Perry Thompson - Five Poems

good times ain't what
they used to be my friend

they're harder to come by
they require more guiness

how did it happen that
the innocents are now
in charge of execution

they are much younger than we
and more greedy
they mean to take our place
before our time is through

i'm babbling in the middle
of this eloquent revolution
and can't quite discover
what it's all about

isaac has been
tempted to sacrifice abraham

don't know which side i'm on
i fear i'll betray my
soldiers without knowing

thinking now of carrying a gun

i rarely sleep anymore
and that's not like me
i'm afraid of the bed
those rumpled sheets

you're lying with your wife right now
you're still skinny
and work for the man
a most unlikely soldier

but your long distance
calls are a great comfort to me
as i grow young in this aging body

and your sense of absurdity makes me
worry less about the revolution

it's 4am
i'm going to ring you now

When the gaudy edge of heaven
(the carnival flash and cleft foot)
casts the cobblestones in shadow
(shadow and autumn, autumn and dusk)

comes the ragman giggling and brown,
the foreign girl and
the shifter of shapes,
comes the beggar and
the waif
and whispering gentleman Deuce
. . . sileoc ni tse iuq retson retap.

Morning windows cloud with breath as children
press and lean,
lean to covered wagons creaking.
House of mirrors.
House of fun.

Comes the man who sells the potions,
painted mistress teller of fortunes,
comes the one-wheel
pointed juggler
. . . sileoc ni tse iuq retson retap.

Evening windows fog with breath as children
press and lean.
Lean to dancers.
Lean to demons.
House of horrors.
House of fun.

Comes the one-eye ticket taker,
tallest man,
charmer of snakes.
Comes the bandit and
the rake
and whispering gentleman Deuce
. . . sileoc ni tse iuq retson retap.

Empty windows,
empty rooms where children live and age.
Age to soldiers.
Age to lovers.
Horn of plenty.
Hall of fame.

Comes the one who breathes the fire,
shortest man,
barkers and fakes.
Comes the monster and
the drake
and whispering gentleman Deuce
. . . sileoc ni tse iuq retson retap.

Loud with birds
the station vibrated,
thousands crowding
to see him go.

Hotel doors clicked as he shut
them one by one.  'You can't return,'
they warned,
'The innkeeper has your keys.'

Bars dozed as he passed.
The Hard Rock Cafe whispered,
'You don't want to go.'  The Marilyn
Monroe Cafe was locked.  'How tickets
burden the pocket,' it said.

All night long he dreamed of arrival
times and departure times while
she snored gently to his left.
A little night music.

He'd ruined the trip.   He had wanted
it to be their adventure.  It was always hers
and hers alone.  The night music played on.

She was sleeping when he went.  He helped
himself to the gilders on the table.
They didn't jingle in his pocket.

Whorehouses grinned,
'See the coward running
on the pilgrim bridges.
Just another stupid American.'

Canals cursed him for leaving.
Boats were quiet.
Alone on the platform,

he listened to the trains.  'Brussells waits
somewhere south,' they confided. 'And by the way,
fuck you for treating her like a child.'

I am banished from my
homeland to find
the woman God made in secret.

My sweet shepherd butchered
his lamb and blood
sang on the rich earth.

Confused and afraid
my bitter lovesong rang
in the streets of Heaven.

To calm my heart I gave
the fruit of the ground
but it was not good enough.

So I found my kin in the fields
and killed him and brought
his corpse to God the Father

who opened His mouth and
received my brother's blood
like a beast at the trough.

Take this stark
garden where buds
swell to unremarkable hue.

No prayer here in the thorns
that they should not pierce
the skin of a stranger,
soften the days of a stalled
traveler or calm his horse
before its carriage.

No prayer in the thorns
that they should cool
despair with the grace of a star
falling down or ease blind
hours through the lens of summer.

No prayer in the thorns
that they should show
the path back home,
the way to houses
gone to the weather of men,
nothing of what the landscape teaches.

Only this -- the hot rose melting,
Trinity on a bleached petal,
my generation's corpse in the orchard.

My child, I give you poverty,
poverty and bright exuberant fasting.