The Project Gutenberg eBook of Point Spread Poems, by Paul Cameron Brown

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Title: Point Spread Poems

Author: Paul Cameron Brown

Release Date: March 2, 2010 [EBook #31477]

Language: English

Credits:

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

POINT SPREAD POEMS

BY

PAUL CAMERON BROWN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

9 WINDFALL

11 TURNCOAT

13 GANGLAND

15 NIGHT FISHING AT ANTIBES

17 SABBAT

19 SHIVAREE

21 POINT SPREAD

24 (THE TORONTO STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30,1985)

25 READING THE TIDES: PETROGLYPH PARK

27 FABULIST

28 ACE OF SPADES

29 WILD CARD

30 1920'S FLICKER

31 CANDLELIGHT IN BLACK

32 HIGHGATE

34 CAPE OF GOOD HOPE

35 PICPUS

37 ILLUMINAIRE

38 CARNIVAL AND LENT

40 TERMINAL LIVING

45 MIDPOINT

46 TWINKLING OF AN EYE

47 SERENADE

49 HIDDEN AGENDA

50 ADVENTURER

51 SLIPPER

52 HELLULAND

53 TRINKETS

54 A THIEF'S NOTEBOOK

55 WARHORSE

57 TEETER-TOTTER

58 CHEMIN DE FER

60 WITHIN REACH

62 COUNTESS

63 COUNTESS II

64 PALEFACE

65 CUD

67 CURRENCY

68 REFRESHER COURSE

69 GHOST TALES

70 WANDERLUST

73 PASTICHE

76 BOCA

84 WORK IN PROGRESS

88 HARDCASES

"In the five and dime

store where I first fell

in love with unreality."

Lawrence Ferrenghetti

WINDFALL

Photos along a soft-centred wall

like assorted chocolates

with prized centres,

tiny miniatures--

full portraits

the young army major, for one,

in battle fatigues come full family regalia.

Mounting the staircase

(tearing back the chocolate paper)

shroud hand on the railing,

pressuring the cherry liquid

into oozing burst of memory,

the nectarine orange of a summer's day.

Swing & garden loom into view,

the mind plays thoughtscapes,

a tag ensemble, along the wall.

Old colours (or lack of them) abound--

the antiquated dress & hairdos

of grandparents that speak lavishly,

into taste buds, across the fallen years.

Ivy & ivory fan, kitten on a rocker,

cradled baby that amounts to me,

the sun coming home to roost on this plaintiff, pleading

wall.

Passage of thought

into this chocolate box--

the lid off stern memory

prying forth a directory of

mouth-watering choice,

or so the advertisers' claim.

Yet do we ever thought

over what we taut (in our heads)

we are? My dad in Kenya (a time and age

from this perspective like the peanut brittle)

or grandfather, about eight, from the dreamy,

dark cream & nougat reaches of layered black space

that speaks the aeons ago--

his manner and distance a smoky haze

from the twilight "special occasion"

Black Magic chocolate box.

[9]

TURNCOAT

Sitting in the spendthrift dark

lilting pennies away,

deciphering fate ... .

The bed, a warm reach past

the pillow

like personal mortality in the

incest breath of life.

Warm stuff of dreams--

the calender with its days mesh &

march like soldiers

dearly departed

(cindered and bludgeoned)

or the old sea-faring chest

where all men are sailors

past light's corner.

Sturdy trudgeons,

clock bursts thru the room

mindful of time and aching,

decaying things.

Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains--

a remembered Rembrandt,

self-portrait of the old man

standing alone in a clammy room,

idling the seconds, with drab

browns and grays;

that sea-faring chest, again, speaking

of depleted journeys.

Mystic and occult moods,

worlds caught in a single glance

off the wall paper standing abreast

the lamp

and the mirror, back from

the pace of a single thought.

[11]

GANGLAND

A sailor, "tatoo you,"

the cigarette Players

with tape-deck playing

a jaundiced "Yellow Bird",

Cerveza, Dos Equiis, the

two horses, in red flame,

across the label.

Trolling in a deep sea-trench

(spinners and chubb),

the dark night

a religious procession,

acolyte stars in hymnal to the wind.

Across the channel

a Party Boat

--the words almost demand capitals

with actions so diminutive--

creased laughter "to go" cross the waves

flicker of lights, siren call

then a lemon shark strikes the bait

on anchor reel, Horse-Eyed Jack

perhaps borrowing the name

from the Outback--

think pantomime, enter Wahoo

and the aesthetic of fear

crazed fish jack-knifing the boat.

Someone produces a cheese tray,

warm wine

the small shark caught in a

role reversal lies bludgeoned

under the seat, even there

a halo glow surrounds the eye and

cobalt snout, but it is the grin

that takes the edge off antics

of the Party Boat

some bedraggled hundred yards away

this Death's Head cocktail,

"What's your poison" leer

teeth like naked light bulbs

against tenement stairs

protean hoodlum a millenia away.

[13]

NIGHT FISHING AT ANTIBES

A beach back of bric à brac,

wine goblet of sky ....

the horizon beginning

somewhere between Nod &

nigh unto forever with

only the sigh of a Casuarina pine

or sea-grape to force a smile.

It was entering into twilight

--our minds were sailing ships,

mere vagaries upon the waves,

mine more a clippership

on the Frisco to China run.

Soirèe intimée,

apèrtif, digestif?

A bottle of rum

with Eleuthera for a name

--the prettiest coves

have steadfast winds

dark about portside.

Silvery light of stars,

the stars like black hansom cabs

with livried footmen before

shark-toothed clouds,

a shark-faced moon,

the sight of a shark breaking water,

lemon-white its gullet with the

Big Dipper stuck in a shark tooth.

Diamondhead or Copperback?

Carpetbaggers ... the moon's silver tea-set

giving birth to wonderment

flooding in affection

a Raouel Dufy lithograph,

some decrepit Neapolitan fisherman

zoning his epic life

to human proportions.

[15]

SABBAT

Picturesque Tituba, steeped in Obeah,

in a hairball swoon

leads a harangue about witches with

some of Salem's more delicate

women, obedient children.

In verdant outcrops of the imagination

fuelled by a beldame's winter fire

amid sparks that prance with devils

thru tempest gloom

covens are conjured

so they implicate other pretties

with raven hair,

arm curled, in desperation,

about the moon.

With supernatural hands extended

the sea is a wretch's bitter vinegar

pounding the little, eggshell homes

where, at twilight, a dozen village Elders

with bell and taper,

candlelight and prayer

bind parchment oaths

to envisage clandestine pacts, sabbats,

obscene sojourns.

Peculiar cat--

straw hat,

thatch and loft

a drop of blood sputtering

then drawn over piddling flame,

the well-intentioned righteous

demask the pain-fed frightened.

Gibbet, arm's length of braided rope--

gang-plank, gallow stairs that smirk

off into Eternity

--a lucky few strangled,

the adamant burned,

fickle apostates swum

on a ducking stool.

Ice-fire hearths--

bonfire sheaths ravishing the strong

carnival veil

along pebble-strewn trail.

[17]

SHIVAREE

These kettle bells.

Is it the axe-murderer,

with green garbage bag

in the shadows?

No. Green trees so thick

their tops are folded hands

or knotted knuckles

to make perilous shrubbery

by the garden wall.

Yet this is a state of mind

and shards of multi-coloured

glass dot the top of stones.

Interesting. Should a sociopath put

out his shingle, come calling,

a much under-estimated, rude uttering

would take place.

Still bees are active in the night air,

not swarms, but a hum. Pleasant odours waft

thru stiller air. There is no charged electricity

to things, no tautness or leathery tightness to

individual seconds. Still and stricken still.

Yet "what ifs" come slithering

as if serpents along

a pasture floor.

The diabolical. Rich desire to impregnate with evil,

To embarcation upon conquests.

To embolden and make one's mark,

however ridiculous to the sane and balanced mind.

Horrible. The dirty laundry of just one

over-flowering and too abundant mind gone wrong.

One single blossom out of place and "killer".

Off-kilter. Out of whack. The

pickle short of a jar syndrome.

Then there's the hoots and shrill cat-calls

withered by horse laughs. Guffaws with tattoos and

rifle-butts.

Laid back "good ole boys" type of humour going wrong

soured by too many visits and skunky beers from the

Orchid Lounge.

Rinky-dink, honky-tonk. Dotting the landscape with worn,

thin cars, trouser legs piled up, the "f" and "s" words.

Charivari. A timely entry. A buzz set to sound, a faint

blinking button with no sound. Suckers in the creek

breaking water to catch flies, churning mud bottom

by their too turbulent tails; a bird hitting the window

only its night. The echo of moths lost to the stars

with each jarring knock.

[19]

POINT SPREAD

The skull in the box is that of Cornelius A. Burleigh, the first man to be

hanged in London, Ontario, August 19, 1830. The public hanging attracted

an audience of over 3,000 when the village of London numbered only a

few hundred. Because the rope broke, he was hanged twice! The top of

the skull was taken on a world tour by Dr. O.S. Fowler, a phrenologist.

This part of the skull was presented to the Harris family.

(Eldon House brochure)

Off memory

& a dare,

the grave man

coming to a bitter end.

Burleigh, top of his

skull reminiscent of a laundry cup

(or toothpaste cap) separated from

its yellowing, rightful owner.

No jaws of life here--

rather vengeance beyond death,

shellac & varnish twist shoved

to the withering bone.

Phrenology,

sinister "fin de siecle" fingering

of the intellect's character

through guru-dimensions of the head,

(pseudo-savant/skulduggery clairvoyant).

Thimble-full thinker, sleight of hand

smoke'n mirror trophy hunters

boisterous crowd in a

"hanging mood". Coins

flip on the outcome

while town drunks reel;

The village idiot getting

into the "swing" of things. Point spread

across the yawn

of death ...

brittle behaviour,

the sharp edge of beetles

clicking in the dark.

And I thought

of institutionalized evil

& rabid passion for revenge

pursued beyond the final resting place--

most private skeletal remains

held up as curios. Medieval burning of a heretic's bones,

manure pile for those decried damned;

the cross-roads

drive your cart over the

bones of the dead,

the remembered suicide's end.

Not so strange

given human nature,

Lord Byron's silver drinking cup

runaway Ethiopian slave

(twisted paean to romance)

or Hand of Glory,

corpse-fresh from the gibbet &

famed forges of France.

Hair strands as in under

a magnifying glass, then

shards of clothing/clods of earth

covering a shovel.

The autopsy-necromancy

Nazi intrigue,

playing polo with your

opponent's skull

--Carl Sagan's Broca's Brain

red-bearded decapitation

floating in a cloud of formaldehyde;

sale of skeletons/white slavery

filthy lucre all in one utilitarian

lust for cadavers ....

Robber-birds pinioning their prey ...

Mania to collect

mania to re-collect,

shadow-boxing logic

rattle his bones

he's only a pauper

whom nobody owns.

[21]

(THE TORONTO STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1985)

Bare bones future

Medical schools may be facing a bare bones future,

thanks to a shortage of skeletons. According to an article

in The Medical Post, most anatomy skeletons come from

India and the Indian government has placed a ban on the

export of human skulls and skeletons. At Queen's University,

500 students share 300 skeletons, four or five of

which have to be replaced every year although the head of

the anatomy department says the students take good care of them.

Anatomists say it would be extremely hard to duplicate the surface

details with plastic skeletons but the option may have to be considered.

[24]

READING THE TIDES: PETROGLYPH PARK

" ... A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun

itself out in his brain ... a promise

that the rock of the world was founded

securely on a faery's wing."

THE GREAT GATSBY

Perceiving the universe

as an orchid stem,

wild hibiscus

crane & heron breaking water

--voyage of elliptical, pea-shaped

canoe down dancing images of

the underworld.

This temperature charged,

climate-controlled glass

geode designed to war on

moss and stone munching

aphid lichens seems everybit as

fanciful as any animal totem.

Grim crevice in the rock

(animistic female orifice)

fertility turtle swollen with

eggs carrying Earth thru

gorged labours of darting

salamander & the spaceman snake.

And coming to that rushing sound,

(subterranean, evocative stream)

or so Algonkians, pensive & puzzled,

paused for a thought encased in

deep, riverine bowels.

Glass slipper, blue guitar

--Silent Lake with something

of wild dimensions in Warsas Caves

(Cyclopean boulders), Serpent Mounds,

this runic enchantment with

glyphs & a cabalistic moon of May.

[25]

FABULIST

Riel veritably in a cockpit--

Gabriel Dumont with his buffalo robe

peeking from behind

a blind at Duck Lake

all ingredients intact,

a gallow's walk inevitable

given a series of probable givens.

Given Riel is an illusionist

figuring 3 days back from the grave

--that an early prototype of the Gatling gun

is in effect, that a Ghost Dance

cannot stop bullets.

Superior numbers & discipline'

mandate the West will cringe

to the Queen's Red Coats;

what's more, the iron horse

icon "talking leaves" & the

superficiality of running

a plow over the land's back

all take their calculated toll.

By some obscure, parboiled magic

Riel is transformed to a living

room of today:

heir apparent to the French Canadian

empire (nightmare) or yuppie visionary

illuminaire?

In the Dominion soup kitchen,

the rest of the country acts

as a beggar clutching another pot.

[27]

ACE OF SPADES

Parable as metaphor--

profile in hard glint of light,

buckskin garb

merging from shadow &

buckboards--

sandwiching of memory

being elbowed

thru a Deadwood City

saloon door.

Noneother.

Dead Man's Hand.

Cards strewn,

last tumbler ...

chamber on empty.

Yancy Derringer modelling the

latest revolver of his namesake,

in pit & the palm

bullet in the back

for Wild Bill, just for a keepsake.

Treasure-trove for the funeral parlour:

"they done him up well". Peccadillo as provocation.

[28]

WILD CARD

Clayton brothers at the corral,

its Earp City today

tumbleweed junction for numerous lives,

not to mention lies

swift-draw artists

encased in a memory of stone

boots up ...

with all the forlorn grace of

being pushed in front

of a train.

[29]

1920's FLICKER

John Dillinger and Baby-Faced Nelson

in a dream together

--one shooting holes thru

theories of his untimely death,

the other frying in an old-time

(e) Electric Chair

with balloons waving, bonbons

going off, the crowd in a joyous,

boisterous mood.

The marquee reads:

"Public Enemy Number One

laid to rest in a

shallow grave as

gravelly as the heart

that beat in his stoney chest."

An adjacent sign noted,

crime does pay the undertaker

but other, good-hearted folks

need look no further than

the Dempsey-Tunney fight

to see which has the

bigger box office draw.

[30]

CANDLELIGHT IN BLACK

The ghosts are marmalade

thin as rinds across toast

or the Weeping Willow, whose

green beard leans,

crane-like, into a child's

backyard.

A Morning Cloak butterfly,

maroon wet with the paint

of morning, cat paws

thin filament leaves

astride a larder

of memories.

Dalliance with the past,

smoke grey these architects

of memory

the privet hedge,

lone pine tree,

jet black caterpillar

poised about a green

carrot top trigger

laced in emperor's gold

like fathoms of the sea

held ... in quiet repose.

[31]

HIGHGATE

Angel Inn,

come off a sign

blown sideways

in the sugar and ices

night.

Old St. Joseph's

Cathedral, bottom

of the hill, here

Andrew Marvell

of "coy mistress"

fame sports a plaque

remembering "time's

winged chariot" and

farther (further!) up

a quaint pub gives accolades

(Kudos, too) to the fact, 1666

nefariously was the plague year

in London--Parliament Hill,

a brief arm stretch away,

posited strangled chickens

and other assorted heirlooms

in vain attempt for poesy

to thwart poxy.

A stone's throw

off in Hampstead Heath

guns (Big Berthas) could

be heard from the Somme,

German dirigibles dropped

incendiaries, the wounded entrained

at Charing Cross and a rascallion

(John Keats by name) drained

a draught at Jack Straw's

Castle near the Spaniards

while Turpin's hanged corpse

was soon to resemble good

English oaker casks

at the Flask.

[32]

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE

Poltergeist activity

--the sun winding like a staircase

onto the pavement,

rickety afternoon

shooting back thru

shawls of the city.

Tippy-toe. Curtains

ajar, a face at the cross-roads looking,

looking for all the world as

pavement stones,

greasy & black, a thin

oiled compliment to

Mrs. Blight registered

at Old Inn Road.

[34]

PICPUS

The day I went to LaFayette's grave, the

concierge became

our tour guide amid an old

ruin of tombstones including bedraggled

de Tocqueville's crypt (and he, heir

apparant of America, too).

There, too, the odd City of St. Louis tribute

Fayettevilles

after yet another "Saint" Louis, despoiler

of the Jews--both sitting, squat and apparant,

in summer dust, so shingle-flat,

mindful of Place De La Nation, more

blood-letting blocks away (so the aristocracy

might be healed).

A chapel nun then reached in loud

silence for our Lord, her black

habit / upraised hands forming a

brilliant crucifix against sky and altar.

Some francs exchanged hands

(Monsieur le keeper, after all,

obliged us by opening

a private cemetery, après heures),

the graves looked so wretched--

death stylized in military formation,

row on row,

every private carrying a field marshall's

baton only this time of mortality's making,

crestfallen, no Agile Lapin/Moulin Rouge here,

in the joyless, little garden

(not a bird sang),

our old Frenchman narrating/marching

on in The Old Guard, Grand Armée

fashion

a little Napoleonic

his cemetery, his brandy

like his suspender buttons

lost to recent antiquity.

Place des Vosges, Place des Vendomes.

A dish of plaice at the palais

and a royal hippodrome.

[35]

ILLUMINAIRE

Elfin & gold bug,

genie in the

twilight of a cave.

Virgin On The Rocks

--Da Vinci's painting--

aura light seeping toward

sun-lit crack of day,

the Master's Mona Lisa

in the Louvre

raptured,

luminescence amid aging pigment

steeping about rapt multitude.

Betwixt pit & pendulum,

another canvas--

Da Vinci in a beatific pose

(warm light of the room),

gentle finger pointing upward,

a puzzled crowd

with nowhere to see.

[37]

CARNIVAL AND LENT

Jungle, the cave

human reservoir & cistern ....

quagmire and bog, but no alpine meadow,

fairest glance of goodness in

soiled wildflower under winter snows.

Pebbles into a cesspool,

our sometime passions alive

in the outback where honey-fuelled

ants soothe enemy bones.

My blood, tempest-whipped,

ardour drawn to the surface

fathom marks the depths

sees a spectacle on the roads

queues/Carnival & Lent,

unbridled raw and raging.

Jesus would have nails.

Poison darts,

liana and mangrove sounds

with footsteps in the distance

the blow-gun or bolo knife

attache case / cellular phone ...

"I'll kick your teeth down

your throat, professionally

speaking." Nine to five fecal

beings perform the toilet-bowl flush.

Tsetse fly with design--

sapient, sand paper rough

along the edge, dry rot to the core.

Plague rats cluster in a feeding

frenzy sampling tidbits.

Swirl of the bull fight,

colour and scope, only

its a supermarket, freeway.

Wide angle, wild angel,

Umbrage of the uppercut.

Tough-mindedness, singleness

of purpose, the glacial speed of

fairness along the sorted, sordid

circles of Spitsbergen.

Our species' jailbait reason

firing up the flashlight in the dark

for a circumspect peek in the woods sleeping.

Tell me your adventures in living.

Another hour spent

strangling a reindeer

on the taiga, boreally-speaking.

[38]

TERMINAL LIVING

"Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut."

Charles Manson

I

The image complete

--collapsing corpses, rag dolls

with skulls shot away ...

ruby-red blood spurting

slipstick/eyeshadow/mascara

all so reptilian replete.

II

The long fingers of the pianist

playing rifle fire to a

captive audience,

stiletto tones;

the trance effect,

precedes a cobra's strike,

summer without smoke.

III

A glass of absinthe

--the Degas painting,

Marc Lepine measuring out his vial,

measuring the worth of a single

woman and finding her long on the call,

cartridge shells exploding

filaments of smoke

(long and blue) like a

woman's fingers up

from his death gun.

IV

Existential longing--

vision far ago, a

lost world of virile primates

where a man's worth

transcended his tie-clip

(suspenders ready, binoculars steady),

letting the stiff upper lip quiver.

Then his face the colour of rainwater,

shoe leather in that same rain.

V

"I am not a wallet," but he was

someone's son.

VI

Mystery (wretched Marc, so unfathomable

inside your debâcle, mélée that

the French so forlornly cloak,

enfant perdu).

VII

Marc, you are not confined to "why",

rather representative of a long line

of predecessors dead certain

they are nobley right. Gender knows

no restraint. Male crazies? I see the cloaks

and shawls of spectres breaking

saloon bottles with an axe cursing

demon rum, hear "red alert"

at maternity wards after the shootings

--boy babies, at risk, from estrogen cranks.

VIII

Strange, women speak of it,

Lepine died for it--his ersatz,

clouded vision, no milktoast he, yet

so much egg on the face this dirty

thing "Justice".

Naughty boy taking one too many

reprimands from Father, think

of Madonna's spankie.

IX

All the same, Saddam Hussein,

Pedro the Cruel (Butcher of Baghdad,

Montreal or writhing throes of

medieval pillage).

Getting one's own lid pried off--

the shaking indignation of Il Duce,

Der Fuehrer, the sanctimonious

hard-shell pose of Henry, Anne Bolyn

in the cell block for being

a witch (the reputed third breast

was a dead give away).

X

Little ripple, then blip on

a sonar screen trailing off

terminal living. Frame of reference

like a gyroscope breading free.

XI

History is a motherlode of fanatics

by virtue of association.

Wrong-minded'?

Why not, I never met anyone

who was wrong.

No joy in loveland, everybody

revelling in certain certitude this

balkanization of the sexes, Holy Crusade,

Jihad of the gender.

XII

Save us from people who are right,

the "firm but fair" rabid feminists,

rapid virilism crescendo intellects

with egos to stop a train.

Humility of purpose is decidedly

inferior to quiet perseverance

in the truth.

XIII

Inner light taken outside is

fiery and blinding.

Quietism. Pietism.

Everything is a calling or,

in the religious sense, vocation.

What is not a longing'? Craving?

Itch before the scratch?

XIV

The last, inner spike of saintly sanity

snapping to "calling", that siren

song persuasion Lorelei made

vision.

So watch their faces--lips set,

eyes aglow giving us all "an offer

we cannot refuse".

Silver or lead, red hot poker

up the innards in the name of

Self-Determination.

Columbian drug-lord, hat off

cleaning her glasses after

The Hit.

There is no substitute for victory.

Conviction has its price.

Its a funny, old world if only

Maggie Thatcher knew.

[40]

MIDPOINT

The thin, feathery blue

egg-shell curtains gently tossing,

the tin smile

of the roof armada

its metal armour flashing

to inch their shingle way

into escalade-escadrille formation

and leathery sky.

[45]

TWINKLING OF AN EYE

On twin tails of a comet

penguin men polka dot

the night------

waddle white suits

past pale the white Empress Night,

flickering graveyard stars

---a pitcher of inky black

upended in a choir and manger

II.

Lowing of the clouds

lowering overhead like bombardiers

rifling the Firmament,

black braying back.

III.

Millpond, satin and creamy,

then buttercup crush of waves

[46]

SERENADE

A green flotilla,

verdant armada

stone hand encased

in an arm of ocean

off blue-grotto bay.

Something avuncular where land

meets sea

--underdog, whipped cur,

adult "son" posturing to the elder,

pontificating man.

Melaque after dark

or was it Aguascalientes'?

Monterrey at sunset

prior to "the" pop festival

or Morelia, on eve

of feasts to that native patriot'?

Vera Cruz, 1915, at the height of

American occupation

with Pershing tailing the hirsute Pancho

Villa in Sinaloa

outdated rock & gunboat diplomacy

--no longer exotic fare

plate of frivoles,

fried banana

Mahi-Mahi.

On the palette,

dreams are fickle,

subject to "drunk

and disorderly resisting

arrest," outmoded and

fuzzy with age.

Policeman of the Olmec intellect,

you dance late on feather boas

this Mariachis of the soul

with glittering purse and yellow,

travelling nectar Tequila.

[47]

HIDDEN AGENDA

Mariachis, almost a Spanish temperament within those stars,

--a screen peppered to black,

pebbles as pinholes bright in the night air.

Winged bats, moist velvet foot-pads

that spring from ink spots onto an El Greco canvas

where Garcia Lorca's green, Andalusian hills

find the wind a gypsy bandit

sage, red flower of the cacti,

ballad to rakish cloud.

A ship shamelessly at sea--

the scorpion cloth of open wounds,

dark implants, sturdy oak

constellations, English yew

spouts tremulous shafts

across weather-burnt sky.

A dock in a prison of rose-petal harbour.

Piers along deep, inner space.

Our planet, rockface. Sheer plummet.

Accordion of white light.

Up green ache of mountain

the muffled sound

Goya's Colossus,

the head of the giant

voyaging thru

embroidery and stellar, black space;

tombstone lock on a pulsating world.

[49]

ADVENTURER

How desert islands

in a cartoonist's imagination

invariably are flat,

palm-studded

peopled by a solitary, abject

yet humorous man.

In real time, no delight;

such islets

are razor hot,

rock sharp

treeless, barren

slabs ... examples

of art shirking, but

not shrinking life.

Three days growth of beard,

bottle with note on the incoming tide

comic survivor swimming up

(tramp steamer in the distance),

shirts waved in unison

predictable disappointment et al,

glum hands to face

then the inevitable credulity

splitting retort

amid plaything for the crabs.

[50]

SLIPPER

When I was very young

onto school,

a slick of water curled

under a behemoth, silver poplar tree ...

there, white underbacks

of leaves waved in showy pride the

dead underbellies of bass ...

as tall boys,

big with rakish, probing, anthracite eyes,

stooped in the creek

their red, exposed flesh

colour of school brick.

[51]

HELLULAND

We built bottlecaps off

ship's sides

(soft, cedar bough),

Viking masts

shining thru imagined

Norse seas.

Sporting logs,

(sweet, cedar-wood shavings)

piercing beer hats/silver foil,

grey wraps & burlap,

Atlantic capes,

our twin peaks soared.

New Found Land

(a child's faery shrimp logistics

aide-de-camp simplistics)

marvelled tale

of warm, butter moon

with outpourings around

penknife's blade.

To tame Sutton Hoo,

(I am very close to myself tonight)

bronze copper, cruising wintery water,

Anse aux Meadows,

occasional dirt shack

skraelings,

jagged blade & arrow

backward into time

for Helluland,

yet marooned in the Land

God gave Cain.

[52]

TRINKETS

My mind a buzz saw,

wood chips in decapitated thought

soil chilblained hands

II

Cleansing wood,

the keen smell of sawdust

--good, raw earth drenching

the nostril, clean odour

of nature like my brain,

a broomstick sweeping

the coffee pot speaking ...

bubbles massed in steam

inchoate in their pensive rivulets.

[53]

A THIEF'S NOTEBOOK

Baggage. Banal brigands,

turn-coats, stiletto to dirk

appraise warm flesh

upraised over a pie-shaped sky,

bread crust moon.

On oyster rock,

with grinning, red hibiscus,

jute and henequin

smother the lavender caress of stars.

[54]

WARHORSE

Taken as metaphor ...

Ophelia's funeral oration,

derogatory snout

of the Morning Glory

breathing pollened fire

overladen steps of the church.

II

Limestone rock

caulking in grey

limpid cracks ...

doublet and hose

then gold doubloons

down sunlit honey

where a smear of red lichen

onto brown-yellow moss

colonizes rock.

III

Poor Ophelia, dicing

for a sedentary-free Hamlet,

duty-free of fissures + frost.

IV

Elusiveness,

water rushing over stone

torrent of words

(Ophelia receiving these),

red hand of the berry

swollen shut,

prisoner in the dock

bird of quarry, pit

& gunny sack.

V

Night plummets to quarry,

sky to earth in brazen glory.

Magic of the palm

spans an upturned hand ...

"To each his own

nothing's known."

[55]

TEETER-TOTTER

He was Popeye the Sailor Man

--at least in Picture book and poem

the mind falling from a drooping ledge,

thrust of twilight though working

up to the bargaining edge of words ...

Then, synchronicity and cuteness

aside, the all too old

pretending became the

gaping edge of Popeye's

spinach can, a soul lost

not to Sweet Pea or Olive

Oil, but barnacle and

rip-tides of a brain

slipping its moorings free.

[57]

CHEMIN DE FER

Had I been

a gambling man,

eschewing the "shoe"

of chemin de fer ...

perpetually perched upon that throne

... effete kingdom of the dice.

II

I am that gambling man ...

taking free access to many

a natural habitat, lure

of the open road,

contents under a bottle cap,

the riverine delicacies

of female flesh. Svelte, like

the croupier's green vision of cloth,

tingley-trigger smooth yet addictive

to the touch.

III

Or the pleasures of Ovaltine

(not necessarily the brand name)

... by the handful or cup ...

upon a summer's day,

the mind blur of expensive art.

IV

Blackjack. Three card stud.

The poker-faced look of

many opponents peeling cards

from the bottom of the deck,

some ear-marked for success

with time-honoured stratagems

(& doctored hands) that leave me

reeling (or is it nursing) patent-made regrets.

V

Something primeval about wanting

to trade up your fortune at the

expense of the House. Ambuscades.

Indecision.

VI

Games of chance

the apt metaphor

of our daily roulettes.

[58]

WITHIN REACH

There are two images,

a moon within reach

yet trapped under snow--

an old woman's threadbare shawl

with peasants furiously working brooms

scraping ice shavings

into howls and husks of frenzy.

Ii

Then the same pond,

this time summer

with fishing nets,

and briefer shawls

pirating light's wanton swoon,

a spyglass hour moon

all bathed in yellow

colour of kerosene

--a rich creamy butter--

goldilocks let out on weekends

her spun, golden tresses

lowered onto the water

like so many little boats

nimbly hopping aboard.

lii

A kerchief folded on a fence

a man wearing an overcoat living there

in white satin swooning

to the pianist's expert touch

down magic chambers

soothing, soothing there

to fold and tear

the pileated moonlit edge

of her skin.

[60]

COUNTESS

The pig's head omelette--

something akin to a tatoo

buried squarely on the upper

torso of the man

wielding an axe,

chopping wood.

Shoulders drooped,

the bizarre rendition

had a female

counterpart

--a snake, fitted like a

fish-net stocking

coating the upper leg of

the dancer writhing to music,

so soporific,

near the copper shield

of the table,

ever-molten ash,

air-borne with the foetid smear

& puff of cigarette smoke.

[62]

COUNTESS II

Imagining the smoke burnt

imprint of a tatoo

with tapers flickering,

the bejewelled gaze a dragon's snout

must bring

or the serpent coil, crimson flame

curl of dashing cobra,

its very fangs drawing

lifeblood from the fleshy

perch in smooth, red scarifications.

On the pectorals of a sailor.

Perhaps whiplash of the granite waves,

grim trucker with a "Mother"

grasping chains

that see burly sandbags in place--

hirsute biker, cords of

hair lashing his tattooed lady

the lavender caress of scar

with implant that

of the chopper itself,

her fleshy buttocks

careening off the road.

[63]

PALEFACE

Old Sawbones, pale as a sheet,

white sand, whispering edge of the sea.

II

The mind tarries not one place long,

(longitudinal wanderings off a map).

Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)

devours like larvae,

a bullet ledge for leaves.

III

I saw in a rusty tankard

a gallon drum

(ghostly galleon at that),

a tin can floating for

all the world shores

of its alkaline prison,

pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,

brackish bench-pressed sound of waves

wedged between far-off distant gulls

and mezzanine,

dimly-lit funeral parlour

of the sun.

[64]

CUD

There were a series

of three animals

--wise men I propose--

interchangeably looking

(throwing off their guises'

as non-sentient brutes),

scrounging the grass

(eyes foddering me)

chewing on looks,

cud-like,

-one a black

goat shorn of

his devil look

and a burro,

mood entranced, in

armour of mangey velvet.

II

Swinging bells,

making me believe

the twilight caper

that morning lay

more in reindeer's

breath than any

solidarity with

oat or hoove.

III

A strange lot,

they'd ramrod their

gaze with blare

of lightning,

peering into some

primordial instinct

one normally tucks

onto a sleeve or

cranny when thunder strikes.

IV

Pelting rain,

the white mare,

streaked more like

a camel with her

own dung and manure,

(shadings differ)

the sun a tingling dew

refreshing cantaloupes;

the sparkle of their walk

investigating me

in solid cacophony of faith.

V

A form of worship, to be exact,

the Christ-child

in a manger

we four in shared trance

a growing sluggishness

to their fear building

by prospect of food

and inter-species bond.

[65]

CURRENCY

One of the cows was Belladonna,

another Nightshade

still a third, Witch's Butter--

the farmer in question responded with

an eel in tow that resembled a hoe

& a Raggedy-Ann calf

with an elixir for a tail

& a spendthrift tongue

spreading its way

thru the emptied grass.

[67]

REFRESHER COURSE

And he told them "the universe is a ripe apple in heavenly

consummation with Newtonian physics".

Comparisons grew rife with planets in the cosmos measured

against all the grains of sand on all the beaches of the world.

Sobering stuff, this astronomical speculation. Each sun a

star fathering an impressive roster, its "family" in the earthy

scheme of things.

So one kid spat on his shoe and asked if a gob,

hypothetically speaking of course, could be likened to a

solitary ocean.

[68]

GHOST TALES

With leaves twitching

the autumn air

and the burnt almond

breath of landscape

heaving relief,

the afternoon heavy-footedly

walks across

evening's threshold.

II

A garment is held high

as adrenalin in the marble

glow of wintery air.

Mud puddles reflect the faery shrimp

of clouds while cone-shaped

coniferous trees perch on lawns like

starlings.

III

High above to skating and

sugar-icing rinks in misty hues,

a ginger-bread man

manoeuvres past the ghost tails of a dead

luna moth.

[69]

WANDERLUST

Who administers to my needs?

Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that

yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen

suggestive of some actor's

smeared and garish make-up?

Or the cicada's song,

difficult to describe,

laundering thick summer heat?

Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly

especially active at the close of day and drawn

to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

If none of these

breathes vigour or tonic

through my nostrils,

what of tubs of fresh water?

Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats

and children as make-shift sailors,

then they both shall spy the secrets of seas.

Bold harbours will be their cues,

astrolabes their hatchets in which

to chart many a perilous adventure.

A volume of Tom Swift and his Motorboat

tames the haggard breast,

soothes the savage beast.

A trip to the fruit-cellar

beaded with moisture

and clammy with imaginary threat,

chastens the cobweb from the

dusty ledge and sees a privet-hedge

hawk-moth trapped against the

window-pane (a dark spot pressed much like

a pirate's patch against both time & space).

If meandering and nearing journey's end,

think twice. Better red than dead. Brooding

MacIntosh apples stain a slippery floor but

the door to the orchard is always ajar.

By night, an "I And The Village" Chagall painting

draws a lad (and landscape) to stare and stare.

Thickets of wild-grape, strawberry tendrils,

two hares boxing in the meadow, a Winterspoon

Whip-Poor-Will towering above groves of walnut, lilac.

Night air is fragrant (and lush) through a peep-hole

and gate-way to the stars.

Barns with ricks contain pitchforks

like a mis-shapen mask protruding ever

so faintly sinister in silhouette through

a visionary sky.

Remnants of ferret skin, lie interrupted,

upon entering the chicken-coop.

The soldier drinks, his tea and egg-cup abandoned.

I don't have to go anywhere.

Dark and moody, there is an

arsenal of thought with stout

marshal batons in my knapsack.

The power to be led (and lead)

stiff memory in rum kegs and wine casks.

The brooding entrance

to another world,

if not in the palm of my hand,

then very nearly

a shout and stone's throw away.

[70]

PASTICHE

These shell-queens, too,

are blithely catpaws,

shorn & musky acorns with

indexed fingers erect

at manicured attention.

II

... Showboats with green faces far as swallows fly,

a lilac in oasis ... scarlet bream

... blue ointment where the ocean is

periwinkle patches,

a robin's egg clarity pressed

between blue-nosed tavern wall

& bottles clinking.

III

See plush cords,

the suede interior

svelte & slinky

an upholstery simonized

with natural springs where

bubbles encounter founts

in apertures, the rich measure

of open ground or mezzanine curtain

slit along a riverine walk

& jungle clearing.

IV

Twilight. Golden tulip. Golden olive,

"Fool's Gold", a lithesome snake-girl

gyrates her dragon-flared, limb-length

tattoo with red-eye dots itching in

emerald waiting; footpaths overhanging

serpentine curves or laser beam

dancer legs, paddle white, under angel

tint of stage-light.

V

The cut off jeans

compete with campfire glow ...

slipping a musket-width, nostril breadth

around turbans, bonnets, bubbles. Murex.

VI

... Elegant white ibises and egrets

stand like sentinels; herons flying in

their wide wings braking and their long

legs dragging ... and the snaky-necked

anhingas flapping and sailing into

spread their big wings

to dry in the sun.

[73]

BOCA

"Nature abhors a vacuum", theorists of both philosophy and

politics assure us.

What's more, the phenomena is not confined to mere

physical science given the nature of human opportunism.

Glance a map of central Europe for further insights. One

side always replaced the other when a "common," enemy

expired.

Boca might well have studied such eventualities.

Boca was a writer. More accurately, a "touch-dancer" with

the written phrase, deftly painting the catchy one-liner with

effortless ease and grace. Boca knew his craft, be it the

arena of story, poem, drama, (it didn't matter the genre).

Unfortunately, his oeuvre remained fixed and static. Boca

never progressed beyond titles.

"A right, jolly good thing, too", said Boca in his own

defense.

The short burst counted most, whether in thought, sport or

field of battle. The utterance of a single breath. That was

it! It all lay in the aside, the pun, a retort, the récit. If this

were all to the story, there would be no doubt whatsoever;

Boca excelled.

"In the briefest expression, perhaps", said the critics. But,

as they were quick to point out, it didn't lead "anywhere".

"Where is the larger, more important fruit? His finished

verbal passion?", intoned one.

Still, this chance fortune led to the inspiration (and success)

of unusually vivid titles.

But ... titles? Just "titles", said others nervously? Yes,

proclaimed Boca. Titles. Not epithets, or rejoinders,

cat-calls even repartee.

Not even wit in the normal understanding of the term. Just

mere titles. Bushel-baskets of them. Worried looks crept

onto the onlookers' faces.

Encyclopaedic came the flowering. Ad factories should

have tapped such a larder. Any creative department could

have done worse than with Boca's dripping imagery and gift

for the keynote phrase.

"There is majesty here", said one, "and more than a little

Blake. I am reminded of the great symbolists."

"One has to be practical", cautioned still another. "What's

here is hardly epigrammatic or even purely an aphorism in

any truer sense of the word."

"I'm simply perplexed", said the man finally to his

colleague and both left without further ado or thought to

Boca's work.

Indeed Boca loved his words, tinkering with the very

essence of language.

"A great beginning", cheered a rare voice. "Let's hope one

without premature end."

Boca continued to conceive titles by the hundreds. He

didn't merely dream up a few, in snatches, he proliferated

them in vaster and vaster quantities. It was if a salmon left

to spawn could endanger a sea shelf or river bed under the

sheer quantity of her seed.

"A one-man explosion at the typewriter", chortled an

onlooker, happening to see the quantity of Boca's largesse.

That was before he stopped to inquire of the nature of

Boca's work. Then perturbed, this same man hurried away

to the utter indifference of Boca who kept a steady

pounding in spite of the interruption.

On they came. More and more titles. By the hundreds--

for scripts, larger dramas, treatises, epistles, monologues.

All. And all without a scarce concern for their ultimate use.

Are we to believe each one came to naught as the sceptics

predicted? After all, in this practical world who has use for

dreamers? We already know Boca was stymied at the title

level. Nothing ever graced his newborn creation beyond

that first utterance. It was like sending a baby into the

world without proper bedding or clothes.

One nastier commentator even alluded to Boca's work as

the equivalent of premature ejaculation. All buildup with

no satisfaction. "The promise", he chuckled, "without the

delivery".

And that is what came to pass.

Each of Boca's titles, true to prediction, came to "naught"

or, rather, nothing much. Blank. A zero. With each "title"

one ran aground on the larger abyss of its central problem.

That being, as Boca had been warned by his legion of

critics, "one of size".

What good are titles without textual description, chapters,

scenes, the "overview?" said one literary agent gruffly.

Boca, taking a respite from his typewriter, had had the

temerity to approach one such man in the comfort of his

office with reams of suggestions.

Indeed.

People shook their heads at Boca always scribbling

furiously. Always working but apparently accomplishing

precious next to nothing. "Something" was evidently being

done in the strictest sense of the word, but what? What?

"Could his ... well, problem be explained?" one vocal

opponent of Boca urged.

"What the hell is he up to?"

Strangely enough, for the seemingly longest time this did

not deter Boca. He was his own universe. His feet were

on solid ground. The air about him teemed with ideas. He

was too busy fishing for the "mot juste", he explained in

a moment of clarification.

"One man in the right is a majority", proclaimed Boca,

remembering a snippet of John Stuart Mill.

Too busy was Boca replanning the structure of the

Colosseum so it might better accommodate his label, his

notion, his re-christened version of the ideal verbal escort

to accompany that ancient edifice.

And write Boca did. Titles fell increasingly from his pen.

"The Barking Tree."

"The Leaking River."

These were but two. Boca thought he would improve on

Tolkein's efforts, at least in the direction of title. After all,

to send a work into the reader's lap without proper

introduction was like trying to get acquainted without the

proper introduction.

Maybe Boca had a point.

"Assembly without Hope" and "Nirvana without End"

touched on his mystical stage. He dropped this and

proceeded into the area of historiography. And afterwards,

dry epistemology would see him concentrate his efforts.

These forums were indeed worthy of his attention. Too

long had they been neglected. All were in need of good,

metaphoric dusting by title.

At last word, Boca was inching toward Kant's, "Critique of

Pure Reason".

"That one, in particular, has a poor ring", he was heard to

say.

On they came. Precise. Hard-hitting, or so he thought.

They made the mind's eye swell with the promise of more

and more. Indeed, that "eye" could get bloodshot reading

all of Boca's interception.

But the "more" in the sense of the follow-up, the "delivery"

or accompaniment of pages never came.

Nowhere was there to be found the Hemingway to follow

the "Moveable Feast".

Or "The Edible Woman".

Even the promise of thrillers for a scary submarine epic like

"Three Eggs on my Plate" never materialized.

Nothing. Just titles. More, then more and increasingly

more of them. Annoyingly so. Scraps of paper decorating

a table without an intended victim ever coming close.

It was as if so many salesgirls had left price tags off

matching merchandise. That's all that remained. Just the

stickers forlornly, white and detached, staring up from their

adhesiveness.

More than just a little tacky.

A woman given to comparison confronted Boca.

"Imagine a zoo where the curators had all the animal

names, but they were not paired with their owners. That's

your stuff. Everything in a weird isolation."

Boca could not be Borca and not even Carl Sagan could

rescue him. No large bottles floating in formaldehyde with

the decapitated heads from Belle Epoque sailors were

possible here.

Boca was more obscure than Gaspirilla Island. More so.

And a final verdict, if there is need for one, can be seen in

Boca's last will and testimony.

He let it be known of his intention to chisel the "ultimate"

one-liner. One to grace his own tombstone. On this he set

to work with a last burst of frenzy.

"To mirror my tragic-comic fate", as he would have said.

Perhaps Boca is still at work, either on the snappy final

wording ("the right elasticity") or in the mechanics of the

engraving itself.

Only a stone-cutter could estimate the probable expenditure

in time for the latter.

Novelists in dire need of fresh insights should enlist Boca.

He's definitely available, if difficult to reach.

Boca might have rescued many a masterpiece from the

dustbin, if not the Box Office, had his specialty been

known.

I look at Boca and hear fire bells. His plight remains the

very stuff of tragedy. By epic standards, how many Bocas

are there worthy of a balladeer and myth maker? Credible

Boca may be, but understandable?

Boca, the metaphoric equivalent of a Sisyphus chained to

his rock of obsession.

"This horrible rock", (or pebble depending on your

viewpoint), wailed Boca.

"I've become my own obstacle, my work is the

personification of my own limitation."

Worse, imprisoned in an inescapable logic and the narrow

confines of a blink of talent.

[76]

WORK IN PROGRESS

Two Chinese fellows approached me in a London suburb.

They were eager for talk.

"Karl Marx's tomb," they implored, "directions to the tomb,

please." They were pronouncing "tomb" as if it rhymed with home.

Suited up in their Mao jackets and identically dressed

without hint to rank or station, they struck me as strangely

odd even on the thoroughfares of a metropolitan city. I had

noticed they wore no green armband common to other

Communist dignitaries.

The smaller of the two became insistent.

I nodded and smiled at the mention of Marx's name for it

was Highgate and, yes, he was interred in the rambling

cemetery near by. Yes, I had visited the grave but was no

means clear it was a grave they had come all this way to

visit.

They were shy but puzzled at my redirection of their query.

I pointed out there was no "home" as they were

pronouncing it, but, only a "grave".

It was then that their enunciation and the silent murder of

the letter "T" came back to me. Like the Cockney unable

to say "h" in elocution class, their confusion was furthered

by knowing only one word for "final resting place." My

own use of grave was causing them grave concern.

They were looking curiously at one another. I doubt if they

had ever heard North American accented English. I might

have been their first authentic "American," short of a

simulated war games exercise. Certainly, though all cities

are polyglots, I had never seen two so authentically attired

citizens of "The People's Republic."

It was an amusing moment, life with the sang-froid

of the unspoken.

I gave them their dues. They had their directions. They

pranced off smartly and melted into the morning traffic.

And I thought of trying to explain that Marx, at least

in unofficial circles here, is not considered with their same

deference.

"I'm sorry if this jars with what you've been told, Wu."

"And no, this is not counter-revolutionary lies. The truth is,

Mr. Han, Marx was  ...  a chiseler. He died owing nearly

every wage earner in The Village."

Talk of irony and final verdicts. How one who numbers

among the age's savants could so brazenly ignore such hard

economic fact seemed incredible to me. Skulduggery aside,

such a thing, even if only partially true, would be scant

tribute to the fabled man. I thought of the British

Museum's collection of his writings, then remembered it

mentioned nothing of this fact. Glowing tributes, of course,

but no unofficial flack.

And I thought of the possibility of a third world war being,

in part, based on this development. Marx's embitterment,

that is his inability to pay even the most modest debt

through his writing. And should there ever come another

global catastrophe, I imagined how Marx would extend his

wrath.

At the doctrine of dialectic materialism's doorstep. Between

the incompatibility of work and her governing classes.

Exportable revolution. The decadent bourgeoisie struggling

to maintain their stranglehold on comfort. The Gospel

completely according to Karl.

That would be without considering the question of Marx's

alleged incest with his daughter. But, then, most everything

in the Marx story is "alleged." The alleged politics of

confrontation. The alleged incompatibility of those who toil

with their rulers. The alleged inertia of labourers even to

the degree of their exploitation. And, yes, the alleged

superiority of any one system over another.

Of course reference would be made to the irony of Marx

being buried and remaining interred throughout the years in

one of the most class conscious nations on earth.

Where every accent and syllable decrees one's station in

life.

Where every utterance labels the speaker according to rank

and social standing by rigid calling.

I thought of myself discussing such things with the

perturbed, yet unmovable ideologues of the People's

Democratic Republic of China.

Did they know Marx's friend and colleague, Engels, kept a

mistress? Did they care that Marx disapproved?

Imagine using the word "grave" in the same breath as

"grave offence" to discuss incest. Glib moralizing, the

trumpet of the bourgeoisie! I seem to remember Lenin's

disdainful "no omelettes with first cracking the eggs."

Perhaps all communication is claptrap.

All these fellows wanted were directions.

Their minds were made up.

They were attending a secular church, walking in

the footsteps of an earthbound saint. No amount of revisionist

thinking could deflect, in their eyes, Marxian achievement.

And you had to give Marx certain dues. That before people

are capable of aspiring to work, they must first be fed. And

all contacts, within life, must inevitably come through and

be restricted by, how one has chosen to make that daily

bread. Or, in Marx's words, how one is prevented from

advancing by artificial class barriers. Precisely.

Poles apart. Worlds away.

The two Chinese chaps and I were living proof of that.

I wondered if they would have been interested in seeing the

Dicken's plaque nearby. The novelist, too, had stayed only

a street away. Little Dorritt would have been pleased even

if the jury is still out on which thinker alerted the world

most to the evils of uncontrolled profit.

I for one, care little for the revolutionary proletariat or

repudiated communist dogma but I do like to eat. Marx

made his point.

[84]

HARDCASES

I dreamed my toenails

were ivory

and elephants came to trade for tusks

... Then went conveniently off to die

("shed this mortal coil") in a

cutter-shed stacked high

like firewood.

II

I dreamed Landover, Maryland

was the site near the

Pentagon. People got wind of

the scheme and grew intrigued.

Twigs shattered in the moonlight

as curious onlookers tried

to peek-a-boo into the shed.

III

Raisins were left out

to dry as

token offerings.

IV

Mafioso members and other hardcases

wanted to elbow in

but stiff military types

eminently incorruptible, said

"no dice" made, naturally,

of ivory turned a

deadly nightshade of

twilight toenail blue.

V

Umber became my colour

(and trademark) along with the mandatory ebony.

VI

Out-of-work seasonal elves,

dwarfs and the occasional

circus midget shoe-horned in.

VII

Nothing remained of the earlier raisins as

a variety of greedy misfits

pocketed the tributes.

VIII

The North Pole beckoned,

heightened consciousness and

sensitivity groups against

demeaning and negative stereotypes

routed the Barnum and Baileys'

dwarfs and midgets.

IX

A pile of cinders and

grey-glow embers

paused to remain

after boycotting

exposed the great

toe-nail giveaway sham.

X

Reportedly, the Devil has a toe-nail

chair in Hell.

This common, medieval belief

lingers into macumba, voodoo and

loa-spirit trees.

XI

Who wants,

after all,

discarded body parts

brought to such an ignoble

end? The intriguing thing

is in the witchery, smoke 'n mirrors

world of Obeah, toenails are

prized much like the greying

Information Age values

organ transplants for an

aging population.

XII

Medieval really.

Nothing the body profuses

is really evil,

only our intent.

XIII

Should a fly symbolizing

havoc, despair and filth

fall into Holy Water,

the detested fly not

does pollute the sacred vessel.

XIV

Modern fitness buffs full-circle

with gleaming sweat-stained temples

"glistening" with, what else,

moisture.

[88]

COMMENTS

... Unrestrained, imaginative writing.

Brown's magic is the vibrating universe,

his sympathy is his ability to receive these

vibrations. Sympathetic Magic captures

the movement of life in its intervals--

his poems resemble stopped action photographs from a film.

THE TORONTO STAR

... The poetry is fine ...  rewarding reading ...

Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic boasts

an admirable image or two. Brown can write,

without a doubt.

POETRY CANADA POESIE

... Wry humour.

The poet revels in image and can use it well.

Paul Cameron Brown is capable of interesting,

even arresting work.

CANADIAN BOOK REVIEW ANNUAL 1985

Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique ...

Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic",

c'est partir pour un autre monde où Paul Cameron Brown

envoute par les mots et les images.

DIPLOMATIC OBSERVER

Third eyeISBN 0-919581-80-3

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Table of Contents

POINT SPREAD POEMS BY PAUL CAMERON BROWN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

WINDFALL

TURNCOAT

GANGLAND

NIGHT FISHING AT ANTIBES

SABBAT

SHIVAREE

POINT SPREAD

(THE TORONTO STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1985)

READING THE TIDES: PETROGLYPH PARK

FABULIST

ACE OF SPADES

WILD CARD

1920's FLICKER

CANDLELIGHT IN BLACK

HIGHGATE

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE

PICPUS

ILLUMINAIRE

CARNIVAL AND LENT

TERMINAL LIVING

MIDPOINT

TWINKLING OF AN EYE

SERENADE

HIDDEN AGENDA

ADVENTURER

SLIPPER

HELLULAND

TRINKETS

A THIEF'S NOTEBOOK

WARHORSE

TEETER-TOTTER

CHEMIN DE FER

WITHIN REACH

COUNTESS

COUNTESS II

PALEFACE

CUD

CURRENCY

REFRESHER COURSE

GHOST TALES

WANDERLUST

PASTICHE

BOCA

WORK IN PROGRESS

HARDCASES

COMMENTS

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE