These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
I fell in love with you. What can I do? I care for you; you are beautiful. No explanation, it's not rational.
I'm older, you're younger. I'm an American, you're European. I was raised on the Great Plains. You grew up on the thin soil of a limestone island.
It reduces itself to the basic. Though try as hard as I can, I can not end it.
To me, this love continues as though it folds onto itself, Looking more like one of those new images, Drawn from highest theoretic of current cosmology, Space-time systems overlapped, strung together, Universes within multiple universes, Dimension upon dimension, Inexplicable, unimaginable paradox, Beginning and ending all at once, Alpha and omega, and ultimately Sine qua non of my existence,
What else do you want me to say?
I'm at a loss. Right this moment, No one else, no one else but you!
Forgive, my presumption, since yet, It seems, the same holds true for you, too.
The corporal, he saw time, He saw thirty seconds, he saw temporal instance, He saw the spin, the vortex, the end point, Whereat all disappeared, no fiction, No imaginary construct, the vanishing, real, It was the same as any other solid in existence.
He was turning the corner into the living room, When he noticed the couch become clear light, Transparent, a configuration of lines, Blue lines on white background, and at the bottom, Right hand corner a lined, rectangular box spelled out Blanks to be composed at latter time, They read NAME, ADDRESS, and PROJECT TITLE.
Corporal seemed to slip into more familiar space, He lay upon the bed on his back, He bent forwards and touched he feet, He grasped his toes. He was smarting;
He was hurting all over! He suffered! It seemed every muscle, every joint ache.
My! What a plethora of subjects crossed his mind.
The corporal, he saw every crack and crevice of heaven.
He rolled up, brought knees to chest, and then white light, He caught such gigantic power, That night he broke the bubble and went beyond, He went way beyond the stars, he walked a field, The wheat had grown up to his waist, He ran full speed, and he could see himself, He could see himself stark, dark figure in the distance, While he ran, he ran, break neck, towards horizon, Horizon of black-and-yellow, checker-board-colored sky,
II
It was the moment he turned to ask her,
Their clothes were scattered throughout the parlor, It was late night and a view of lower Manhattan lights, The buildings, street lamps and bridges burned, Out the window the illumination, awesome, Out the window view from The twenty-fifth floor of the high rise,
He asked how it had been for her, Corporal wondered because they had never left The front room couch and the sadness of reentry, Earth’s gravity began to exert its heavy hold.
And she, adopting chapter and verse from The good Doctor Leary’s work, replied,
“A thousand times better, it was!”
“A thousand times better,” corporal queried?
III
Their clothes were scattered throughout the parlor,
Corporal flashed in Technicolor, A motion picture screen, It occupied the theater before his eyes, The hall was vast with long-drawn aisles and fretted vault, Chandeliers illuminated architecture, A long, flat-board stage, it had a trough for footlights, And over its edge, an orchestra pit. Ornate blocks, and floral and leafy rosettes in high relief, Accented the luxury, the scene unfolded A vision, long-ago, workman studios, Corporal saw another time, another place, industry, Beyond narrow focus of bottom line, He lamented how terrible the cost of greed, How new notions, corporate priority had replaced The love and regard for hands making things.
And upon the walls in this theater were fluted columns, Between them paintings, pictures of deep woods, These painted forest scenes opened upon coves And secret, manicured gardens whose waters reflected, Compounded a scene of amorous gods, Who were at sport, making love with mythical creatures. And when his eyes returned to the drama The show that ran upon on the screen, At first he thought, Popeye, But no, no Olive Oyl, there, Instead he saw a white-hot blonde, With long, curly tresses, bouncing from her shoulders, -- Remember these were full action figures -- Then he realized the carton characters, which played, They were he and she, They were locked within impossible embrace.
Corporal heard the music score, wham bam, Thank you ma’am, he checked, He reached around his torso, touched his back, He had to see were his spine still in place.
He wondered whether contortionists on view, A dream, or was it third-person glimpse, The camera’s true capture, the hours’ previous delight, Now projected with vivid light, Oh, the animation and color before him!
IV
He mulled it over, he was trying to discern, What was real, what was not? And then fell to warm, all-over, pleasant body heat, And heard what he knew was voice of the Lord,
“Eagle, Eagle arise… Why sleep now? It is dawn, and eat and drink, And all the eagles wait to watch you.”
And she, her face an inch away from his, She sighed and responded, again, to his query,
“It was a thousand times better!” She said.
Corporal ran, he ran, break neck, towards horizon.
It was late night and a view of lower Manhattan lights, The buildings, street lamps and bridges burned, Out the window the illumination, awesome, Out the window view from The twenty-fifth floor of the high rise.
I imagine the children hated to see him go. What a Grandfather! Talk. Talk. Talk. They could skip their prayers. He never forced them to eat. And his telling of fairy tales, no end!
*From his post, First Secretary of the Polish Communist Party, he ruled Russian occupied Poland from October 1956 to December 1970.
Remember I told you how I handled Alex? He was a bad case, eh, What with his doing 8 bags o' dust at a time, And then visiting local bars, so sick, Upchucking right on the patrons' jackets, While they sat there, all innocent, People on their stools were having a drink!
I didn't talk to him for years, Refused all contact, I was afraid, People had not realized how great my fear. He occupied my thoughts night and day.
I thought he might wind up in jail, Or dead, or a victim hooked up, Like some medical experiment, Doctors without options, practicing Last resort medicine, wires and tubes, And a parent witness to nightmare, The nasty ordeal when intervention Takes place during hospital emergency.
It's not death, for death is but a word. It is the way of it. I feared.
I called it love, my having nothing, Absolutely nothing to do with him, Until he went for help, because he seemed Unable to help himself, and cease The shit with which he played.
I did not know what else to do.
Once he called me and said, 'Dad, I've got the monkey off my back!' But I hung up the receiver, Didn't let him explain, I couldn't take it, no more bullshit, I knew he was still in the circus.
And Billy, a surrogate son, You know the story, I … I treated him the same, The same cold shoulder, not talking to him Months on end, until he realized our friendship Depended on his treating his two boys, Like a proper father. I wanted him to put His children first in life, and I meant it.
Forget about my smile and easy charm, It's never smart to test my resolve.
II
But, darling, when it comes to dealing with you, I find no form of human love prevails. No mere earthly style or mode of affection works!
Oh, the poetry! Look to the poetry I write for you. My heart wells up, the warmest regard, Right up to the breaking point, In poem after poem I tried to portray How great, how utter the abandon, I declared, were fate to bring us to a terrible juncture, A crossroad where all choice reduces Either to my life, or yours,
Gladly would I give up mine, I would die for you.
To proclaim the veracity of your physical beauty I wrote, RED ROOF INN.
I spent a year and wrote, NOW VOYAGER for you.
The time, when in Brooklyn I found you, That early, that rainy morning, I knew you were treasure. You, the reason, I wrote, SERENDIPITY!
And that I might attest to your strength of character, Express my fondest feelings for you, I wrote, then, over and again, I rewrote, DREAM CHILDREN, verse which pictured you In future time mother of our two children.
Oh, the tender thoughts! You on my mind Beseeching you, and ever so softly, so gently I sought to touch upon the strings of your heart.
And the letters, they are all love letters, And we have a pile of them.
When in this correspondence, I said it wrong, Overstepped the line, wanted propriety, And for those errors in judgment and phrase, The anger, when perhaps I put my own bruised feelings, Before you, heart, all the many gifts you brought to me, I implore you please forgive.
Whenever I lacked intellectual might, The good sense to say it right with care, Still it was you -- your wellbeing foremost in my life. My intent was proper, I wanted the best for you, And you know it! And though I wish you forever well,
Such a love you might not find again.
Yet I doubt all my love allows you any easier a sleep.
And one wonders what technique,
What kind of human love might lessen The pain, the disorder troubling you, And calm the upset delivering us To this grisly end, the final stages of our romance.
Here I pray to God.
I fall to my knees -- such the will to believe -- Ask that Munificence be granted, The Almighty do, on earth, All those things that I had failed to do for you.
God's will be done.
III
Would that destiny had been, that I had been born perfect.
And now, how I regret, when a child, I wasted time playing with crystal sets, And in the basement of my parents' home, Spent hours profligately upon Imaginary laboratory tables with chemistry, Meaningless experiments with liquids and powders.
I wish that I had I born perfect, A man fit, capable of grand devotion, The kind of guy who might do you real good, I would have turned about, Practiced the illusionist’s trade, Trained until I possessed every trick in the book. Then I could live within the mirror, And when you went to look, instead of you, The reflection staring back, my picture of you, The way I see you when you stand before me, And you and I would never loose that image, That image of you so bountiful and pure, No confusion, still and quiet and safe, You, never fade away from the center of sight.
There would be light, love, and just approval, And it would be my voice ringing through The reflecting glass, your search at end, No more whisper of doubt, all courage, End to frailty, sadness no more, We would come to the world without poverty, And know only hugs, freedom and peace.
Would that fate had conspired, that I had been born perfect, A man fit, capable of grand devotion, The kind of guy who might do you real good, I would have turned about, Practiced the illusionist’s trade, Trained until I possessed every trick in the book.
True, though now it seems strange, when I look back, Relate times we had, and see the Columbian men With their expensive suits, And me riding in their limousines, I recall those gents had super-cool, Castilian accents.
I smell the spray paint, fresh upon the scrim.
I remember the buddies, they were standing tall, And though we had dwelt in Village East, They were packin’, packin’, like we were in Old West, I hear the voice of that dazzle, the black woman, Who, though she sang backup, Her timbre commandeered the band, Corralled the bang, bang and the whirling electronic rift, It stupefies me how that past, it still reigns, Though much, so much else Over time tumbles and disappears.
And the boys’ night out, They had ticket to premier, opening of the World.
Right before you, see, see, the images of the dead, I had not thought death had undone so many.
And for those who survived, when truth be said, Hear it, hear it! Let it reverberate among circle of friends, Declare it in the rooms and down the corridors. Where the living have stacked the chairs up high, Let it be known, there we go, lost, dead, But for the Grace which brings us daily reprieve.
The seabirds cry by the sea, Their songs are sad, Their refrains freight my melancholy. And in the distance a fog horn, It, too, sounds mournful notes; It repeatedly revives my sorrow.
There is a damp, hard winter wind. It beats on me, causes terrible chill.
The nights remain very long now; I despair of ever again to feel, How the summer sun warms.
Nightmare pulled you From the bridal bed and out from the house screaming.
You were carried off through trackless desert. It was night with little moon; Darkness hid the cacti, Made them all the more dangerous to life and limb. The temperature had dropped to freezing in the Sonora.
I could hear you cry my name.
I had been cheated at the moment when life’s promise Happiest, I felt the fulfillment of holy, holy prophecy.
Remember, please! I had been assured children; One was to be monarch of new Golden Age, A child to whom future ages might do homage.
I did not hesitate, but marshaled my forces I frantically shouted with all my might 'Help!' I hoped to rescue you, My beautiful wife, the love, the love of my life.
Still perfumed and boutonnière, Heady with the day's excitement, Like some native sorcerer, a shaman, Whose vision had been magically enhanced Through ritual drink, I could see in the darkness. I ran headlong, inner light to guide me.
I chased the phantom that possessed you.
Your beauty, the allure of your physical self, Your large brown eyes and olive complexion, Your brunet tresses running down to your shoulders, -- drapery of oh-so-special, awesome pulchritude – The thought of your high intelligence, Its value to material success in my life, Your undeniable charm, your grace, The mercy, at core, inspiration of my poetic ambitions, Propelled me, you, the dream of you, It animated my heart and lungs with incredible vigor.
I and my comrades launched search after search, Soon the whole community joined to assist, For eight days we scoured landscape, Reaching down the most perilous ravines, We walked the vast expanse for miles around.
In the heat people fell to the ground exhausted.
Old timers said that they had not witnessed such uproar, Since the days when war Yaqui stole settler women, Who never returned, rumor reported, because Squaws knew better treatment among the lodges and Tepees than in their own homes from first husbands.
We never found you.
I went to the priests and sought advice; I prayed to the Savior, but it was no avail.
You were gone; we felt you were no longer with us. I knew it, yet could not let you go. I pined.
I learned time had never been a friend.
Because these, because all my efforts proved futile, I am now a broken man, dead unto myself, Unfit, and utterly homeless, my existence over, Devastated, no other woman may ever have me.
