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

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I think: can this story still matter? Nearly two years in the writing & not even half-done?
Who cares? Why carry this notebook? Why tumble forth another few pages between weeks
of silence? Fixtion? What does that mean anymore?
Wrench, wriggle. Believe.
“She wrote to me, Rebecca. She misses me. She is deeply unhappy. How can I turn
away from her?”
“Don’t.”
“I alone believe. Look at me. Look through my face. She is my muse in this broken
world my home.”
“I know.”
“All I can do is love her & sing to her from afar. My Art belongs to her.”
“Yes.”
Dr. Knickerbocker, sits in his bloody hearts boxers on his stool, sipping a mug of water.
“Charles!” he calls.
Mr. Bob the bartender stumbles over, nonchalantly.
“I’m sorry.” Sad voice.
“For what . . . . . . Arnold?”
“You are man such as I’ve not been in years, if ever.”
“Don’t be foolish. You’re a warrior. I just keep you, er, supped with drink.”
A pink friend settles on the stool next to Dr. Knickerbocker. He picks up this friend
& holds it close. Tears.
Wrench. Wriggle. Believe.
She queries. She twists in light. She looks around in time & eternity, dream & touch. She says
my name softly when alone, holds it closely to her heart. She smiles. Hears a noise. Turns the
other way.
Yes, she thinks, despite all. Yes.
This threshold, what it might be, heavy glass tank, water filled with depths
unrevealing, black glass, black water, a shrug each for what when why—these words found
& writ again—how longing longs to perpetuate—either coast I sit with black pen—
he sings “How the heart approaches what it yearns . . .” smiles at me—it’s OK, all
OK, all will be well & all will be well
she loves me tonight a double hundred miles away—admires, desires, what else I do
not know—admires—desires—
push on toward morning. resurrection. the least thought matters. push on. no way
out but through—admires, desires—
A new dream. A bigger dream. No longer a dream at all. So I’ve lived these many
months. Now learn to fly in this grumbling earthbound turmoil—learning to fly—learning to
fly—
“She’s teaching me, I don’t know exactly how.”
The Cenacle | 59 | October 2006