08-30-2014, 08:50 AM
(Written for Jack Hirschman, wise man, poet, and
regular of North Beach, San Fransisco.)
I left a man in a bed of blue sheets,(the
Glacial tips of Greenland's hoary frost).
He was an Argentine, and as warm. I left him
Laying as a wide river, in summer-lays there,
Thickly in its bed,
And the stretched eye of sun leaked into the glassy
dome of day.
I went looking for you, Jack.
After all night, no sleep.
Only to stand beneath your big brown mustache
Like a mountain to my cold frail light.
I came looking for you as if you were a monument.
Running down toward Filbert and Union streets.
To the park and your green mustache in the beards of
blue trees in the wind.
I came looking for your mustache in the cafe Trieste.
Your mustache to feed me it's trees.
In the street, on the streets, between the park and
the tables and chairs in the cafe.
I left Ronald and Lisa, Rosemarie, Redo and Robin in
decked constellations holding convoluted
conversations.
Rosemarie's Modigliani eyes (but worse!) and her hair
to tease the stockings of your feet!
Ronald's long distance bird calls that ring in
forrestrial forevers and evers and evers.
All of them stroking desire into my toes. The kind
that sends me running out from the cold rain of my own
sex with a fever for companeros mi amore....
But Jack, your absence is a humorist play, a symphony
of jokes on me.
I walk along clicking my tongue to bells chiming out
of St. Francis' of Assisi
ringing sundays ascension through the cathedral.
My heart looks for you in buses and higher to meet you
in the trees. A northern glacial journey. (Greenland
being Noah's flood in fixed stead).
I, a blue blooded princess, bejewelled bedstress for
you
am strewn into daylight,
Blurring out of sight,
no longer archetypically yours,
A snowman come june.
regular of North Beach, San Fransisco.)
I left a man in a bed of blue sheets,(the
Glacial tips of Greenland's hoary frost).
He was an Argentine, and as warm. I left him
Laying as a wide river, in summer-lays there,
Thickly in its bed,
And the stretched eye of sun leaked into the glassy
dome of day.
I went looking for you, Jack.
After all night, no sleep.
Only to stand beneath your big brown mustache
Like a mountain to my cold frail light.
I came looking for you as if you were a monument.
Running down toward Filbert and Union streets.
To the park and your green mustache in the beards of
blue trees in the wind.
I came looking for your mustache in the cafe Trieste.
Your mustache to feed me it's trees.
In the street, on the streets, between the park and
the tables and chairs in the cafe.
I left Ronald and Lisa, Rosemarie, Redo and Robin in
decked constellations holding convoluted
conversations.
Rosemarie's Modigliani eyes (but worse!) and her hair
to tease the stockings of your feet!
Ronald's long distance bird calls that ring in
forrestrial forevers and evers and evers.
All of them stroking desire into my toes. The kind
that sends me running out from the cold rain of my own
sex with a fever for companeros mi amore....
But Jack, your absence is a humorist play, a symphony
of jokes on me.
I walk along clicking my tongue to bells chiming out
of St. Francis' of Assisi
ringing sundays ascension through the cathedral.
My heart looks for you in buses and higher to meet you
in the trees. A northern glacial journey. (Greenland
being Noah's flood in fixed stead).
I, a blue blooded princess, bejewelled bedstress for
you
am strewn into daylight,
Blurring out of sight,
no longer archetypically yours,
A snowman come june.