Imposition on Dr. Lantry II

AUTUMN, by William Lantry, 1995.02
"...we come by love, and not by sail..." -Augustine

Whether the evening stopped what little wind
had driven me, or if a sudden change
in pressure slowed the bow, as, smooth, it made
its way around the cap d'ail, towards
the esterel, with its red peaks suffused
beneath the red dust of siroccos, I

will not attempt to say, but I do know
progress was slowly ended, and the drift
of that small boat became the same as waves'
slow movement toward the shore, where I could see
her skirt, at least, grown luminescent in
final reflections, blue, the slender words

inaudible, I voiced then, seemed to fill
slack canvas, only seemed, since the land breeze
recirculates in autumn, still, the bow
was moving, and I heard before my own
her voice, and knew that song from memory
but changed now, as I drifted to the shore.

IMPOSITION ON DR. LANTRY II

Years ago
Imogen

Autumn

Saint Cuthbert and I were at the edge of consubstantiation.
She left me teetering there.
But she kept writing me letters and sending her love.

"...we come by love,"

and laude, laude, cum laude, we love to come

"and not by sail..."

as much as by sale.
It's all prostitution, one way or another, said

Augustine

the Hippo to Anselm the Giraffe.
Yeah, yeah, I'm a ho, you a ho, everyone a ho, ho, ho, Mr. Santa fey indemnity clause.
But was my price too high for Imogen Autumn, or hers too high for me?

Then, as philosopher's apprentice with Willard Quine, I kneaded the status of sentences as,
"The morning star is the evening star."
(The question: just how to characterize the difference between that sentence and "The morning star is the morning star.")
Venus is both, thus dawn and dusk are female.

Last night the latter visited me.

Whether the evening stopped

by for a beer so the two of us could keep each other company
or because she meant to stir

what little wind

of sentiment

had driven me

before to my defective Volkswagen to go in vain search of Imogen

or if a sudden change

of plan just happened to bring her my way, the increase

in pressure

was just enough to send me packing, though I was

slowed

by

the bow

ties, polka-dotted, paisley. Which to take?
Running my hand over a fuchsia and gold striped one,

as, smooth, it made

my hand describe the arc of Imogen's dimly recalled rump.
Such a tie as this could wrap

its way around the cap d'ail, towards

sundown at a cocktail party for elderly Republicans. I discard it.

The esterel, with its red peaks suffused

--despite the best efforts of the good people Playtex.

Beneath the

tires, the red clay dirt roads of Butts County, Georgia.
I drive this Volkswagen toward the coast, trailing behind me that

red dust of Sciroccos, I
will not attempt to say

to what this embarassing passion amounts.

But I do know
progress was slowly ended.

Five years have gone by now since my brother Benjamin died.
A letter last year told me Geoffrey, friend and colleague of Imogen's, was dead.
Are there any but insulated morons whom AIDS has not by now left bereft?
Beautiful Mapplethorpe lies cold, and twisted Helms glows on, incendiary bright.
Too many Gramms of Newt spoiled all affirming witches' brew everywhere.
In the spaces between the funeral parlors and the ballot boxes,
belief in progress ebbed away.

and the drift
of that small boat

the ship of state

became the same as waves

of despair on sands of negation.

Yet I drive on.

Ten hours, and right onto the night beach, where I walk.
A mile or so north. Nothing.
Making my way back, the tide's

slow movement toward the shore, where I could see
her skirt

not far from the parked Scirocco, hidden in the dune shadows.
The skirt lies abandoned next to her blouse,

at least, grown luminescent

as my radio dial was at 2:00 AM midway between Macon and Savannah;
luminescent as my bowtie, which I pull off and drop beside the signs of her.

In
final reflections,

love is

blue,

but so is failure, so is decrepitude.
A little further on, I find Imogen Autumn for the first time in twelve years.
She is not ashamed in moonlight and surf and underwear;
she's just nervous about seeing me again.

the slender words
inaudible,

and the broad inarticulate noises

I voiced then, seemed to fill
slack canvas

pants with newly erected hopes

only seemed, since the land breeze

billows even where flaccidity reigns. An hour we are there. Two.
I get no clue about how much of the emotion washing over me

recirculates in Autumn, still, the bow

tie's smiling garish dotted arms reach out, one toward blouse, one toward skirt,
while mine hang limply, awkwardly, mutely at my side.

Whether the morning stopped by for a cappuccino so the three of us
could keep each other company,
or because she meant to climb into the Scirocco with me and leave Imogen, I

was moving,

driving away

and I heard before my own
her voice

the morning, telling me I'd forgotten to get my bowtie

and knew that song from memory

because the landscape over which I have traversed my life
is fairly littered with bowties announcing
"Meredith committed another fashion violation here."

but changed now, as I drifted

down inland back roads

to

points far from

the shore

and farther from the sure.

Nashville, 1995.07

Imposition on Dr. Lantry I

RUNWAY, by William Lantry (@harpo), 1994.11

Last night I, indolent, thought of free verse
almost as an escape, but knew my wrong
was near intentional: I thought of trees
whose branches lace together, holding up
a twelve-tone structure. Does each limb
relate to laws of chaos, or is any free?

Tonight, I think of fashion shows: how each
designer looks for some material
of advantageous difference, and the crowd
of mostly journalists looks on, then writes
a note on each. Their models, slimmed and coked
half-dance the narrow runway, and the lights

background essentials, bringing out stringed heels
and shadows echoing each other down
twelve-boarded planks. A choreographer
finds movement in their chaos, while I lean
half-languid, near the back wall, noticing
our darkened exit doors are bolted shut.

IMPOSITION ON DR. LANTRY I

Last night I, indolent, thought of free verse

flowing like Aunt Jemima's Lite Imitation Maple Flavored Syrup onto a replica of the Statue of Liberty, damnit

almost as an escape, but knew my wrong

was not the product of two wrights, Orville, Wilbur, and the escape of cerulean yonders to which far too many yesterdays lighted us.

was near intentional: I thought of trees

especially those Imitation Maple trees

whose branches lace together, holding up

crystals, sugar crystals on the edge of Tuesday morning's blue plate breakfast special, constituting

a twelve-tone structure.

And she turned to me then and asked:

Does each limb
relate to laws of chaos, or is any free?

And I said this was a false either/or. Not because it was possible to be neither, but because it is possible to be both.

Tonight, I think of fashion shows: how each

time I look at her, I'm struck (like a plastic bottle of syrup on cool-colored linoleum) by the falseness of her cloven dichotomy. The creator of the universe, she said: A

designer looks for some material

dialectic, but since God is infinitely more indolent than free verse, history is left lawless, just one more gaddamned fluke after another. And the classes -- the elite

of advantageous difference, and the crowd

of disadvantaged sameness -- are no more plagued by contradiction than I am when I can't decide whether to fuck or nap. Indecision looks like contradiction only when a group

of mostly journalists looks on, then writes

its gray on gray, signaling the senility of a way of life. Karl really was, as the old joke goes, the funniest of the Marx brothers. Can it really be coincidence that you speak through Harpo as you speak for Karl? The gods, they plink

a note on each. Their models, slimmed and coked

don't represent reality the way they used to. I can't full-dance the wide, wide world, and you can't

half-dance the narrow runway, and the lights

of reason go out, one by one, until finally we manage to get along just fine. With those lights gone, there are no more essentials. No central essentials, no foreground essentials, no

background essentials, bringing out stringed heels

and other assortd low-lifes.

and shadows echoing each other down

twelve-tone structures, twelve apostles, twelve days of christmas, the twelve members of the O.J. jury, and other

twelve-boarded planks. A choreographer

she was, before going into the syrup business. And each Marx, whether making "Das Kapital" or "Animal Crackers,"

finds movement in their chaos, while I lean

half-dancing, half-trying, half-assed making it,

half-languid, near the back wall, noticing
our darkened exit doors are bolted shut.

We'll have to go out the same way we to came in.

Nashville, 1994.11

Jeffrey Wilson

Today I spoke with Jeffrey Wilson.
We knew each other
     when I was young,
     and he was younger still.
I had been at judo in the gym;
     had just changed clothes and was leaving
     when he hailed me at the door.

Jeffrey Wilson had been at lifting weights
Wanting strength and muscle
     just enough to compel
     certain people to leave him alone.
"Girls like muscular men, too," he said.

Jeffrey Wilson told me about someone he hated.
A classmate of his
     seems she made him nervous
     when he drove in driver's ed.
He mentioned other people he said he hated.

And one girl he'd wanted to go with all year.
He'd written notes, tried several times
     to go up to her
     to talk to her.
"But when I do, she just walks away."

The evening air at the gym door mixed with the small of sweat and chlorine from the pool.
And Jeffrey Wilson talked about a bench press he wanted to buy.
     It cost seventy dollars.
     He'd decided he needed new clothes more.
Maybe he'd get it next year.

Two years later

It is now two years since I last saw Jeffrey Wilson.
I found him today here on the page.
I have written him, and he is immortal.
     He only aspired to be an electrician.

Carrollton, 1979, and Dallas, GA, 1981.10

Some People Just Don't Like People Sleeping in Their Back Seat Anymore

Pulled off Exit 43
She shook me from my back seat sleep
With one bare arm reaching over the wall between us.

Seeing me awake, she turned back to facing forward
And broke the silence of the drone of passing cars,
"Go on. This is as far as I'm going your way." she said.

I considered how she knew.
I had not told her my way,
Nor had she asked.

"Get out," she said again.
So I reached to the floorboard and gathered my clothes
Into the knapsack I have had since I was seven.

Dallas, GA, 1981.09

One I Love Changes Her Size

One I love changes her size.
I awake mornings to find her quite larger
than the nights before.
I know she is the same
--she has not left and been replaced--
The eyes, the face, the hands -- all are so familiar
that identity is not in doubt.
Yet, incredibly, this human enlarges --
wholly, in even proportion.
It is unsettling.

Cartersville, GA, 1981.02