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

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how scary, how very fine—
live among the tatters & glows of my own mind, & here is a painting of a man &
woman dancing, very fine, & it becomes my emblem, raises my words into broad melodies
live among others in what resembles right now my native world & here too a muse, a
wife, a soulmate, arrived to queen that which has always awaited her—
live among pages & here yet another, yet the same, a girlgodd, an artist, muse,
delicious, very fine, yes
suddenly, a scene:
Jim Reality’s broad figure leads the whooping assemblage onto Reckoning Road,
“New England Patriots, your 2002 Super Bowl XXXVI Champeens!”
cops dunna get afeared but simple block both ends of the street & blare their
sirens—
Knickerbocker remains alone in the bar, a Patriots baseball cap askew on his head, a fist
drunkenly shaking at a God who’d forgotten today to punish New England for her “City
pon the Hill” arrogance
Godd the Little Pink Bear floats along the merry parade, neither vengeful nor forgetting,
slightly drunk, singing “We are the Champeens” with the rest of the frosted tramps—
yes, there it is, narrative, & on it could go—sugarhugging, lips damp & giggling—
then wander from there, off the page, out of the notebook, to an else, configuration of
cloud, dirge, & much-loved toy pup—
No rules. No game. No fear.
More & more, hurry without really ever having moved—
“Hello—I love you—
won’t you tell me your name
Hello—I love you—
let me jump in your game!”
cries the jukebox later on at Luna T’s Cafe as the crowd rears ever higher—
Suck the world, suck it hard, drink it in, scary, very fine,
Knickerbocker interrupts me, & I agree—cue rant:
“Drinketh thine world down! Fear, fantasy, fineness of
distinction between the pilgrim & the sinner! Drinketh! as
weary artisan his dwelling’s nocturnal rest! Drinketh! as the
woman her baby’s suckling need! Drinketh! As woe, darkness,
& devilry do their cornered human prey!”
The Cenacle | 59 | October 2006