From October 1, 2011

Behind me, behind my tail, is a murky green that is the stable element
And the world I understand. A few rocks, seven exactly, some sand
That flies to catch the light from all sides, the food from above,
Some flashing bubbles, many illusions on the walls around us,
Shadow from approaching bodies, creatures with different apparitions
And of different sizes, all with eyes and mouths and limbs,
Creatures who can neither swim nor even float. Their vibrations
Barely disturb our place, no turbulence. My fellows have risen
To another state, plucked from the surface. Nothing jars the glass.
I am still the sole cause of the turbulence around me.
See how my fins stirs the sand, how flecks of pyrite shine.
Outside, ungainly creatures pay tribute with offerings.

****

As you move above among the upper ranks, the more you know just who your friends, who might be foes are. Among the upper tiers, the fewer the numbers. The higher the tier, the fewer who circulate. In the very highest tier mingle a handful. The most high, the one who can afford to spurn the company who brought him here, sits behind black velvet curtains and doors so thick they could take bullets. No one knows what the most high does with his time, no one knows who the most high is. The most high knows by divination what is to come. He knows just who to watch.

Could I just ingratiate myself to the residents of the upper tiers, only half a dozen souls would get me into the sanctum sanctorum. Could I get a peak among those hallowed halls. The busts of elders, all emeriti by now, line those halls. Actually, their busts lie in dimly lit alcoves, their names in brass. Also written in stone the gaffes you made in youth, gaffes that nonplussed the master practitioner when he was about to confer his blessing. When he retracted his proverbial hand from your brow, when he retracted the laurel branch from your crown, he thought, too bad the loss for him, but after all is said and done, it’s for the better, otherwise no lesson learned. Fame’s bony finger that had beckoned now curled into a fist pulled back into a sack-cloth sleeve you once thought silk. [sleeve of sack-cloth you once thought silk.]

Those among the upper tiers are ghostly in their pure magisteriality, but they pride themselves in how low they can come down to earth as they pride themselves on the low places from which they have arrived. They can pepper their speech with profanity with the best of them, knowing when to be circumspect, when to be cautious and balanced in tone, and when to stop. It’s their forbearance after all that earned them their place. Don’t change into the china shop like an 800-lb. gorilla was the best advice they ever received. The vernacular is the blood they must vampirized in the places to which they descend.

Lay a wreath at the foot of the eminence grise, speak your flowery encomium on the stage, and keep your thoughts to yourself.

Never forget that the effusions of the hapless are like the lines cast by novice fly-fishermen in all directions, catching nothing, getting no attention, piquing no interest from the fish-folk.

From the phone booth he rushes waving, to the upper balcony he walks, waving in acknowledgement as well, barely knowing these are his acolytes calling him from the streets, the city traffic drowning the greetings they utter.

A wave of people in a throng pushes admirer from admired, the master practitioner in his suite, his assistants attending to his needs.

“I fly from a place where flattery reigns” Purcell, Indian Queen (librettist Dryden).

Life at the top is not all eh dreamed he thinks as he mails the alimony check or tries to connect with his kids, who have lived in his tall shadow all their lives, for whom he expressed little affection. The memoirs they will write will drag his saintly visage through the sewers: how cold and how small, how small-minded he will seem. Don’t go there he ejaculates in the interview, puzzling the earnest cub reporter.

To stay in touch with the plebs he descends to the crowd, both hands in the pockets of his of his funky unwashed loosely fitting jeans.

The shaggy tendrils of the beets, the farmer’s soil still caking them, he fondles after getting them at the produce stand. How long has he let the hired help do all his shopping, after all?

How he points at the antiques in the window reveals his shrewdness, how he fingers his chin in firm examination as he lends an ear to the dealer. It turned out to be a good day. He soaked himself in the vernacular of the bazaar.

Finally, the fall has arrived in more than name, the air chilly, the day wet, rain dripping from the eaves, the summer vapors blown away, dead leaves sprawled on the grass, their dampness attaching them to the car’s windshield, bright red the sumac leaves among the maples, deceiving us with promises of oriental spices and color, of schooners aloft, their cannons blazing against Caribbean or African pirates, the newly forged chains rattling below deck, the forequarters empty, Boreas puffing away, no sight of land yet, the turbulence of sub-tropical waters matching the turbulence of wind propelling the barely sea-worthy craft southward, away from the cabins and chimneys, the glowing fireplaces of the colonials on this most august and calm of side-streets, in whose cupboard is a biscuit-tin decorated with the cat-folk, the cat mother bonneted, her arms wound in a shawl, her cabin behind her, no mouse-folk in sight, not today, not ever, never, where did the father-cat part from her, her brood swaddled in rocking cradles and bassinets, rumor telling us of the ship making its destination, among the bazaars or the spice hills, of red chilies the sumac false evokes, a funerary whiff of mold and ashes inching into the house.