‘Plant trees for your children & the fruit will come for theirs…’

A young herder plays his flute & his leader her jangling bell & in the olive groves the trees are full & soon, before the ripest begin to fall, the women will come & spread the cloths & the young men will climb out where they can & shake the tree & loose the rest & rush to the press & that night the pungent oil . . .

Greens & black & gray & pink & purple & cracked & whole & pitted & stuffed &

cured with onions & garlic & peppers hot & peppers sweet & thyme & tarragon & dill &

sampled with breads from Barcelona & cheeses from Pamplona & a cool glass of Fino from Jerez &

the oil you’ll drizzle on ripe tomatoes & onions & anchovies & toasted baguettes & this you’ll serve in the shade

of a misty August afternoon as the families gather & the kids race to soccer & the women shuffle & riffle the cards &

grandfathers stare like pilots into the distance for that perfect place to land…

of swollen rivers & lives dismissed like deformed dogs, I’ve come to drink your tears, to intrude on your raptured fog. There’s

a butcher, red vest open to the sun, knife in one hand, a basket of bull’s balls in the other. I order mine with mustard &

there’s Audrey with her yellow teeth & skin like putty who offers to wipe my slate clean & pours a cup of Darjeeling & whispers your name

as if it could bring you back whole: Josie…shush…Josie…& there’s a gunner in green fatigues nursing a baby &

a naked dancer spread-eagled on the kitchen table pulsing open & close the lips of her vagina & Henry the florist holding

a wreath of carnations & iris & lilies & a banner which reads: Smoke One For Her Sake…

In this country there are men dusting off their eyes for one last look & drinking urine & cursing the dark &

runners who turn downhill to avoid rain & a conductor tempting fate & stirring a restless pot of gunpowder & beans &

masked men who open their faces at midnight & women in the upstairs rooms who fiddle & sing & rub glass in their wounds.

The Giant Figures of Ousmane Sow: Pont Des Arts – 1999

A light wind riffles the surface of the Seine just below this reincarnation of the battle of Little Bighorn: a bend in another river where determined men slaughtered each other one June afternoon in 1876 . . . 200 of Custer’s cavalry & uncounted Cheyenne & Sioux each with a weapon to deploy & each a life to surrender.

1]

You have come to kill me . . . here . . . on my own land & I hate you for that & the hair & skin which I cut from your head is justly mine to show of you for what you are now.

2]

This warrior has come with the rest to face his death & where he falls he arches up in one last rebellious surge of form . . . back bent like a bow & heart . . . like an arrow & eyes . . . to the sky.

3]

Two Moon’s rides high on his horse’s back & leaps up & . . . up & up & over the bodies of the dead & dying horses & men & into an onslaught of fire & blood . . .

4]

When Cheyenne go to war they wear a hat they shape from the skin & hair of a Buffalo cow & four arrows: two to do battle & two to hunt game in the spirit life.

5]

I am Gall, tactician & master of strategy & war & younger brother to Sitting Bull . . .& I am the Sun & the Bear & the Buffalo & I am here to salvage what is left.

Hearing her story jars memory back to those jagged nights waiting for the driver to run his game pacing half-pumped half-charged a delirious dance of lines & spoons heart-throbbing vein-popping rituals gone bad.

In my dream she disappears upstairs with him while I’m driving in the rain his two dogs panting after the car. I see them in the window he’s laughing his tongue in her ear her hand down his pants.

In the next frame, beside an eclipsed moon, a troupe of Rumanian dancers skim the razor tumbling through hoops-on-fire, smoke & shattered glass, balancing ballet with terror.

There are dogs barking & orange blossoms. Only after the unmistakable screech of rubber churning on asphalt brings me back can I be sure I’m alone. Chasing shadows down alleys will toughen my resolve.

Will anyone repair the lights? Whose mistake was it anyway? Will you be sure to write? I’ve only $40.00 left & a sink full of dirty silver. Can’t you see the walls are closing in? Watch out! We’re not alone…are we?

In the penultimate frame, a magician in a black greatcoat wills a snake to slither from the mouth of his young assistant. She has green eyes & flicks her spirited tongue in my direction.

The light is still lit & I can see her. She’s on top now & sucking his cock while he deftly peels a pear letting its amber skin fall in tight coils on her bobbing hair.

A queen bee settles in the palm of my hand driving her spike to muscle. Will dinner be late? Who’s left to take stock? Will there be enough time to say good-bye?

In the last frame, a tanker steals from the dock & is soon out of sight. If I listen closely, I can still hear the faint beat of cormorants & gulls trailing in the fog.

1] The Souks: day

The boy with fire in his eye & the quick hands of a thief shuttles us beyond the chickens & lame donkeys to see how wood is seduced
from a block to a box & lacquered & inlaid with silver & stone &

copper is twisted & bent & scored & etched & polished &

the tattooed hands of women & roasted dates which hum against the gums & snakes which bite & monkeys & Iguanas which do not…&

mint tea & honey cakes & a single carpet sixty feet across &

deep in the interior on a darkened street we’re led to the peddler of bones who dances his fingers across a board shuttling skulls & knuckles & toes down the alleys of my life which throb & narrow & glow…

2] The Souks: night

Men. & the aroma of roasting meat & fish fried crisp & boiling pots of broth & cous-cous piled high with diced tomatoes & roasted eggplant & chicken & almonds & onions &

Men. Eager & jostling & eyeing the foreign women who’ve come to see & the air thickens & the air stiffens &

a dozen lanterns create pockets of light where young boys box for money & musicians & singers & some stop for a meal & some for a sweet & the menu is the same & the menu is different &

Men…call you to ‘Come’ & ‘Sit’ & ‘Taste’ & chanting & drumming & you may be tossed from your place & whirled around or running

the dark streets where cars & carts converge & you cannot breathe & cannot remove your mask but dance to the drum with your caftan stained & beard askew & a thin chain that glistens on your neck &… Men…

In Pursuit (of grief)
[after reading Joe Stroud’s poem “Provenance”]

“My father had little use for poems, less use
for the future. If he had anything
to show me by his life, it was to live
here.”
– Provenance

[1]

My father died alone, shot so full of morphine he couldn’t care his wife had left his options to the docs & I, home on holiday, went to work dismantling a life file case by dresser drawer until all that remained was the gavel from his lodge & his ashes which I declined to scatter…

& when the crematorium called & inquired, ‘What’s to be done with the box?’ I asked it be dropped at sea, you know, tossed from a plane or however it’s done & when they seemed perturbed I’d not take charge I lied a bit & said, “It’s what he’d expect.”

[2]

Today, when I pass a neatly ordered field of corn or beans or tomatoes, there’s usually a man behind a plow or hoe or walking down the rows & stooping to pick something, put it to his mouth & taste its flesh to know how it’s going & how it’s going to be in the end when he’ll finish what he started.

At the city dump,
this oily mist makes the day dark as the night that will come soon as they dig for that last rotten fig or the wormy apple or a maggoty bone.
Their kids are most active; diving here & losing their footing & sliding in the slime & grunge & carrying
off the prized pieces of gristle & sinew & fat.
Underground.
It seems like underground. The drifter comes to her for solace & a kiss & she turns away & looks to the floor where a roach scurries & now
he goes to the man who scratches his leg & bleeds & scratches his face & bleeds & scratches his arm & his neck & leers at her but will not speak to him & . . . &
at the shore
it’s another who’s come to lay out her eggs – all two thousand – cracked, one at a time, until the beach is full & swimming in eggs &
the tide rises & sweeps away the first row & back they come & the second & the third goes out & back & all two thousand yolks & the tide rises & . . . &
she eats her onion,
gnawing through its pale skin, gnawing the bitter & the sweet, the juicy & the sparse & as she gnaws she drools & bites the air &
tells the story of being herself & the large size of her breasts & the too large size of her ass & the size of her long nose without complaint &
whatever she needs she will have & as she gnaws she talks of what is expected & how & what she will not & spits & bites the air & eats . . .& now the eggs are whipped in the waves & go on to the next life without a life to live & so they will lie in the froth & foam & bear witness &
the garbage mound is rank & the garbage mound is rancid & the harvesters shuffle to the beat of their hunger & their fallen pride & dig & sort & . . . &
even now, no one will speak out & no one will touch the other & the onion eater sneers & the onion eater jokes & she is not afraid & will eat another & bites the air & grins.

In Sierra Leone the intruders cut off her hands & his arms & her legs & they cut & left & in the chaos which is the hospital for the disabled all the appendages have escaped incineration & march or crawl or stutter or stagger like an army weathering winter but not in Sierra Leone…it is too hot in Sierra Leone…Here – they march like an army drenched in sweat & blood that leaks from their ruptured veins & they hunt in the bush & the back-streets & alleys for ‘Junior’ who did the cutting & wore his name plainly & with pride & his eyes glowed & his machete & he spoke mumbo-jumbo & preached freedom & peace & butchered & left this young girl, no more than fifteen years, to be fed & cleaned & used by the merciful or those who are not.

but there’s one with fast water & mountains & cars that hold the road as if I might complete some trip

as if destiny were a fact & all we need do is be there like a giraffe needs tall trees & it

seems to play well unless the torrent is swift & logs & dead cattle & here’s where a bend comes in handy

& a quick swim to the other side & a bonfire & someone hands me a cocktail with a cherry in it & my old friend Dave is laughing

with a new girl on his arm & invites me to take a break & I do going faster than we should down that

mountain road when the lights of the town come into view & there’s a fire at city hall & a patrol poking

their noses in our windows wanting us to explain which we can’t or wont or don’t in time & they chase us

toward the river & the careening cattle & David jumps with his love & I steer into oncoming

lights before I’m clear of debris & wanting to get back to my dinner but can’t find the way &

the last I see are the stains on my pants & the need for a bath & no one I know is in the room & my cocktail is warm & the cherry