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
The Big Maybe
I could blame it all on the painters
some unexplained lights & the characteristics
of angels. Girls since time immemorial
supported your unveiled method,
saints and strangers all the way.
It’s Saturday night at the World
And Everyone’s gone to the moon.
From the duties of the day
& the door of a room
nothing sticks like a shadow
the true confessions of a water hyacinth.
Prairie dresses in the atrium of a mall.
Check her eyes.
Little boats or swans
as they’re called
overtake a balcony famous
for its love triangle.
Where they’ll never alight
or say I agree with you
about what they call music.
& morning preparations as well
as the town’s. The intimate tea. . .
just what it says. And blah
and blah. A vestibule
where you want everything to be
& autumn is on location.
The good news is that
there is no bad news, her image stayed.
As it happens, once in a
Kentucky blue moon, I write
a letter, but my life
should be mine again.
The best intentions, those beautiful
Thomas Hart Benton’s circular prose
& some late Victorina attitude
appear on a canvas of the heartland.
Her faith a foretaste of the rondelle
where “paths meander like playing cats”
a neighborly day in the beauty wood:
a sampler. Much of what we think is true
never happened. Her story, told in trance,
resembles more the Bessie Smith
Companion than a celestial handbook
peppered with vigils & the recalcitrant
“I don’t see you anymore
in the morning.”
Our picturesque language
a country silence.
Born with an innate sense
of how long things take
yet what remains?
A rose for rent,
Lillian Gish in a rocking chair
with a shotgun.
It was always my intention to live with her
while what remains a blur was what I really needed
along with riverboats, the Belle of Louisville
most notable among them
no apologies for the scenery irrespective of this sky
& unparalleled green resonating something
doors & windows sequentially relevant
like the state flower & crop formations
In the land of hi-fi
I was trying to live
on my toes, the host
of equals, even as we
bless their hearts.
It was Frank Sinatra’s
birthday again, the September
of whatever comes
between the acts
like that actor not destined
might walk straight into Hell
with both eyes open,
but even the Devil can’t
fool a dog.
In the rose corner
of the world the most
heavenly of their songs
“Love is here” flame-colored
taffeta, she says,
“I only made up the roses.”
I saw her in the rear view
mirror, arms folded,
bereft of recorded lullabies.
The rain an excuse
for sobriety, she sees in
me every unfinished scene
& so, too, the touched-up sky.
“From one birthfield to another”
what else but the Book of Love
& the book of Laughter & Forgetting?
I took it with appropriate reverence
through lumps of sugar & affected voices.
Unwilling to relinquish her hold
on consciousness, she surpasses me in all
my gadabout endeavors. More her than
her when a
tree comes between us, “to be loved
as I am loved”
& otherwise, integral to the blue.
(An Evening “no
with Leonard Cohen) cameras”
If there were anywhere but desert
when he attained the level of the trinity
& came out of his ecstasies
“thank you for the things you’ve sent
I’ve examined them carefully.”
The poet in New York
recounts the arches of Elvira
levitations at the height of the choir
& the death of a lady’s man
sung to trace a distinction
between an elaborate observation
& the future.
The state of the sky
what I’ll miss the most
but not necessarily those million others.
Could I have dreamed him up?
So this is where people come to die
if they have enough money.
That perfect couple Laurel & Hardy,
their reverberations a tone poem
filling the pag left for centuries.
Our table by the quarry.
A camouflage for the jewel
when your dress is reflected in your blush
taking the waters.
“I won’t even know you’re there.”
“I read your
book in the woods.”
Hypothetical, fraudulent, legendary
flowers to the gills in a perfect ate
of preservation without embalming.
“I saw Brian, Jimi,” the United States
had everything except a female saint.
I was trying to find a book to love
but I couldn’t. How the pennies
would be spent & aligned with no
dearth of trees. Covet his fortune.
The legibility of these recitals
a voice contrary to stolen goods.
“Wild Horses,” a variant,
the familiar sense already vanishing.
Redeem myself in increments.
Stardate––July 21st. Not just a
lowdown on what’s happening
to the sky. When time winds up
say, “He’s my wheel in the middle
of the wheel.” Any heavy footstep
within a mile radius of home.
Only debris where the ceilings “aren’t”
& remove whatever is readily removable
though strips of forest vibrate along the fine point
no match for the birds
of prevailing millinery fashion on
Kate Chopin’s beach.
Flower infused or lost
emanating the inner colors of the church.
And get out of Dodge.
Roadside angels likevintage trees
one does not see so much as harbor.
Where was your guardian angel, Keith?
It all teeters on the verge of sense,
Nighthawks composed of one voice:
“a mystery woman encrypts
the winning numbers.”
The backyard is mostly industrial
Nuevo Laredo on the American side
a tiny gift for “no reason”
& these tendencies to look up toward the sky
a comfort mask for one whose name
is associated in most people’s minds
with flowers. Knee-high to her
imagination & be entertained by
the irregularities of my heart.
This blouse, this enabler, the one
red rose that I mean.
From the duties of the day
& the door of a room:
a tan & sandy silence.
What you have is a room
in the sea, the offspring
of Julia on the grand scale.
A thorn between rosy construction.
And the graph of a sunset
we call “inured with beauty.”
But back to the fact
of a door.
As I would say:
case by case.
In this case, the door
is best served by a catalyst
Under sign of a neon cross
the vernacular’s flowering decay.
White room of a sacred trust or snow
but that was another Colorado
of frostbite & motherloade. Devotions
at the altar of a crystal blue persuasion?
I wish. Put it to the test.
On your dashboard, an autumn configuration
to appease the downtown gods.
A symbolic cake & cabin
to warrant true believing.
Not yet late November.
Directional debut of the little
black dress promotes the fog &
its horns. The echo of an echo.
And the big picture: something
you waited for all through
the war. This is what I see:
innumerable cups of coffee, duets,
the predominantly red
New York Movie.
[Originally published in NHS 1994, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs94/index.html#15.]