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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LOVE WISH, After Rumi I see the light coming out from your eyes. What sacred wonder illuminates your face? Wish I had the time and nothing else to do, But while away the hours adoring you.
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WHAT HOPE OF
MIRACLE!
Darling,
can it really be true? Had
we been so wanton in our disorder?
All
I remember – it was a Tuesday, And
very warm for the end of January. In
our house we smashed all the crystal goblets And
then proceeded to break each and every bottle. The
vintage spilled out on the floor; It
stained and then sunk into the old wooden boards.
And
at this point what does it matter?
Remember
the story when Jesus at the wedding feast in
Cana Honored
His mother’s request and turned water into wine.
The
party had run out of its most important beverage.
Six
great jars filled to the brim (more than a hundred gallons), Then
He told the servants, ‘Now
draw some out...” He
had them take the draft to the chief steward
for tasting. And
lo and behold now the new question. Instead
of first, Why
had the vineyard’s best been served last?
Would
such miracle do us any good?
Look
around. Shards of glass surround us,
Just
shattered cups, and bottles whose necks are broken. What
bounty now possible, where would Mercy abide, When
not a vessel remains to contain it,
Yet
Lord Almighty attends and announces His ministry?
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LOVE POETRY, Lost Without You How about some love poetry? Right now I am so desperate for your touch That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing. I could walk out the door into the hallway And scream with such ferocity The neighbors might think I have taken leave of my senses. When I think of food, Nothing compares to how I savor you. When I contemplate delightful vision, You are the only vision in my eyes. I love all music, But no sound is better than your voice. I await every telephone call, And lead you with questions, Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore. Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection. Oh! Baby! I love your smell. Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed, And fluff the pillows, I do so expecting the redolence of you. And when you are gone, Even after a day or two, And your aroma is lost, I am lost, too. At wits end, I circle the bed, And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet Whose master has not returned home. I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Allow me to use my Google Blog to congratulate to my son, Alexander Pacion, for his MTV 2014 Video Music Award nomination --
BEST ART DIRECTION EMINEM "Rap God" Alex Pacion, art director
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A DREAM OF YOU, Desert Vision, Parts 3, 4 & 5 3. I remember Central Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona, Danny’s store packed with Native American silver, All properly displayed: bracelets, necklaces and rings, On racks, in trays, locked within showcases, And on clear glass shelves, velvet pads, and boxed trays, Hosting jewelry of turquoise, coral, and black onyx Along with mother of pearl, abalone, Plus agates mined and cut to display their fire, And Alexander, my son, maybe eight, no more than ten, His years of age at the time, playing behind the counters, Next to the shotguns, diagonally propped, On the floor twelve-gauge shells in open boxes, Ready, should there be an extended engagement. I share with you the times when, flying in From Dallas, the grand noise, engines’ reversal To land at Sky Harbor, the ground crew, How they scrambled, and then, Wheeled up the staircase, The platform for debarkation, and me, I would descend The steps full-tilt straight onto the tarmac, Fahrenheit, ninety-five degrees in early morning, A rental car awaited me, and I was off over to Dog Track, To the swap meet that was unfolding and I sought The cowboy named, Roadrunner, who always had Tons of loot, the goods, every Sunday he brought a haul. Though at his point, it, more dream than reality, I recall the very special meeting, when traders Lined up, raised hands, and one after the other, Volunteered to say that jewelry great here and Declared that whosoever is welcomed into The lounge camper, who greets the Navajo, Both the man and wife and acts with propriety, Slights his eyes and keeps in camera in the holster, And the traders at the meeting continued their delaration Saying that the person who watches the children playing, Their running across the white gravel parking lot, Left and right, up and down, then unto the asphalt sidewalk, Who enjoys those moments When the young ones stop And form a line to refresh themselves from The water-cooled, stainless steel, floor-pedal fountain, (It stood next to the right side of the pari-mutuel windows) Who knows that the bright-sparkling, that eye of the desert, Quenches every human thirst and brings joy to the moment,
Upon that person, who has witnessed design, Who has abstracted anagram from within All the children’s scurry, who traces, Out upon the open parking space, meaning, Who divines new vision, Who is able to see within the minds’ eye, the dance, The dance the holy ones once danced in godly regalia, That person, who hears within the youngsters' feet The drums, the rhythms which ancestors had orchestrated, So to let go, leave this material world, And find entrance to separate reality, The traders at the meeting, in-order, one-by-one, Both arms raised up on high, heads flung back, Palms stretched and fingers spread wide apart, As though they reached and pressed upon the sky, Called upon Great Talking God to sanctify their wish. It was at that moment, the glory of it all, They stopped and asked if one such person was present, There at assembly of Sunday traders at the swap meet The question became would there be any one to step forward, Would anyone acknowledge the gift? And when I answered, yeah They bestowed their most precious title upon me, And between the ghosts and the human beings The word rang and cemented the union, ‘Friend’. 4. Later that Sunday morning, I felt good magic When a child ran up behind me, He quickly, then, touched the back of my hand, and laughing aloud he scurried away. At noon, I met a Mexican friend up on South Mountain. His house was painted a bright, distinctive blue. I bought more jewelry and got into my car, I took the Express Way North, exited at Bell Road, And headed to way out west of the city. At one point, I passed the shopping mall, I thought about Monday’s appointments, How a salesman's lot means he sits, Marks time to wait his turn with buyers. Late that afternoon on the concrete patio, The one surrounding The big swimming pool at the Community Center, I buck-danced to the beat, which played On the rock an’ roll, radio station. Although it was already that Sunday’s dusk, And the day’s high temperature had receded, It still was ninety, over ninety degrees, When I pulled up a lounge chair, sat back And watched Alexander practice dives off the high board. 5. Even then, it was long ago, and in Phoenix, It was you! Darling, I had been waiting for you; The desert air brought me a waking vision, The shimmering, the uplifts, the vertical lines, Up, upward, shafts of heat rising Out across the desert vista, Now I recognize it was a dream of you, And this, my verse was racing, I flashed on a fast and mighty steed; I road atop a beast, it galloped through my mind, Yet I had command -- I managed to pull in the reins, Halted its furious run, tied the horse up to the rail at the tip, I hitched the reins to the post at the tip of my tongue. While I watched the colors of the sunset, as I heard The splash of the practiced head-first dives, I was reciting poetry, not out loud, but to myself, Though I knew not its power, no idea of the prophecy, I knew not the meaning of that woman, Who I glimpsed, Whose image I caught from from the corner of my eye, Who walked out among the columns of earth fever, And stood next to the Saguaros in the twilight, Who appeared in an instant out on the horizon, Seemingly, her feet upon the hard scrub of the desert, Yet before she disappeared, she nodded, It was as if she had sanctioned the voice, The true heart of these lines, The cadences and syntax I repeat from once upon a time And now so long ago, she blessed me And today at the keyboard, she grants me These words, this lyric I use to describe a dream of you. Long before I had ever made your actual acquaintance, A figure in the landscape, I saw you, your form, at a time prior to when you were born. At the airport, upon my once-again departure From the Valley of the Sun to my New-York-City market, Security stopped me, I stood In a booth whose sliding curtains dropped to the floor, The jewelry I carried in my on-board luggage, X ray showed a concentrated jumble of metal, And as I awaited the woos and ahs of personnel, When they inspected my bags before I boarded the aircraft, It was then that I began to wonder, and it remains Fresh today, as clear in my mind as events Which might have happened only yesterday. It was then I began to wonder, when you, When your love might saunter in, and make life complete.
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POOR SHELL OF EARTH Within a day the whole matter sours, We are left with nothing, All that remains is what we wish to be rid of, The thing to bury or burn from sight. Oh, unsearchable way and counsel of God! Oh, blindness of hope and expectation!
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SHOUT OUT Uneasy, when it came to sex, You made me feel
I was doing you wrong. Your body stiffened, And, I remember, once you said, “Too incredibly intimate!” Later I watched in movies, Men drop to the knees, It seemed nothing special, No more than regular business, Hollywood presents its usual fare. In a recent film with a Bedouin setting, North Africa, camels on route, Over windy hills of sand, oasis to oasis, Hardly a trend setter, The lead takes his captive, Calls her wife number three, and there Within the walls of his village home, He keels. While camera spies, He takes love by mouth. Since I last had knelt before you, Months have passed. I wish I might kneel now, Just as does the sheik in the movie! But you, you are gone. And with you, too, went Health, and work, and sleep, They have fled irrevocably! I wake in the middle of shouts. I picture you and our last night at dinner. I see you there sitting before the table, And in a fleeting glimpse I recall your delight, How you savor and chew upon your meal. I rise up from my bed and step toward my desk. I mean to write, But swoon instead. Down my back and below my collar, My night shirt is wet of perspiration. Were I not lost, driven to distraction, If only once more could I clear the mind And assume a proper bearing, Where did I ever hear that love is a gentle thing? Can’t figure what’s up with me; I feel a faint. My stomach is turning. 'Fetch a chair!' I say aloud, though I am home alone. 'Never mind. I’m fine. I’m okay.' (As if somebody here bothers to listen.) ‘The weather has been unusually hot, ‘Especially these first two weeks of August; ‘Actually the same was true for all of July and June. ‘Yeah, that’s the ticket. ‘It’s just this summer's terrible heat!'
