H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
DENYSE DU ROI
Authentic Memoirs
By your silence,
I conclude.
That this is a
small town 11 PM,
with Mars in it, the distinction of doors
a cosmological frame. Bring it to your
remembrance.
The Thorton Wilder book of old roses,
menacing gloves the preliminary school of finger
dexterity,
always leading to the gong.
A configuration
of friends who, taking a cue from England, say
“kind of vety,” a
sword-in-the-stone problem, this truth
about castles. Her tension is a spike, a temperament not unlike
bright grey, the headache of knowing how twists
in the odyssey
can level love to take nothing as true. The stranger on the 3rd floor
records that undulating landscape, human touch
embellishing
feminine peril & the desire for war or more
cows.
The Time Lady’s
adaptation of the world needs a different voice,
summarizing The Emerald Table until the caller
transmutes into
lucency,
Exaggerated in
stature by an artificial lake,
the contemplative garden of your ensemble
sets a course for
that baroque staircase peopled with an entire
orchestra in stone.
If only to be
established among reverent dailies,
“The Angel
Passes” a requiem encoded in the public display
of affection there.
The
town that moved.
The existing
light’s classical bent forms a summer which is no
summer, inflicting neon on the desert &
ignoring etiquette,
“Let me suppose
this to be like grasping a statue.”
Under the
tutelage of that impulse you say okay to the sky.
And have no
truck with the myth of Route 66, musculature of wood
opening onto the California of the centenarian
oranges.
The solstice
prompts animal features, a second’s vault
into the atomic clock bears a device to clear
obstructions
to the petrified forest, the restitution
founded
on a hereditary smile.
“The dust has
come to stay” elicits vocals
by way of audience participation,
proves a more suitable motto can’t be found.
I take my headache, remove it from
its setting of fog & ergotamine.
You have to be
careful.
It takes me,
expunges pedestals
revered on Main Street & the Pure Drug Act
of 1902, a novel form of banishment.
“the goods take the essence
& we eat the substance”
(whose eyes point up the national mood)
shadows by Madame Blavatsky
eye-bandages by Aleister Crowley
sentimental title by Alice Bailey
preposterous subjects by Big Daddy
red atmospheres by Houdini
suggestive remark by Gurdjieff
practically-invisible figures by Krishnamurti
three cheers by Saint-Exupéry
sound of the Angelus by Woody Guthrie
air of satisfaction by Seth Speaks
The enthusiasm
of the dominions included in the vision
does not end at the borders but is meant to
extend into infinity.
A primer of
domestic science intrudes upon their ineffable
accents, we know their entire “life history.”
Her presence is
not clear, tattooed with fleurs de lys
to illustrate the agony of fashion & a
subtlety of wit
which is almost human.
What you don’t see
poses a live rendition for questioning.
On its surface,
an hour annihilated
as the robin with its voice intact,
nights characteristic clout
instills that greater blue in anyone who
slips out to soak up the atmosphere
& pose with the robin, otherwise known
as a blue monopoly, this hour
with its view of Alcatraz.
You take your
senses for granted.
How long before
she comes running up
to reap her entitlement:
a life on top, funrished
with birds.
It’s not a piece
of jewelry, it’s a house,
Waste of time. I
shall be classical
depicting cosmetic walls of her sleepwriting.
Square dance of
equals directs hieroglyphs at a blue moon
&, presently, a tablet,
that crenulated “Notebook of the Pine Woods.”
LOG
CABIN, private entrance, stone fireplace
for thinking person. And lived “to paint sunlight
on the side of a house.
The tour is not
over.
Before ascending
stairs to the third floor,
we pause to appreciate the stairway itself.
Looking south,
we see the rustification
of marble walls, fruit garlands, satyr
masks;
innocents abroad look at ceilings
but the innocents at home ignore them.
I’ve already
died a thousand dress deaths
cooling off in the lobby,
subsisting on books you enhanced.
The paperwork
doubled as a conversation piece,
the refining fire one genius too many.
It’s natural
that on leaving the building, we feel
that what remains outside is an anticlimax.
Ghost
of a chance, an animal on a tall tale postcard.
What’s another
word for legend?
And keep your
pride under your hat.
Like the
Whistler, paraphrasing the arcane and how
to house a piano in the country. It wasn’t
the country
per se but a painting by Grant Wood, fields
like as many roll top desks. Typical dark.
Some attributes
of the birthday table:
a compass, her shrines & a book of
opening words.
[Originally
published in NHS 1993, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs93/index.html#7.]