Don Gillette
Quality Press 1986
Copyright © 1985, 1986 by Donald W. Gillette
All rights reserved. Printed in the
Contents
Double Images • Around the Mulberry Bush on Sunday
Morning • Birthday • County Fair • Boats • Feinstein’s Rest Home • Horseshit • Tortured
Treese • Bronze Baby at the Sea • Glittering Ghosts •
Melinda, Dark Hair • Dreams • Strange Days a’ Coming • Saint Christopher’s
Revenge • In A Truckstop With Mark Twain • The Body •
Traitors • Last Chance Gas • Children • Autumn • Breakfast; Emily Dickinson,
Next Morning • One Day in a Condo • In the Company of Thieves • Sins • Bourbon
Street Memory • Clouds on the Side of Town • A Man With An Ax Thinking Of
Swimming
DOUBLE IMAGES
There
are double images here.
They
step on toes and then disappear
Into closets; hiding in the dark.
They come in through the duct work
And on Sundays, they lurk in the park.
There are double images here.
They know my
real name.
And I know
theirs.
There
are double images here.
I
hold in the hatred; I hold in the fear
That
they will awaken in despair.
In
the specks on the windowpanes,
In
the mugs with their coffee stains—
There
are double images here.
AROUND
THE MULBERRY BUSH ON SUNDAY MORNING
On
childhood's edge, beyond the dreams,
They
wait with bated breath,
While afternoon and the breeze it brings
Awaken
from lingering death
And listen while the wind sings.
BIRTHDAY
Christ...what
I just went through. First, I heard an
old song by Trini Lopez
hyping Lemon Pledge on the
television and then I came back here to the word
processor (which took the place of my old Adler
21D
typewriter) and hit the wrong key, giving me a
series of very strange, uniquely obtuse symbols that
gave way to a first paragraph resembling the
hieroglyphics stolen from King Tutankhaman's tomb.
Imagine.
I
have been undone.
It
is not the time it is supposed to be, but...I have
been into the Wild Turkey and it is perfectly all
right; I am the Poet.
It is expected of me. I do not
know how to spell "hieroglyphics:" the machine
knows. I
cannot spell "Tutankhaman" the machine can.
It
is dark outside.
It
is dark inside.
The
world rests easily and I flame beside
Images
rendered in my mind.
I
suppose an occasion;
I
suppose an elaboration.
I
deplore the supposition
Of an immediate imposition.
I
hear the sounds fall softly
From
inside an empty hall,
I
smell the silence fall.
It
tastes of insolence and urgency
And not of insanity.
It
is dark outside.
It
is dark inside.
It
has happened now and I burn inside
From
pitiful panderings
And
the images of darkness
Given by most.
It
has happened now.
A Birthday.
Take
it or leave it,
The
die has been cast.
The
torch has been passed
At last.
COUNTY
FAIR
Good day.
It is a good day.
The
return has taken place and
It is
a good day.
Do
not attempt to follow.
Do
not attempt to play.
Back again.
It is back again.
Wait
in the lobby
It should not happen.
Wonderwheel.
There is the wonderwheel.
It
has landed outside and
There is the wonderwheel.
Turn
your eyes aside.
But
tell it what you feel.
BOATS
Tie
down the boats—
The
winds are whipping the harbor
Into
frenzied wolverines
With tortured intestines.
Tie down the boats—
Tie
them down quickly now
Or
they will drift to sea
And
never return.
FEINSTEINS'S
REST HOME
New
day, new life,
New sun.
New times for children
On motorbikes.
Other
days past; old sons dead,
Old men gone. Old people sit alone
In rest homes, resting.
Cigar
smoke clouds eyes no more.
The
smell of bourbon leaves the skin.
There
is no death in the air.
It
is a new day, new life,
New sun.
New times for children
On motorbikes.
TIHSESROH
fI I nac
tsuj ekam ti ghuorht lla
eht tihsesroh dessot ni ym
noitcerid,
sgniht lliw eb tsuj enif.
tuB I tbuod
ti. tI
yllaer si tihsesroh. dnA s'taht on llub.
TORTURED
TREES
Tortured
trees hang in the distance
And
cry from the ravages of weather.
And
no one hears them;
They
keep up their mad resistance.
BRONZE
BABY AT THE SEA
Against
the tides
There
stood a wanderer
Looking out.
She
watched for a time
And
wandered on,
Bronze
baby...
Searching.
And
while she slept
The
tide came in...
It
took her spirit,
It
took her sin
And
left aware
Of
the crying within
The
bronze baby...
Searching.
GLITTERING
GHOSTS
Born
away glittering
From
cat eyes that dance;
A
thousand or more
And the meaning of chance
For yesterday's children...
The
results of a glance
At a different balance.
Asleep
or awake or entranced,
Alone
or together they dance
By
themselves
With
their white ties and tails
And
their minds in a trance
They
float.
MELINDA,
DARK HAIR
Light
leaves no sign on her hands;
The
sleep will not cease.
Scattered pages from an incomplete novel
Blow
across the floor
And
dance with the dust balls
From under the dresser.
Clawed
feet intercede.
An
empty pack of Salems
Lies
crumpled on the nightstand.
From burning aloud.
Dark
clouds gather.
The
father waits in the courtyard
Smelling of yesterday.
The
weather is changing;
Lives
rearranging
From
the glimpses of light
Denying her hands.
DREAMS
Images
keep their distance,
Away
from the places
Or
far away faces
That remind them of yesterday
Or the meaning of time.
This
is the way with images;
Farther and farther and farther from here.
Glimpses
of tomorrows
And yesterdays forgotten.
STRANGE
DAYS A'COMIN
The third of November,
the children remember
Is
the start of the killer wind
And
the strange days a'comin
From around the bend in the road up ahead.
It
all starts today
In
the same, ancient way
That it's started from always
Never to end
Coming this way.
Strange days a'comin
Strange
days ahead.
Little men ride black
horses,
Steam pours from their
nostrils
Waiting for you to come
Waiting
for you to come undone.
And tell them what went
wrong.
SAINT
CHRISTOPHER'S REVENGE
I
wear a Saint Christopher medal
Around my neck.
Last
night it tried to strangle me
As I slept.
The
marks on my neck
Look
like passion bites
From a long-lost woman.
I
know Saint Christopher's revenge.
IN
A TRUCK STOP WITH MARK TWAIN
The
bleached blond waitress takes our order
And twitches her big ass as she walks away. .
I
got a burger, he got some eggs
And
the truck drivers stared at us as we
Stared out the window. I could see his
reflection in the glass
Beaming
back from the darkness, a frown
on his face, his hair
uncombed for days.
A
C.B. radio crackled from the kitchen
and he looked puzzled.
"It's
the radio," I said, staring out.
"
We
ate our food and left a tip,
walked out into the darkness
of the parking lot.
THE
BODY
It
lies dormant
For most of the time,
Waiting
for a Sunday
Or playing dead.
TRAITORS
They
gather beams from outer space
Like
little, lost tea leaves floating on mist
And
watch the beams take shape
On the edges of a satellite dish.
They
spend the money at Sears.
LAST
CHANCE GAS
There
are phantoms in the rest rooms
And prisoners on the ceiling.
There are sinks without faucets
And
the wall posters are peeling.
But the ghost of Last Chance Gas
Is
laughing with his neighbors
At
the customers stopping
For a free wash with every fill-up.
Kids
under twelve eat free.
Thanks, come again
To Last Chance Gas.
CHILDREN
There
are ghosts outside.
They
shout to each other in
sing-song rhyme
And
some climb up trees.
They
play with
the wind
and
fall to their knees
When the wind dies away.
They
know nothing of time.
When
the wind blows colder
They
run and hide.
AUTUMN
Few
leaves on the trees;
the ones left are golden.
Moss creeps slowly
up trunks;
not so slowly
it cannot be seen.
No
sun shines now.
No
warm place to sleep;
no place to rest.
Rain claps against
windows;
staccato, like
a bad drummer.
No
moon lights the night.
The
animals prowl restlessly;
waiting for another day.
Girls wear brightly colored
nylon jackets
to keep out
the weather.
They
cover their hair with plastic.
Fires
burn slowly;
illumination, little heat.
Cars with their
lights on
flash no warning
to the air.
Day
is night.
BREAKFAST;
EMILY DICKINSON, NEXT MORNING
She
stared at her plate
As we heard a fly buzz.
I
asked what was wrong,
She lifted her head.
"I
Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died," she said.
She
sipped her scalding coffee
And
put a napkin in her lap.
I
asked her how she felt,
She lifted her head.
"After
Great Pain A Formal Feeling Comes," she said.
We
went to the bedroom
To clean up our mess.
I
asked her to help,
She lifted her head.
"Ample
Make This Bed," she said.
"Damn the bed,” I said instead.
“I’m
really quite happy you’re dead.”
ONE DAY IN A CONDO
There
is no hope in vanity.
There is no future in sanity.
There
is no use in lying
Being more afraid of not living than of
dying.
IN
THE COMPANY OF THIEVES
A
blue sedan's door slams
Window
shades show signs of life
Peeking out
From
behind.
At night
They show signs of
light.
Footsteps die on a vacant porch
While
doors creak open stopped by chains
Holding back
From
inside.
At night
They seal in fright.
Knocking
goes unanswered
Radios
stop singing
Fading out
From
the past.
At night
Wrong is right.
SINS
Hiding
in tiny rooms
Blinds
drawn
Lights
out
Undercover
In
darkness
Behind
friendly faces
Masked
by smiling eyes
Coming
out at night
Sleeping.
On
the highway from
Going
south quickly,
Past
police cars
Going north.
A
stranger in a Cadillac,
A
friend in a
A
man in a
A girl next to me.
Cars
on the highway
Going
nowhere,
Alive.
CLOUDS
ON THE SIDE OF TOWN
The
car smells like day old cigarette butts
And
the windshield is clouded with haze—
Even
with the top down.
There
are places to hide;
Places
where they can't be found.
In the clouds on the side of town.
On
the street are a hundred pimps and sluts
And
they confuse their nights with days—
On
holidays they frown.
All
their friends have died;
Heads
are low, eyes to the ground.
In the clouds on the side of town.
A
MAN WITH AN AX THINKING OF SWIMMING
I
saw a man with an ax
In autumn on a hillside in
He
worked for a time
Then
rested,
Then worked again.
The
ax was well-worn;
So
was the man.
There
was a lake behind him
And
the day was warm and dry; one of the last.
The
man was sweating
While he swung his ax.