Fountain Street | Page 3

above you
St. Catherine's head
the church is my reliquary,?a temenos of bronze and glass--?the old men preserved me,?separated my head from my body?then suspended it in the wall--?they don their vestments?in the old sacristy?and sing in the great hall,?bearing the heart of Our Lord?as they pass by my window
of all the secrets?I hold most dear:?the martyrs were perfect?only in death--?each passing was unique,?contrived by their executioners?and made palatable?by the faithful--?even now my fellow saints?peer out from their canvases?and tapestries?with a passivity?that belies their pain
chant
the acolytes stooped over?the smooth ornamental carafes?on the low table
a succoring child blessed my lips,?poured the choice wine?and chanted, sotto voce:
hair of the dog, hair of the dog, hosanna
epiphany
five toilet paper rolls?on the plunger handle,?a primitive stupa,?a lingam and yoni,?the ithyphallic Siva?sits cross-legged?like me, reading a magazine,?looking at five toilet paper rolls?on the plunger handle
the first coming
Laoco?n is still looking up sadly?before his own devouring,?wondering if this immense snake?fell from an emasculated god.
Before antiquity, gods shook?the columns of their temples,?the marble cracking through the clouds?like thunder, a dress rehearsal?before the buggering of Ganymede.
With indolent grins?they allowed the snake to writhe?in a leafy copse,?a tendril rising with the moon?licking at its canopy?until the first woman?could be born.
ipsissima verba
the rough beast does not slouch,?he walks erect while speaking?at small rotary club luncheons?or on late-night public access channels,?expounding on man's dominion over man
he's pudgy and unassuming,?hardly a feral child brimming?with preternatural powers--?yet he's been cultivating his charm?since the advent of sin,?he moves incognito, a grass roots antichrist,?the man behind the man?who never reads Yeats
the world won't end with a whimper,?but with a conference call--?he'll pull over at a rest stop outside Albuquerque?with his wireless remote?to organize the endgame from a bathroom stall
Camille Paglia edits on the beach
first draft--Tuesday, 3:00 p.m., New Smyrna:
The mermaids are swinging?their butt-thonged bottoms?beach to beach,?(do I dare to eat a peach? Ha!)?they can't sense the horror?of the water, the sun,?the leering boys with hard-ons?(jejune.... ��leering priapistic boys�� sounds more poetic)?who swagger like strangers?with guns, blasting music into the sun,?(Camus reference may be too oblique)?striking poses worthy of Polyclitus.?(remember to look at Praxiteles, just for comparison's sake)
A group of well-oiled girls (yes!)?toss a ball over the net,?a network of tan limbs?and plump suburban insouciance?(connect this somehow to the Marquis de Sade)?thoroughly unaware of the forces?bubbling quietly under my umbrella.?(��chthonian forces�� may be more to the point)
O felix culpa
She will arrive when the last building collapses
and the corporeal fires flicker into the evening,?when the wind collects bits of ash
and makes the tips of the blackened fields glow.?She will arrive intemperate and invisible,
ready to inter her breath in the broken houses of men.
She has been here since words were realized
and gods were employed to enforce them,?holding the course of temples and water,
steadying the trees as they gripped the earth?with their knotted hands,
sleeping in the white sails of man's first conquest.
commentary:
Something waits to take control?of buildings, bodies:
Trishna no longer disguised,?nature red in tooth and claw.
Now we know the reason for metaphysics:?the holy trophy wrapped between the sheets was a virgin.
Part Four
bodies
I am a liar,?you circle me?twice, I am?about to tell you?how guilty I am
I want you?to be someone else,?to tell me this desire?is original
we cannot otherwise?part, the flashing lights?occasionally reveal?the impressions?I was born with
I'll cut to the quick:?the lights are coming on?and I'm afraid I won't?love you then
the kiss
your ebony cats glide toward us in tandem--?you part your hair and lean over me?on my side of the bed
we kiss, but I'm almost afraid to touch you,?the truth may speak itself unwittingly?as I draw the sheet taut?against the length of my body
touch
the body ferries your spirit,?disconnected as a dream?from its birthing place
the space beyond the womb?is untenable, every moment?accrues strangely into age?as touch is slowly relieved from you
lament in three colors
when my heart becomes as vivid?as your apples and geraniums?you must promise to paint it--?the north light will pour through the window?into my palms, and be gone
light
the blinds divide?the blue sun,?your blond hairs glisten?on your uncovered leg
light bends around us?like fabric--?at breakfast I explain:?the peculiarities of light,?our bodies mapped?perfectly by chance
prediction
just over that dune,?that's where you'll meet her,?she'll have fair skin?and will be sunning by the shore
the edge of the ocean will tangent?the brim of her hat,?you'll make some abstruse comment,?how it flattens space?and makes it appear?she and the water are touching
twelve hours in the future
you drink sake?and walk down white roads?too small to contain?your ambition
the moon is remote,?drifting through the branches,?the thing in itself?unaware of the man?yelling at it
surrender
The spilled wine spreads to the edge of my napkin?over the course of our dinner. After the second bottle,
I confess that my wife has thirteen ribs.?On the third bottle, we compare traumas.?The gay waiter interrupts?with the indifference of a Greek chorus:
'our most popular sin is the chocolate souffl?'.?An hour later, my red napkin could pass?for a thin sheet of venison tartar.?The waiter pours