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It’s Wednesday

& the corner grocer has once again invited Marcos the elephant trainer to prepare a feast for the holiday & we’re all invited just like the time before when Maria & Nancy strutted naked in the rain & Betsy proposed a nasty rendezvous with Harold’s elegant valet & your kids began a food fight that ended when Irene was shot in the face by Bernard who had stolen his father’s S & W .38 & was known to detest anyone with black curls & that included his mother who wrestled him to the ground but not before Irene’s brother Jack shoved a bread knife between his ribs – But – this year will be different with grilled octopus all around & guards at every gate & two mixed cases of Rioja from Bilbao, beer from Finland & Grappa from Tuscany where they say this year’s vintage will be sensational & we’re all invited to Bob’s gallery for his opening & a horse race where the loser must sleep with the mayor’s wife & perform all the erotic acts she is known to demand & expects.

Interesting

as it may be to some – especially those with a horse in his stable or a dog on a leash – he never encouraged fraternizing with the help or the civil guard or even his mother who lived like a queen in his memory right beside the statue of his father that was covered with pigeon shit & never looked his way – No – not once did he let on he’d ever been to Seattle or Nashville or carried a concealed weapon or illegal drugs or a passport from Jamaica – No – when he left this time it would be to climb Kilimanjaro like his son & daughter-in-law but without the vomiting or so he said – & No – he knew better than to explain traveling in winter to anyone who hadn’t – this time he’d take Boris the bulldog & his Colt .45 & wend his way south where continents divide & like those hearty pioneers before him he’ll ransack all he finds / harness an army to do his bidding & without so much as a second glance – liquidate the rest

Aftermath

In the end / the dead parade:

Harnessed one behind the other like a string

of perch & in his book the bat-winged scribbler enters

their names / to be or not / honored by the host . . . & those left to rot

are devoured by the beasts Goya has set upon them & one owl he’s kept

for himself as monitor & a hawk to mock the angels that will or will not

arrive in heaven . . . & the monster dog he’s freed to regurgitate what

has become of the lives that were & are no longer . . .

Hola

Hola! Old friend . . .You, whose vision I’ve chased for years . . . As one from the plains who bears witness with his hands & blood in his throat . . . who speaks of the evil that men do & of the caller who knocks at every door . . .

Each day the donkey bears its burden of greed but here in Goya’s ‘night of the soul’

the corrupt haul each other on their backs & hurl their spears & pierce their own plump cocoons &

the dead will carry the dead / here where his monsters gorge on the torsos of kids & his priests walk a tightrope between their lies &

elegant women tease & flirt & are wrenched from their mother’s tit & here a raging stallion tears her flesh &

she’ll wear a mask to hide her scars & the hag will follow & sweep her up on a broom & sail over night &

here she’ll feed on dragon’s blood & dung & prefers a goat to a man & have him mount & . . . & here

the war tears out the country’s throat & mutilates & castrates & ties the bleeding parts to a tree . . . & here

a women who plucks the teeth of the dead & dogs that gnaw the guts in the pit & here the headless corpses rot …

& Francisco de Goya will not be satisfied – here . . . & neither will we turn away . . . escape

the gapping & the gawking mouths . . . the grisly . . . hush.

After: Six Marimbas Music by Steve Reich

Water: Flowing. Falling. Running. Water & Air & Fire & Earth &

They circle twice & come in low. Their ears twitch. Tongues dart.
From the brush they walk to the edge:

Take my eyes & run with them. Take my arms & craft a new room.
Take my legs & beat a path to the waves.

In your hands I’m liable for death.
In your bed I birth the lame & the mute.

Speak to me of fire, of the scars on the belly. Speak of flames in your bowels, your hot rejections.

Care for her. She’s the feather in our last nest. Wear her with pride.
Take me under the bridge & tear out my tongue.

Breathe through your mask. Breathe & at arms length dance & as you glide & spin you’ll turn & slip over the wall.

As the sun slows to sleep I feel your breath on my back & open my hands to offer the last bowl.

Here. I have made it for you. Drink.

After: ‘Punch press pull’ No Stars Please Music by The Trummerflora Collective

Can you remember that first drum, the one with the metal rim & those sticks with their cotton knobs & how you proudly marched around the living room & the freight train that whistled by at precisely four thirty every Tuesday & Julie’s eyes which were alternately blue & green & how she taunted you across the fence & her dog Buckskin who howled into the night & running home to mom with a broken tooth & no one home & blood in your mouth & the long climb to the roof where he was hammering away at his homemade boat & Jeremiah practicing his saxophone & the sun heating the tar to soup & that time Andrea fell through the skylight & had to be stitched quickly & butterflies on the milkweed & the sheriff coming after you with a warrant & everyone staring & pointing their fingers & turning away & how you left town & hitchhiked to Canada & the waitress who thought you were from California & offered her bed & stole the money from your boot & the last day of July when you won sixty on the slots & caught the bus which crashed in Detroit & the war games with live ammo & a jazz band on a flatbed & the B & O which ran all the way home & no one there to meet you except a guy playing bongos on a bench & a small girl asleep in his lap.

After: ‘From The Waist Up’ No Stars Please Music by The Trummerflora Collective

After scrambling for the last breath after chasing the last fix after wailing at the wailing wall after the big man threw the first punch after the small dark girl began to cry after all the money was gone after stumbling through the park after vomit & blood in the eye after the car left the station after crawling through snow after sleeping under the porch after the cat shit on your head after birdcalls & catcalls & sirens & cops after pistols & whips after no witnesses after a star fell after you missed my call after I sent flowers after you missed my call after I took another drink & another & after the bottle came the hovering in the calming sea after swimming into the sun after all.