Waitin’ At The Harbor

She was paintin’
black lacquer on her fingernails

We were waitin’
for the ship to cast-off, set sail

for forgotten
destinations beyond the veil;

through the curtain,
given as if receipts of sale.

Before we’re born
every baby boy and female

are taught to mourn
the weight and loss of each exhale

that is comin’
around-the-bend, over-the-hill.

Debtor’s prison,
where we’re all cartoons and chattel.

“Who we workin’
for?” we just had to ask ourselves.

Below floatin’
boats dead telegraph cables crawl

on the ocean
floor, so with a pencil I scrawled

a note to send
word: “This is my last epistle.”

And then I signed
my name with the words “Hope all’s well,

“but if this land
they want desolate, don’t rebel—

“leave it barren
for their sand traps and tin shrapnel,

“for their strip-mine
towers, television landfill;

“their machine bones
can just rattle all they like, while

“in our new land
of our voluntary exile

“lights from heaven,
will luster down around us all.

“Five year sojourn
on the ocean, then it’s new soil;

“and from now on
they’ll buy their own nine-dollar shawl

“and silk stockings:
all those perfumed trinkets and spoils

“from their foreign
stockpiles on paved fields of battle.

“That’s all, my friends,
for when the ship sets sail, farewell.

All the best to you and yours,”

—Yes, we were all set to go—

—As soon as those anchors rise—

I was drinkin’
brown liquor from a garbage pail;

It’s revoltin’
but better than broken bottles.

We were waitin’
for the ship to cast-off, set sail

for forgotten
destinations beyond the veil

of our modern
fashion: the cobalt of steel rails,

here, where once ran
trains with freight of gold and cattle;

scrap test-patterns,
in Technicolor and in Braille;

desert lanterns;
plastic cadavers thrown in jail—

debtor’s prison—
here we’re all cartoons and chattel;

bulls of iron,
that burn with timber, coal, and frail

men who don’t learn—
and they just simply never will.

Wet ropes are strung
through our brains—tighten and strangle—

oblivion
knots in our hearts; we taste metal

between canine
teeth—this land of rock, salt, and nails.

Yes, we’re leavin’
this rot when they raise the eight sails.

This sphere’s rotten,
where we toil ’till bone, tooth, and nail.

O dead protein—
O memory pursuits that fail—

—Yes, we were all set to leave—

—As soon as the anchors lift—

Gathered at the port,
we stood in the dirt;
there was a handful of us.
Some knew why, others were just curious.
Bitter Marie asked Bored Bill if it’d hurt;
“It might leave a bruise.”

Some men in the crowd
were wired for sound;
they wanted to infiltrate
the inner circle of Pontius Pilate.
They hoped to discover what preferred brand
of soap he would use.

Wrapped up in egg foam,
the Blank-Kids stayed home,
where they paid to trade in bad lies
and entertain automated ladies
with ostentatious displays of soft chrome.
’ Least that’s their excuse.

The Queen of Galore,
carried to the shore,
aloft in her bridal chair
built of kingfisher feathers and copper,
commanded we dance to architecture
and indulge the noose.

Small-Time Jennifer,
bride of the jester
in the queen’s court retinue,
shared with the Cauterized Boy what she knew:
“The Queen Mother is only a breeder
who now can’t produce.”

Her knights and her strode
along Royal Road
from her old velvet cavern
in Castle Hill, past the World’s End Tavern,
and down to the docks, to watch the ship load
and collect past-dues.

Autisticrats came
looking to place blame
on a purported cabal
’tween the boogeyman and a blow-up doll,
who used charms to seduce (or so they claimed)
a luddite recluse.

He was hauled away,
Saint Rais knelt to pray
when the auctioneer arrived,
shouting: “lucky I made it out alive!
They tried to hang me in Harris County
Just ’cus I refuse

“to play by their rules,
and broke bread with fools,
dabbled with the scarecrow crew;
besides, it’s stuff I didn’t mean to do.”

He had to tell me:
“The General, he
and his militia are still
out there trying to take Capitol Hill.
Heard they killed the whole royal family!
And yet they accuse

“me in courts of law!
You seen what I saw
while hid in an apple tree:
they made the mayor’s “mademoiselle” plea
for her bordello doves as they drew straws
’cus they could not choose.”

Then the auctioneer
whispered in my ear:
“I know when we take to sea,”
and he’d share it for a nominal fee.
But I knew deep down that he was a liar;
I had to refuse.

Next I knew—he’s gone
when men with shields on
paddled their boat to the pier.
Factory phantoms and retail cashiers
made camp while the detectives searched ’till dawn
for breadcrumbs and clues.
Scared of disaster,
Father Confessor
said he’d be staying behind.
Those ragweed merchants could not change his mind.
But then why did he load his revolver
and polish his shoes?

Mr. Hyde walked from
the plush podium
to kiss the commissioner
of police, who had helped boil the numbers.
Hyde then asked his child bride, “You up for some
cigar-girls and booze?”

In The-Little-Kingdom-Under-the-Stairs
Jack Anonymous
cleared a glass surface,
cut the cards and dealt them out
to Tom Cole, Cutty Wren, and Mrs. Lot.
Lot’s wife went all in, waiting for the ace,
but Jack dropped a deuce.

Repentant Dismas
did not make a fuss,
fastened in the avenue;
but Gestas bitched and moaned the whole night through
and made foul statements to the local press
when Dismas broke loose.

—He hustled to the seaport—

—Prepared for anchors to lift—

She was paintin’
black lacquer on her fingernails.

We were waitin’
for the ship to cast-off, set sail.

In the mornin’,
watched her linger at the harbor;

looking so fine
with all those ribbons in her hair.

We know so soon
we will kneel on the welcome shore;

welcome kingdom;
far from the city of idols.

We are leavin’
when the black tar dries on the hull.

Yes, here we are waiting still, still to sail
To that good community on the hill.

Epitaph from The Black Lands

Some men search for the Holy Grail, or,
Others, the Holy Ghost
But most men are only lookin’ for
Some butter on their toast

I never learned the odds,

I never learned to gamble,

Still I followed my God

And that little black dog down—

Down that long, long black trail.