June 1-7, 2015: Richard J. Fleming and Judith R. Robinson

Metempsychotic Reaction

Edge of darkness sneaking down over elevated tracks.
Medley of light on the night train crossing a trestle.
Faces wearing inflation float past.
Talking heads, chatting to themselves,
walking down the long road to recovery;
black orchids budding in their ears.

Indistinct music escapes from the open doorway.
of a diner that has been here forever, in an aftermath
of undeclared wars and fluctuating property values.
There is a collection of clocks in the sink, staring
without faces; and a solo waitress, slinging hash,
singing scat, her hair the color of a washed out sky.

Mismatched drops of rain scratch the surface,
falling from clouds colored with a broken
crayon from the bottom of the box.
My hand is a relic that cannot grasp
the boards nailed across windows,
the clasp of deadbolts protecting posterity.

Yes, we have no merchandise to sell.
A torch, a hacksaw, knives, scissors
and a blood stained bottle of Tequila.
XYZ factory makes the same exact widget
for ten different companies who all brand it.
People refuse to use anything but a Phuket widget.

When the fever breaks,
we can all go back to our jobs.
A neat and tidy desk at the Death Squad.
I will ask the barber to cut down insurgents
attacking the embassy with staves and cleavers.
A fax spits documents that may or may not be binding.

It’s a movie of my life playing over and over.
I used to drink water out of the hose,
until I understood how dangerous it was.
On the street where I live, Scholars
peddle pencils with pink erasers
to correct the mistakes I have made.

It doesn’t matter where nerve endings stop,
what color the clothes are in the closet,
how loud crickets chirrup in the night;
or a few extra minutes of sleep before a radio
plays in the parking lot of the lord of the land.
I was much merrier in a previous incarnation.

Animals came down to the waterhole to drink,
blinded by the illumination of a Summer morn.
Pearls of sparkling dew underlined the leaves.
White fawns ran the forest. Nomads traveled
beyond the hills with tents and Circassian rugs.
The flowers seemed to bloom just for me.

Ah, Faith!

Orphee’s agony coincides
in mystery …in irony …in truth
with the Satmar and Lubovitch–
breathless Jews in black frock coats
twisting through the hot-baked
streets of Crown Heights,
their wives running behind
dripping sweat under fashion wigs—
pulling gaggles of kinder
past the Kundalini Yogis of Soho
whose gleaming eyes flicker
whose breath comes
in deep gasps of ecstasy
rocking chanting davening swaying
all of them rooted to the earth
like ancient conifers
certain as rain in spring
that every human hair is counted
every snowflake a blessed original
as the glorious universe spins on
palpably innocent …athrob …unfolding
exactly as it is meant to.