Raymond Soulard, Jr. New Songs (for Kassandra) - The ...

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Down in the dreams, into the crackling in the murk, laughter green fruit hanging
from trees & electrical poles, down in the dreams, where none mind the myth of You & I,
You & I, down in the dreams, the raging ragged colors, spinning freaks, fires everywhere, the
night unending, the night crowned with full-moon & low wet stars
Rebecca, stay mine forever—stay mine no matter how far I go—
Art the understanding between us, love the shine, I want to tell her of so many
rotten moments, rudeness in a shove, indifference in a crowd, loneliness dwellt in a brick
box, but no, what reality have these things? Passing, at most—I want to tell her she’s
miracle, & more than this—
mostly to sit hands twined—spit toward years scrawny, years gone—neither does the
future mean much—a carrot, someone’s gold-face clock slowing down—
just now—shine & understanding—a story making its obscure way along—
closer, Rebecca, closer, closer to me in the deeper ways—beyond machine &
incentive, beyond even touch—beyond shine & understanding—beyond the knowable or
possible—
she returns to our bedroom wearing my black t-shirt in blue swiggly letters says
Phish & pink panties I’ve stroked many times—
with mind chocolate chip ice scream & a smirk—
I put down my pen but she shakes her head, rolls into my lap & feeds me while I
continue writing these words til her caresses slow then awhile stop me—
Richard James Americus sits in the other bedroom at 50 Harvest Street, strumming
softly, his wife Franny listening even as she lightly dreams—
His thoughts of his band, of the months passed since he released them back to their
separate lives for a break, a sabbatical, & how they all left Hartford, save drummer Cecile
Grey, who lives at the local YMCA, but how none seemed eager to go—
“I have a feeling we’ll have a lot to do together again soon. I’ll call, I promise” was
the whole of his explanation.
Franny’s sleep deepens & her soft smile evens out. She’d liked the Starlight Lounge,
& McFarland will surely never forget the moment she insisted on the dancing the place’s
sign promised—she’d danced with both Rich & McFarland & he’d shown himself a nimble
gigantus of a man—Miranda had demurred Rich’s offer but said “maybe next time” with a
smile—
“Is that place real, Rich?”
“I don’t know. Real enough.”
He strums, poking around new sounds & old, listening, sniffing along, & always the
wiggly sense of his bandmates—Grey, Pascale, Tormé, Black—& the pressing shimmer of
his heroes—Lennon, Townshend, Hendrix, Clapton—& the shifting bloom of his bloodloves—Rebecca,
Franny, Reality, Robert—& the scratching tickle of his mysteries—Soulard,
Mickey, Knickerbocker, Time—& a swirl high & low of other faces & places
Strumming—the hustle for a new song’s hook or groove—shape the noise—thicken,
push, chase, release—
The Cenacle | 59 | October 2006