Down the River with T.S.

poetry

church on fire

The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot
David Foster Wallace's Footnotes
The Epstein Files
Blood Meridian


Down the River with T.S.

1  The Coroner Declares

Eliot is the cruellest poet.
With the precision of the accountant
and the levity of the Coroner
he’s pronounced we’d best
stay dead through April.
On second opinion, Ezra
calls his pound and goes all in.
He says better to stay forever 
frozen in root and it’s Ay O Ay 
death to all seasons shanti shanti. 

2  A Day in the Life of the Dead

Let us spoon with snoring memory, 
shoo desire like a fly in the spring rain
falling in vain, too late for cleansing
simply rearranging a city of zombies
imitating the living, fraudulent corpses
clocking their hours in dim cubicles
teaspoons and perfectly coiffed trousers
hoping to steal some kind of identity
either in this game or some virtual one.

3  The Dead Search for Their Bones

He’d have us conversing with thunder
remove the fireworks from our
end-of-the-world parties, this Eliot.
He’d have us speak Greek with our 
shadows, once at dawn and the other 
at purple, and just the right dose of 
artificial sweetener, Latin to our stones, 
commanding us to search for our bones 
in the porphyrio martinica glow, in 
the violet light, in the light of violence. 
Hark! Major! Did you not die in my 
arms in the violent hour? The Major 
scurries, if he’s a Major at all, or even 
a minor character in his own play,
off to his next engagement with 
Mdm. Laveau and Dodgy L. 
Charles.  The Madame deals 
the cards.  The Master of Absurdity
massages her plants.  Fate knocks 
on wood.  But Dave.  Dave 
is not here.

4  Fire in the Cathedral

Hark, Buddha! O Saint Augustine.  
Don’t alert the Spirit Services to our 
candle wilt. Give us one more chance 
and we promise to leave the key
under the flowerpot outside.
For you to pluck pluck plucketh out
and come inside to light our wick 
and burn in us as we burn for you, 
for now and morrow for you only.
We’ll sing along with Blue Oyster 
Cult.  We’ll sing along with Elvis.  
We’ll sing along with The Trammps  

I’m burning
I’m burning for you
You’re burning
You’re burning through me
Everybody now!
Hunka hunka burnin love
Hunka hunka burnin love
You in the pews!
Burn baby burn, disco inferno!
Burn, baby, burn!
You tumbling down the aisles!
You with tongues on fire.
I’m burning
burning burning

5  The Trial of the Dead

The jury finds you Guilty on all counts
of Soul Neglect and Burning 
For Love in all the wrong places.
But, Your Honor, my client is innocent, 
by reason of priority.  The world is
a kitchen fire alarm.  Which you 
can never turn off.  They say it’s
a Chinese Plot. But we know it's 
our own government.  Sorry, Your 
Honor, I digress. Priorities. Deadlines, 
Duties, Meetings. Meetings about 
Meetings. Meetings about Not 
Meeting.  Backstabbing. Frontsmiling. 
Bullying. Killing. Scrolling.  Serious 
screens of all sizes requiring
immediate attention. 

6  The Yellow Fog

O O O O O O
What we have here is a failure to communicate
Strother says to Newman.
What’s a little world war amongst friends 
while we figure out what’s important? 
NO NO NO I disagree SO SO SO
I am not alienated from my neighbors. 
This will be the year I discover their names. 
Without them, I’d have only myself to fear.
And death by shaving cream. I wear this suit
of armor to the mailbox out of an abundance
of caution. One traffic light, all yellow.  
The fog is yellow.  The song is all yellow.
My Hazmat suit is yellow.  Nothing more 
important than fashion. The hyperreal fog 
curls around the surreal ivy of an unreal city.  
Sneaks through closed windows.  Say hello 
to my yellow fog. An Italian says, copping a 
Cuban accent.  Sneeze, little sister, sneeze.

7  The Rug Questions

O O O O that Shakespearian rug
What shall we do with it?
What shall we ever do?
The neighbors came and went
and muddied it beyond hue.
And I still did not catch their names.
What do you mean there are no
more nymphs in the Thames?
I see them everyday on the Disney 
Channel.  It’s true one of them ran 
off with the remote control. Wait!
Is a mermaid a nymph? I’m confused.
O O O That’s the RUBBETY RUB
RUB.  Communication. Connection.  
Connection.  How to? Don't speak.  
You don’t know how.  And I don’t know 
how to listen.  Your feet then, give ‘em 
here.  Your legs, a map to coveted treasures. 
Take these purple flowers for a soul
that’s stop beating. The moon and tide, 
the man and himself are duking in divorce 
court.  What shall we do? What shall we do?
Our socks are outside our shoes.  
Our feet are out of step.  Ashes and stone,
waste and dust.  One wrong crack and
Mama comes down with the London
Bridge.  She’s calling.  London’s calling.
No one’s there.   Just a blood meridian.
Where the last bit of beauty was found
in the ugliest of truths.  On the belly
of a judge that once was Buddha’s.
A judge so base, the Devil went to
Georgia to celebrate.  What to do?
Shall we drown ourselves in a 
TUBBEDY TUB TUB of creamy 
lather? Will it cleanse the bobbing
head of Phlebas the Phonecian sailor, 
who drowned himself for commerce
who called Brandy a fine girl?
Will the fish call it dinner or show
mercy and throw us back?
Or can only drowning gods see us?

8  Take me to the River

O Uh O Here comes my girl.
Here she comes my Hyacinth girl
Come to take me to the river
Brought me a one-way ticket
for the River Lethe to Underworld
The one no one can remember.
She’s not alone.  Is that blind 
Tiresias or Madame Laveau 
with her? Roll dem bones. 
Let’s see.  It’s the Righteous Bros card.
It's you who lost that loving feeling 
It's you who never had it.  
She disintegrates. The world
turns hyacinth, the scent of purple, 
the length of summer. The hope
of a dandelion.  Then darkness.
No moon, no artificial light burning.
Just the steady whirl of black water.
I hold my nose. Blind Tiresias takes my arm. 
Your boat is here. HURRY.  HURRY.  
THE TIME HAS COME TODAY. 
The Chamber Brothers are stirring
cocktailed nymphs with their song, 
stoned at the bottom, dreaming of
returning as mermaids on an endless
beach of blue drinks and sunscreen.
Tiresias was blind but now he sees.
Madame Laveau only to bes when she wants to.
Yes, dear girl, I once did feel Yes Yes Yes
Molly let us bloom no more
Aye aye Mr. Eliot
I’m coming with you.
Just one more bone to retrieve.  
O Major, O Ursa, O Stelllaaaaaa
O you my dear reader
Roll away the stone! 
Wade through the waste.
Down to the sweet river of forgetfulness.
Where dandelions dream of scattering
like human ashes surfing a tidal wave
Blow Tiresias blow!