Hierophany

Dark ocean eve.
The waves along the horizon
Are not even waves because they’re too far away.
That sound is the sound of wind rising,
Asserting itself like a dirty cop.
No second thoughts and no guilt.
I could have been so beautiful.
Crabs are finding their nacred shells,
Skimmers are taking their winnings off the top.
The pier is still broken from last time.
I’m busy naming the next hurricane after myself.
When will I come to land? — who knows.
Guidebooks, clouds, soaring hotels, and sand.
In the waterfront bar, my image on satellite TV
Spins and spins.  I can’t make up my mind.

This entry posted by J Rand : 14:37

46

Royal Success Systems —
Convincing people
That their graffiti is art.


47

Dog ears appear
From the heart of a sleeping ball —
Truck w/ trailer passes by.


48

Drove out to the
Country for some air —
Coming back, the city ahaze.


49 (after Kerouac)

In the Belleville house,
My father’s
Abominable yawns.


50
Is my head back this far?
I was just now having
The night’s first beer.

This entry posted by J Rand : 14:11

a.
            A city like Rotterdam

                              bombed, rebuilt

The Nazis said

               submit or we’ll bomb you into the ocean

      The ‘Dammers submitted but got bombed anyway

What’s the point in that?

                              Now, taller buildings

                                         Europe’s busiest port

            A few coffeeshops tucked away.

In a café, cream of mushroom soup,

                 the best bread and a little butter

            in view of the deal-making, sky-scraping

                    torsoffices.

b.
            Pear trees. More than a pair — an orchard.

                    Phew.  These clouds.  The ones did Bruegel see.

Finally, he thinks, I get to use some lighter colors.

                        Sun burns off the gray clouds

that hung so close to th’orizon, as if shielding a secret.

                              A harvest not yet reaped,

               A greenhouse.      A sign for Mäes.

            Unpack and walk the city.

            Beer from a vending machine.

            Nightfall in Belgium.

                                                Not just me

                       but the whole city

meeting for a party on the pier,

                 urged on by 100 dee-jays.

c.
            ANKUNFT then ABFLUG

         A train is made for getting away,

            a bed for coming home to.

It was raining that morning we awoke in Antwerp,

                              the last morning.

               Tot ziens!

And now, rows ahead,

                              a woman gives me German words for free.

    Undistracted by busy tracks,

                    boys practice football

                     while their slightly bearded brothers

hang kord jackets from hooks over their seats

            and tune up slide-show presentations

   they could give in five fluent languages

                              leaving me entirely

                    jealous.

This entry posted by J Rand : 10:23