Garden of Eden

Lovers

With their clothes
Off

Unashamed.

Seneca Man

hey red man, seneca man, what are you doing
going after my woman like that?
you think because we devoured your nation
... you can seduce lyla with your long black braid
and your iroquois tree of peace, thick
with the blood of ghosts and sacrifice?
your name means ‘that which floats’ and
remember when you told the short-haired non-traditional
the short-haired people of the hill that they can’t have their
feet in two different canoes? still, you bought homes
on richmond avenue anyway and say you’re
buying back the land we stole and will rent it to us
at a steep price and didn’t you go all the way to
new zealand to find your wife?
hey, ‘that which floats,’ what will you do when
the peace maker demands a price for your trans-
-gressings? how much is your wife worth to you
anyway, native man?
all the land in seneca?

The Answer at Last (#9 Dream)

           

THE WORLD:

Longing, longing, longing, love, love, love, baby girl who sleeps in my dreams, You, angel of my mental health, Little Flower, pussy love, do you ever think of me?

THÉRÈSE:

Do I think of you? Can a pounding heart be said to think? Does the hand that trembles convey thought on its rosy fingers or did my breasts, once girl’s breasts but now grown to full womanhood, form cold crystalline thoughts as they heaved up and down, sighing because they were no longer touched and kissed by your lovely mouth, my little brussel sprout? My lips remember, my skin remembers, the treasure between my legs ached for one word from you, one sight of you after my great blasphemy, after you became my Lord and not the Nazarene. I read my missals, said my rosary countless times a day, prayed to the Blessed Mother, confessed my grievous faults and sins, ate the host of the holy communion, performed Stations of the Cross, but it was hopeless after your invocation. Ah! How sweet was that first kiss of Jesus! It was a kiss of love; I felt that I was loved, but, it was you, not humble Jesus who transformed me from a girl to a woman. I no longer wore the habit. Instead, I wore you. And, indeed, I became worldly. More worldly than anyone knows as I spent my heaven on earth, pining for you. Oh, what a crown I have woven. C’est dommage.

Everyone thinks I died at twenty-four, but I did not. I only died to my old life and my pussy has yet to dry for my dreams are still filled with thoughts of you and how you made me come as I’d never come before, as our Lord must someday surely come. Such power. You rammed me and rammed me until I came like a shower of roses from heaven. I left the convent and my little French town and traveled all over the world, acquired great wealth, spoke in many tongues, commanded men; when I said ‘come hither,’ he came, with a ‘go thither,’ he left my sight, and I now have estates, thoroughbreds, chariots, servants, I ride to hounds on wild Arabian horses, and yes, I had other lovers, men who spoke of empire, who commanded boats to spirit me away to their secret islands; they gave me gold for my wisdom, silver for my beauty, diamonds for the clarity of the stars in my eyes, one offered me half his kingdom if I would make love to him just once; there were merchants and traders, soldiers, nobles, wayfarers, teachers, troubadours who could pluck the strings of pagan Apollo but not the strings of this woman’s disgraced heart as I now see that our Lord wraps himself in darkness and disgrace as easily as he wears the garment of beautiful splendid nature . . .

I was more than a queen, I was a maiden king who drank wine under the moon of the Caribees, spied on the riches of Africa, traded in the markets of Muhammad, saw men rocketed into the heavens in Florida, I had the finest food, the most elegant clothes and silks on my back, I knew the mysteries of the north, the south, east and west, and even of the unseen cardinal points, and I was seen myself, little child, I knew what it is to be seen; I read the worldly philosophers and learned the magic arts, did battle against the powers of doctors, dogs and devils and, as if over night, suffering was no longer sweet to me. I sought pleasure and joy; smoked fine cigarettes in long, silver quellazaires and read dispatches with my ivory lorgnette. I even had women as well; I sucked from their unearthly breasts and kissed their lips and hair, drank nectar from their wombs and navels, a frightening music emanated from me . . . To you, to the World, I was a ruler, a monarch, an empress of pleasure, but inside, just a lonely girl left empty and desolate, for what does it profit a woman to gain the World but pay tribute to an empty heart?  Fin de siècle, ḉ’est vrai? And yet, even now, I look at my naked image and rejoice. So possessed is one at such times and points, one is dizzy with inspiration. I kiss my own hands and arms. I hypnotize all—men, women, the child, the pious, the heathen—because I am delicious. I have the smell and taste of a goddess, not a saint. I did not ask for these gifts, neither do I refuse them. I give them freely to such as I love and loves me. I could spend all of eternity with your head between my legs, with your wonderful cock inside me, but can’t you relate to me now as a sister, rather than a lover?

THE WORLD:

But, why, mademoiselle?

THÉRÈSE:

Because I’m taken. Taken. But, my saint day is the day of your birth, your real birth: October 1, my saint day, the day of atonement, piety wed with worldly love . . . I ask you to cut the past away . . . here they are, the Freemason sword, the Knights Templar sword, the Celtic, the Claymore, the Excalibur, the honi soit qui mal y pense sword, take your pick. Scimitar. Dagger, harmonica, shilleagh, rod of Aaron, Catholic propaganda sword. It is you who needs awakening. Time to wake up. Réveillez-vous!  Mourn . . . mourn for the glory that has left the earth, the world; get your horns back. Do it right this time. Not so aggressive; don’t come on so strong. Say that I loved you as no one else could, that I offered myself as a victim of fire to your merciful and passionate love so that all sins and crimes might be forgiven and that you consumed this woman and loved her with an immortal love. Say that your gentle muse, the formerly innocent Thérèse of the Child Jesus, of the Holy Face, heals those who invoke her, those who PRAISE the Lady, that she is the patron saint of love and holy longing and of atonement, but also of Balance and Sanity. She is always your sister. Say that I never wavered in my love, say you consumed me heartily, say the World trembles when it gazes on something immortal, which is why you slouch toward Lowell. Just go there. To Lowell. Hear the Confession. Go sooner rather than later. Réveillez-vous! Allez! Look for me in Lowell. I’ll be watching you. Allez!

THE WORLD:

I call your name. Je t’aime.

THÉRÈSE:

Je t’aime.

O, Brown-Eyed Belle of Saint Mark

O, Brown-Eyed Belle, I think of you oftener now.  Resting on the antique wooden chairs yesterday, I realized that I never said “I love you” to you. Not even once. Remember the six-floor walk up on St. Mark’s Place not far from W.H. Auden’s? The tears of seven saints’ sorrow? The commotion on First Avenue below? Remember your sacred doubt? Riding around Staten Island on a bus as a kid, wondering what the Big City would be like? I remember your cobalt blue robe, your raven black hair and black Irish eyes; your wit, the old movie house, your snow-white hands, your honeysuckle and ginger perfume, your perfect face, your smile like the Left Bank. These fragments are all I have left of you . . . You once said, “I think you like the idea of me more than me,” but that wasn’t so. The whole of you was just too smart, too elegant, too refined, too lovely for me to try and contain and so these fragments are all I have now, they are the you I still cherish and have always loved.

The Princess

You could stay in Amherst
Put down some roots
... Get a job at the clinic
Buy a ranch or split-level off
Tonawanda Creek
Go to the old Lutheran church
In the village
Get to know the pastor
And his wife
Find a mate
Drive your kids to band practice
Shop at the Walden Galleria
Or you could go back to Tucson
In your '93 Chevron and
Leave the rest of us wondering
Whatever became of that
Charmingly eccentric woman
With the sun, the moon and
The wild blue ocean in her
Eyes?

Nothing's more
Seductive than leaving
Town.

1955 B Actress's Lament

I didn’t

struggle

study

sweat

and

sacrifice

just to

end up

in some

body’s

dumb

new

wave

poster.

The Virgin Snow

Naïve white drops fall from

The sky and from the two lakes

In Seneca territory

Near the border where

You were born.

Every kind of pilgrim

Crosses that border

Where you watch white

Unmanifest desire

Untouched, original

And new, like pure thought

Become substance in the

Cold, thin air.

You walk on icy roads

Past Methodist steeples

Frozen waterfalls and dusted

Tree branches, to a house

Built before photography

A maple-stained corner home

Near the creek that flows north

And empties into the Niagar

A home that people stop to

Gaze at.

           

You continue walking up a

Dozen or so creaky wooden

Steps to a bedroom where lay

A woman who will no longer

Even kiss you.

Out of the

Darkness are reflections of

Crystalline blue eyes and

Skin as white as the blanketed

Sidewalk.

A cool rhythm is in the voice

And a cold blue light emanates

From the TV screen as snow

Sticks desperately to the window

To then freeze or

Evaporate.

“This is not the virginity

I had sought,” you think.

“But it is pretty.”



9 Autumns Past

the young blind
woman asked me
to take her along
winspear avenue
to the store
on the
corner.

she had the
warmest
hands.

The Transmigration of Souls

suzanne and i stopped in
the bar where she met
her first husband, stopped
into the blue & gold
place as we used to call it
in the east village;
she'd gone there with
him, too.

"i told him," suzanne said
at the bar, "if we don't
work through this, we're
going to have to do it
all over again, in another
life, i mean, do you really

want to be
married to
me
again?"

To the Brown-Eyed Belle of Saint Mark

damn
am i going
to hate it
when

you turn
those dark
eyes
on

me.

To Wonder

to wonder if you've
loved enough
is part of
the loving.

to ask 'was my
heart really brok-
en or was i
just afraid to
be alone?'

is part of the
heartbreak.

while it's true
the heart can
hold only so
many tears.

don't wonder
as to its
depth.

Fruit of Thy Womb

The sages say that

Mary means ‘the sea’

As in mar, marine and

Marina but it’s not

Your name I think of

As I watch your chest

Rise

And lift, then recede

Like the rapturous

Tide.

I don't know what it is

About you that is

                                                                 

Liquid exactly

But if you put it

In a cup and

Place

It on the

Table in front of

Us, I will

Drink it

Until

I, too, am

Full of

       Grace.

                                                                         

You Love (Song of Praise)

 

You love your own

breasts as nearly all

women do; you’re

proud of their soul

power and of the

gifts they bring to you.

Because you so love

your breasts, I love

them, too.

Or maybe there are other reasons.

You love your own

home as nearly all of us

do, you’re proud of the

antique chairs, the

gilded portraits and walls,

the flowers in the blue glass vases.

Because you so love

your home, I love

it, too.

Or maybe there are other reasons.

You love the world as

only you can; you’re

proud of your creations

in their individual

splendor.

Because you so loved

the world, I love it

too.

Or maybe there are other reasons.

Other reasons.

Under the Peace Bridge (Song of the Atonement)

Does judgment come in white and black?

Morality’s so inexact

Look no further than at sex

Love is simple, we’re complex

When in flight the skylark sings

Spirit kisses mundane things.

The garden green is but a mirror

Reflecting starry heaven’s glare

Golden apples of the sun

Lie in the bowl when work is done

An iron sword firm in the right

Still separates the day from night

All mysteries of life and death

Reveal themselves with every breath

The harp was once Diana’s bow

The stringed guitar has six arrows

But ghost electric unchecked can

Adulterate the age of man.

The anchorperson’s rehearsed lies

Pollute the earth, the moon and skies

The teacher teaching without art

Violates the child’s heart

Lovers stopping for the phone

Usher in a world of stone

Night is falling, who is calling?

Someone you can call your own?

One must atone

To purify the intellect

And be gazed on by

Melchizidek.

In my hometown grow many trees

One of these, the Tree of Peace

Unites the tribes of Handsome Lake

Who never feared the uncoiled snake

‘Don’t tread on me, get thee behind’

He said to tame the insane mind

The massive tree, its fruits and leaves

Gave food and shade to northbound slaves

Near the tree, a bridge was built

By the sons of old Steelkilt

Who hailed from lands of rock and snow

And the island, Manitou

Gallant horsemen, beautiful women

When twilight fell, shared wild visions

But what they saw in dreams at night

We must perceive now in daylight.

Moloch prophets, listen well

Your minds have made a Milton’s hell

Age alone can’t bestow truth

When blood runs hot like callow youth

For at the core of nation’s pride

Are conquest, slav’ry, genocide

Renounce the demagoguery

Behold the source of poetry

Forgive and call the muses home

The bridge where light and darkness meet

When crossed does something torn complete

Yet writ large on its cornerstone:

One must

Atone.