Bummer

“Hello!  Hello!”
“Hello!  Who’s on the line,
please?”

The crook of streets defines how this life begins—
& groaning, cloaked in minstrel’s myth of eternal spleen,
I bead my rosary of themes to crawl on through the years
maddingly inviolate but virulent, my tone in gear.

Eons have I heard the news, signs flare the coming
of the breed, apocalypse of tigers whose blood hermetic
pumps the vein, whose teeth are Medusa’s, holy serpentine:
My future bosses babble acronyms, concentric parables

Thudding iron boots & calipers on icy parks & pavements.
Aging fast, I take note of this body—decaying—slobber
across the shriek of mirrors on the lee, festoon of grins
in thick cafes, half-shut rooms of skewered cavaliers

& boxers who spout fancy steps, dead fame, ancien regime:
Where, buster, do I begin?  How remember their names
gestures, ceremony for broken virgins & innocence
hymns in the vault of my dizzing dreams have I long

Tucked away—seizure of cabala in overflowing
yet lost! Snowed-in as lines in fear & midnight raging
I recurrently begin:  Jeez!  Images are old & bleating
a style of weaving that claims a newer mint of letting—

O arabesque of riders’ spit of easy virtue & misdeeds,
drunken dreams, unfinished fables, forgotten bitches
droll arguments, navel of Time & mist that flowed once,
which the mind’s eye must strain for false remembering.

Shards of limbs & eyes slowly turning to gates of sleep—
Concelebrate jaded boozing at midsea, witches’ hooking
kick brats who infest the north & south of beastly wings
hovering in droves, ever registering, ever seraphims

As poems that pull the moon down, freeze the Aztec sun
grasp stings of youth, of grooving, of desolate dying
words & time time time can never anchor nor again dream:
O the Circle is Time, is Top Tune, is Fatal Pissing

As, violent to the core, I swim down ocean of streets hissing
imaginary pain, shielding the heart from blasts of reason
why Janis Joplin, spewing crap, must thus keep on boozing
to drown her blues & grapple with bulls of love denouncing—

& Stoned, calendric, I lose track of grail in habit
I always fleece, arcana floridly beat, scrolls neither meant:
Ho-ho!  Radios spin Satchmo’s throes, the same old kinks:
exiles, friends, floozies & hitmen, Van Gogh’s ear, skin

Everyday high & speed that signify nothing….Thus I,
Edel E. Garcellano, clutch at the wind, praise tribal heir
for in declaring I lose nothing but also nothing gain—
even the very memory of what was once that keeps me spitting.

Given to mackin’, rippin’, Rhissa & Lyra in tow, Chats to lift
Thus I mouth primeval tragedies, the old old Greeks:
Ho-ho!  Though I never take after bearded Ulysses, who,
tied to mast, voyaged through the thighs of temptresses

Seawracked for upturned weeks:  Hell! these warriors
are punchclocked flunkies trooping for hellebore fare
paws, cast in gold, digging into their swivel chairs
shuffling dirty cards of Art, sinker, baits; & finding

Time perverse, spill jokes here & there, scratch balls
skitter at tales on Wilde & wild speech, then split
at noon to pick silver on the sly & bitch:  O What, weirdos,
have we done to ourselves?
  Ho-ho!  We, after all, are fit

To wallow in the sty; & flying low, gorge on eremites,
small towns jives:  Ho-ho!  The bastards are married, who
flew the coop, bread is a slap of shit, quote Buddha/
Jehovah for the Tantric Dip, junk to keep all level high…

Why then cry?  Suicide notes are Jacqueline Susann’s
woof at what’s reel, the stone of hearts really say, the goods—
& the labyrinth of Ermita pads O dirty old men plague
is a sickly sad story Ho-ho! I must either leave or take.

From Imaginary Russian Roulette, 1976

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This entry was posted in POETRY OF EDEL GARCELLANO, selected by G.Y. Guillermo. Bookmark the permalink.

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