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...
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BLACK WATER, An Adaptation of a Theme from a German Movie* Water in the forest, terrible black water, A pond over rot and dead leaves, You lie silent, quiet, you, you stay and are still, Unmoving, yet the storm rages around the wood. In the groves pines lean; The nets of spiders are torn apart, And then the splintering begins. You in the hollow, you, you rest, black water. Branches fall, leaves scatter, Bark peals from trees and flies in every direction at once. All woodland shelter vanishes. Yet nothing reaches you, down there, black water.
*I first heard the expression of this phrase in Rainer Werner Fassbinder, “Berlin Alexanderplatz.” But I have embellished his original sentiment.
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RED ROOF INN, Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey Darling, darling, girl, Much between us remains unsaid. Remember that first overnight date at the Red Roof Inn? I am in search of this lost time. An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room. Between its feet and a long chest of drawers A narrow aisle traveled the length. It ran from the front door to the rear of the room. And you, there, in your bikini briefs, At the end of the aisle, you were in an alcove, An enclosure directly opposite the bathroom. The area occupied half the suite’s entire width. Your back to me, You stood up against a cantilever table. It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a big mirror. The mirror, you recall, was as long as the table’s surface, And it covered the entire back wall up to the ceiling. Recessed lamps provided light from overhead. You brushed your hair, and With each stroke I witnessed the sinews beneath your skin, Your bones, how your shoulder blades flexed. I rose up from the bed, Took a few steps, And then, still from behind you, I remained behind you, I bent my torso forward at the waist. I was squatting on my haunches, When I extended my arms between your legs.
Each one of my hands was wrapped around one of your ankles. My fingers held you just above your feet; My thumbs pressed upon your Achilles tendons. Head-down, I pulled myself close to you. My left shoulder went to the center, It rested within a spot between your buttocks and legs. The left side of my chin found a niche, It touched the back of your right knee. That was my posture when I had at first embraced you. Once I stood up, Regained at least some sense of composure, I told you that I had never personally encountered a woman, Who looked so much the better naked than clothed. “Wow!” Burst out. And you said, “You sure know how to compliment a girl.” I was dumbfounded. I thought for a moment; I took a moral attitude, yet my tongue was tied. I spoke these words, yet they were only to myself. ‘Woman! Trust my veracity. ‘Do not confuse my honest praise with flattery.’ Then, pretending to further my defense, I more or less recalled the poet’s immortal words, Those lines about truth and beauty being one, And is not response to beauty, truth? I ran the maxim in my mind. I remained speechless. ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’ I dwelled in total awe of you. And when old age our generation shall waste, And time brings world to more and other woes, We have had this moment and its sentiment remains – ‘Darling, that is all,’ I quoted the lines to myself, I had not uttered a word aloud, ‘You know on earth, and all you need to know.’
JOHN’S TALK Bogged down now, I am unable to picture the heavens as anything more Than some old textbook, Flat-line drawing of a sun-centred universe. My hands are dirty; I have been on the floor. The hurt which had exploded upon my shoulders and head was A whole lot greater than I had been led to expect. I refused to step forward and cross their glossy white line. I would not declare Caesar is Lord, No pinch of incense from me. Later I discovered that I had spent a month in the prison-hospital. OK I survived the physical assault, Plus then the five years I spent in jail. I have learned to pray and give thanks. But across my heart there is a very bad scar. Darling, things for us will never be same. Were Mar’s worship not so fiercely organized, How far we might have traveled in each other’s company. A distant childhood memory persists. Now whenever I shut my eyes I see the bodies of robins brought down flat upon their backs, Done in by a thin, white layer of a late-April snow. Out from icey orange/red breasts their feet stick straight up. What silence envelopes me, not a whisper of wind; How might my heart stir, when not one other thing before me moves?
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FOUR PORTRAITS OF STANLEY PACION
Some portrits of Stanley through the ages. left to right: 1963 in Chicago, Illinois. Greenwich Village Balcony, apx 1983. Two contemporary pics, first a self portrait (selfie) apx 2009; 2nd, and last portrait pic in these four is by the photographer and artist Michał Młyńczak, a friend who had helped me in so many ways, both in business as well as in the beginnig of my YouTube videographer career.
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BLUES, Deep and Bad
I
got the blues, tonight, honey. I
got the blues, deep and bad. You have gone and soon I leave, I
go abroad for a long, long stay. I
doubt we see each other ever again.
I
sit at the end of the bed. The
bedroom couch is gone, Much
of the art is removed and sold. The
furniture arrangement, I must report, No
longer resembles anything that you once knew. The
whole apartment looks different, Not
at all the same, nothing is the same, Since
the time you dwelled and laughed with me here.
Now
living in a dream world I
need not close my eyes, I
picture you as you stand in your white hotel slippers, And
wash grapes under the faucet in the kitchen sink.
And
my loving you, it frequently comes to mind. That
we had fallen and broken apart, No
words reach the depth of my regret.
Listen
to the music coming over the TV. Oh,
sweet momma, daddy, Daddy
has caught himself a wicked case of the blues. Horns
worry a lower pitch, run semitone in a six note scale. The
drum loops hit my entire bodily frame, And
when I fall, drop within myself, my soul clamors, 'A
middle note is missing.’ My
heart’s down, the shuffle strokes are down, The
rhythm accompanies the lyrics, all of it is down. How
did it all go wrong?
How
did it all go wrong?
I
doubt we see each other ever again. I
go abroad for a long, long stay.
