for mis compadres, Low McClendon and Andrew Linton
[Autumn leaves cling on. Keene, NY. March 2016. Photo by W. Falcon]
It's undertow that matters. -- Jango Kammenstein
I am the man most pursued in last night's dream.
That emaciated thing at my back keeps tracking me.
I remain just out of reach. Classic. Even there
as here I am escaping something, a life time of
practice in this Kingdom of the Canker.
It was no banker who followed me last night
but a starved lacklove rejected by Canker and, well,
by me. Who'd want that part all start and no finish?
Replenishment has often enough meant hiding out
and a demand that it keep at least 5 arm lengths away.
I will try, I tell it, to look at it but I find its presence
most disturbing. Its handful of leaves continually
proffered leaves me in a quandary. What do they
mean, this offering, though my father was a lumberjack?
Perhaps this is a track of sorts to follow for an end
to the mystery.
I am stumped.
One adjusts. Continually.
The persona is adaptation
appearing to be solid but sleep reveals the neutrality
of the animal.
Dreams tell us otherwise
when we remember them as it takes an ego to witness,
They reveal that we are
caught up into something so much greater than
flush and stir.
It's a wonder we make do
as much as we do and still call ourselves by name,
a species of animal, 'homo sapiens'.
I regret self pity.
I'd reject it if I could but it adheres,
last resort of old coots born honestly
into it no matter the copious Mercurochrome baths,
the smelling salts obviating the needed nipple.
The stippled trout I nightly catch,
pink insides turned out by blue blade
kept beneath the pillow,
baits me with the riddle
again and again.
Something about a stand of trees,
a man carving some bark,
what breath is for.
Today the Market reports a run on Mercurochrome.
Birth goes on.
I am for rebirth.
A dirth of days makes me suddenly Hindu,
foregoing gurus and bindu point.
I've made my own here.
Still, methinks I'll have your ear
for a little while longer, a handful of leaves only for
one foot well into
Cracked and Crank, the drunk tank a memory
Doubt is my companion.
Love, too. No remorse here.
Buys me time, aftershave and
loads of underwear for the trickles ahead.
Thank the gods for all that.
Oh. And one last good cigar.
[All photos by W. Falcon]