Monday, January 26, 2015

Canto 16 - Lazarus

Smoke gets into your eyes and you stare at the ceiling,
 not wondering how you got into the ladies room,
 while listening to the marriage of Figaro.
 you think on how this would be different if it was new Amsterdam,
 instead of 5G in the aisle of Manhattan, in the state of New York.
 it might as well be Babylon for all the good it will do you.
 your  teak is still  red in the face,  sodded audited gills,
 with the sound that it makes underneath the  hobo code.
 shoot,  for this you came all the way,
 down the long winter into  Indian summer,
 to watch Nixon vs. Kennedy in a death match.
 it seems like they are is a, no the, wheel,
 and you are caught up in that for those who think young.

You know you can't go back to flight one,
 where your, no the, benefactor sits with
 alarm  class around a new girl,  while he stares up and down.
 the new girl glances in her maiden form close,
 and scratching out a team on the gold violin,
 it is not remember, for all of you.
 only six more months of leave and then to
  earn the six months of inheritance, that is your due.
 you who are part of the jet set,
 whose only God is the Mountain King.

But meditating in an emergency,  and gotten
 out of town and thinking on your lives work,
 with love among the ruins as your guide,
 thinking back to  my old Kentucky home.
 the arrangements that have been made to get you to this place.
 in yet the fog still lingers,
 as you think about the guy  walked in to and advertising agency,
 and mumbling under his voice seven 23.
: the souvenir of miles of nonsense that you had to put up with-
 in the wee small hours  biting your time.
 what sticks out in your memory is the color blue,
 and how the Gypsy and the  hobo fixed their eyes upon it.
 you know that the grown-ups would not take this nonsense,
 they would say " shut the door. have a seat."
 it was then that public relations would begin,
 and Christmas comes but once a year.
 but that was the good news.
 to be rejected on the doorstep of fame.
 the chrysanthemum and the sword would contend,
 for who would know the Waldorf stories that would
 come out of the suitcase.
 it was a summer man who would
 fall on the beautiful girls,
 on hands and knees if he could,
 making a Chinese wall and
 blowing smoke into the
 distant tomorrowland and back again.
 It is obvious that he would settle for a little  kiss,
 if that  mystery date would allow.

Far away on signal 30,
 in far away places,
 at the codfish Ball where
 lady Lazarus did come out
 of the dark shadows,
 and mesmerizing offered a Christmas waltz,
 though paid for by commissions and fees,
 which she would give to the  phantom,
 who stood beside the doorway,
 a collaborator in her little plan.
 to have and to hold,  till death do us part,
 until the flood came
 and that was for immediate release.
 until the man with a plan,
 crashed into the party,
 and a better half was formed.
 it was a tale of two cities,
 favor  the bold
 in its quality of mercy.
 take care,  in care of,  Peter perfect.  if only you were real.

Time Zones  converge and separate,
 a days work to admire
 field trip  to oblivion and back,
 the monolith  to the pare.
The runaways  to the quick,
 but always engaging in some the strategy:
 Waterloo,  if you will.