Man on a Rocking Chair in San Juan
In San Juan I found a man
rocking on his balcony,
the floors creaking,
the glaze in the gaze,
a daffodil stem
hanging from his lips.
I asked him
was he truly
an Indépendantiste?
He shot me a glance,
red in the eyes,
stopped his rocking,
spat in a can,
just to say
that for now,
all he wanted
was his libertad,
a free man, with free choice,
that’s it, that’s all!
¿Entendí algo?
In an ice-bound heaven,
the dream had been
suspended,
hung from a hook
some years ago,
adjourned, deferred,
a concerto in repose.
An orchestra,
with bows frozen,
icicles hanging.
An epic,
with faces caught,
mouths open
in a moment of despair.
“À la prochaine,”
with a tilt of the head.
As tears flowed,
it became a still shot,
an interim movement,
an opus for all.
But, here, in the Alps,
in a village called D,
where the snow drifts,
where pin-striped bellies
shake, vibrate,
sniggers abound,
decisions count.
GDP per capita goes Y-ways,
fixed.
Growth and debt goes X-ways,
fixed.
Numbered accounts
and interest rates,
Z-ways, fixed.
No balconies,
no rocking chairs
in this castle regal.
No one chews tabac.
Limos drive in and out,
tinted windows and
shadows inside.
Independence, my friend,
is like Capital sans Labour –
a flippant issue, perhaps,
but worth a note –
that sovereignty today,
ça n’existe pas.
The polished floors don’t creak.
The daffodils don’t weep.
“And the wind whispers Mary…
After all jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed,”
Jimi says, so softly.
There is nothing to sweep away,
as everything is already swept.
The man from San Juan,
with the daffodil stem
hanging from his lips…
The balcony creaks.
The chair rocks.
No man can be seen.
(May 2018)
I Shot a .38
(or Skylight Phobia Version 2)
I shot a .38 through the skylight,
a neat hole, no cobweb
left behind.
Just an accident! I said,
No tension, no threat!
The cartouche
rose steep, parabolic!
y=x2
Reached its pungent peak
1500 yards up,
climbed down, slowly
passed a cackle
of geese
headed south,
erroneously.
Look, I said,
confused,
taking the cue
from VP Gore,
who I’d just seen,
the day before,
on a group discount
at the Paramount.
It hit a neighbour’s clothesline,
flipped clumsily,
resting gently
in the pocket of a kitchen bib
used deftly
by Ms. Turcotte,
who worked in forensics
for a company
she thought
could be basis
for a series, dark,
on BBC,
called CSI Parc!
Yes, Parc!
That rue they called Bourassa
for a week only.
She spied the hole in the skylight
with a telescopic sight
made in Italy,
calculated the impact and velocity,
and determined me to be guilty.
She invited me for dinner.
Gracious! I said,
but dubious, mos def’ly.
She made carbonara, horribly,
and pastry that was pasty,
crusty and oily.
I shuddered mildly
at her hospi-tality.
The blue neon lights,
the quivering maroon lips,
were brand CSI.
Incredible! I said to her,
feigning total intrigue.
I found the errant cartouche
sitting delinquent
in an Akhavan sack.
And when she turned her back,
I lifted it promptly,
holding the .38 to her head.
I’m taking my cartridge back, immediately! I said.
No trace!
She agreed politely
and I left quietly,
knowing she would
study my saliva on a plate,
for DNA left behind.
Traces of skylight phobia
in the ancestral blood
of my émigré utopia…
My parents arrived
in the dead of night,
in a boat from Sri Lanka.
(November 2006/January 2018)
