Elysabeth

64...nothing to do with gray souls

out of time

out of words

9:22 a.m., reading Deka 3

cat food

bologna sandwich

Absorbing

silent memory

remembering

canned wisdom

fountainpen

Sneaking downstairs, 2a.m., for

icecream

falling, stifling screams, too early

you asleep

drugged sleep

screaming...hand over mouth

down too fast

knee popping

flashes of future

Or so the tech's eyebrow, raised,

pointed out

of time

out of words

I returned on crutches

knee a basketball

Pinned one sheet, denied your

culpability

denied my right

or wrong

Master.

Saw you at the Food Bank

loading your limosine trunk

with grits, eggs, bread

everything white

why do you pretend?

Laden left you scraping

like me

but I had no seals'

dark deeds

kept invisible

from the public eye

stamped on that pyramid

does she have a new designer gown?

Will you both attend that conference

in the rose garden

while remingtons, berettas, glocks

laser crowds

seeking individuals concerned

with their nation?

'Give me your tired, your poor'

Slithering towards a drizzly dawn,

the sun hides in the East.

Must I move...can I?

Or write words into the screen

which does not answer.

If, according to some, this is a

travesty,

see Season one, of

the Game of Thrones.

A dragon will answer you.

Not me.

Not this time.

It's 5:21a.m. and I'm late as a crate is square.

Need to answer, question everything out there.

So, gimme, gimme, gimme questions

and I won't cry,

nor flutter over nonsense on the fly.

Custer, you blew the Washita sky-high,

women and children too.

Was it for nothing that Rain-in-the-face

cursed you to die,

or Sitting Bull pawed the Plains?

How one-of-a-kind you tried to be,

only succeeding in the end...

Bull Run should have occurred in

1866.

But your foolishness at West Point

was making news.

If you're ever around Dulac, be prepared.

Come by alone, but arrive scared.

Was many a soul lost but never found.

Down

Down

Down

in marshes green or brown.

Spring and winter.

Realizing what I said,

those who are dead

tell no tales,

but plenty is said

about those mysteries.

Some lose, some win...

the devil knows sin

as a small advantage.

When you deal with him/her

be prepared to fall

from great heights,

to water ever warm, ever lost.

Down Dulac way.

How many times could I say the word 'Tat'?

How many times there was no answer...

mere silence from trees and neighbors.

No 'meow', no answering 'meow'.

Where was she...at last to be a cat?

I slept with the door open last night,

simply hoping.

At 2 a.m. I went outside and called again,

'Tat!'

Nothing, but wait! Was that a dark shadow

walking towards me?

A bob tail wagging?

But she did not enter. Walked by the door

I held open.

At 4a.m., I caught her, scratching and growling.

My 'Tat', my beautiful animal, my pet, my soul.

Did she turn wild in one day?

Did she mean to hurt me?

My soul was whole again, but not my heart.

Old 'Rough and Ready' knew death and life

there...

at Sagramore Point.

When he wasn't running uphill, puffing,

he was running downhill, huffing.

Stopping, he cried.

Who lived, who died...

at Sagramore Point.

The Spanish Civil War was a vacation.

There. I've done it...and it will not come undone.

So deck the halls and all that.

What's Halloween without a witch?

If ever a wonderful witch there was...

But spells will not cease, nor enchantments,

I would not want them to.

"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", case in point.

Didn't you know? Didn't you guess?

Yes, it is, and no, it isn't.

Some things are best left unsaid,

undone,

unafraid.

My knees hurt, and there's no spell for them.

Dance around the dark tree...

for me.

I sit here in the gloom of pre-dawn, trying.

My fingers are losing words from their tips

to the screen.

I cannot tell you of the graves down Jeanerette,

with the rusted cane harvesters

lying askance the soupy, back rows...

or the gleaming white of their, once-upon-a-time,

occupants...

or feelings of mortality

as I drive by,

wondering if there is a harvester with my name

on it, my birthdate, date of death...whatever

comes with the fact

that I walked, laughed, cried.

Who tolls that bell for me?

There was no church available

While at the doctor's office the other day...

------------------------------------------------

What is your idea of Cardiovascular Risk Factors?

>>>>not my cigarettes! Couldn't be.

Saw a coupla people actually reading real-deal books!

Not a 'reader' to their name probably.

Wait with me until my name is called.

Maybe we can knock off The Great American Novel.

Know any addicts?

Take a look around, then answer.

Who sprinkled shrimp with moon dust, so they glow under a star-spangled

big top like circus stars glittering with sequins,

causing big-trawler skimmers to go oooh and aaah

as shrimp tumble onto the high wire nets spread below,

delivering their bodies to Antoinne's, on Boubon Street,

outfitted with immaculately prepared price...

Dust gone to rust color of etouffee.

Etouffee into mouths of tourists who oooh and aaah

this delirium of Barnum and Bailey.

Which ringmaster switched the lights off,

leaving the menagerie

alone.

It creeps, it advances in splendor across a dull horizon.

It breathes.

If you could be part of this timed, immortal event,

what would you choose?

The dark before dawn, or the infant sun, silent?

You are part of the 'good' in morning,

as you are at night.

Good morning, good night.

All the same.

Or would you have an interim?

Soft shining blue, veined wings, a delicacy

matched only by lack of longevity.

Its ululating song weaves trees through

their twilight:

"Choose me! Choose me!"

until, having mated, returns once more

as more.

Having slept years in the warmth of

Earth.

Its shell cracks as it daintily emerges

to begin its song

again.

Looking back on this morning, one dove

sat the wire and sang his love.

Adamantly. Sweetly.

Is it only males who ritualize,

or both?

In the afternoon, no doves call.

Only blackbirds fly, sit, preen

midnight plumage,

casting eyes for food,

not love.

Sad..

Roosters bustin loose,

East belling green clouds...

a red one off to the North.

One house light star-bursting

shaded radiance...

someone's wakin up,

coffee's on,

cat's scrounging...

I am alive.

God forgot them.

Carried away with angels and demons,

he forgot them.

Along the banks of the Euphrates was

the Garden of Eden...

snakes.

And things that follow snakes...

human, I think.

Knuckles trailing the ground.

Foreheads too.

Upon this the word 'humanity' was

evolved.

Creepy little morning, do dah, do dah.

Tendrils of white float over the house,

occupants still asleep...asleep?

They're too still for just asleep...then

what?

One mumbles, one tosses, one chucks.

Good, good Fourth of July, it would appear.

You packed your bags after I reported you>>> not here!!!

Took your wife, and cruised the seas.

Hidden under a scotch and water,

invisible behind a slot machine.

Did you tell her, Allen?

About your many affairs?

That thin b...I...t...c...h at the pontoon bridge,

did you hide her in the bathroom?

This parish has many faults...

you are one of its biggest, but I'm catching up to you,

ole buddy, ole pal.

Look for the Dept of Labor any day now.