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
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
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.]