edge out Columbus'hat trick, even erase Caesar's Gaelic campaigns. Such things are no longer "relatable". Every school kid can fathom "aliens" even if he can'tdecline a Latin noun or understand the causes of theRenaissance. Unveiling the first spaceship would cap theevolutionary quest for Enlightenment or realization ofa greater Oneness. The universal thirst for knowledge would be satisfied. Still, our trek to the stars would turn in on itself if theygot here first. Something like the Seminoles arrivingin Paris in the 13th century overland from Nice orfinding an orangutan piloted the Viking ship, SuttonHoo, into Vineland. It's barely credible and has to beremade into "tangible" dialogue. No sapient, redpuddles or Dryads need apply. Fuel up theCrematoria. Break out the electric cattle prods. Theymay be common as blades of grass in a meadow but it'sour show. Orange Pekoe intellects will naturally besuspect. Benign intelligence better be the order of theday. Earth is a "closed shop". Everything Koltur. Everything above board. No renegade "interpretations". When will the Juggernaut be?Human nature is nothing to toy with.