Knocking

            I can't tell if it's just a dream I've had.
            Gate's boiling up a stew; Irene's not well.
            He walks to find some fish heads, rice & beans.
            Papa Joe spots him, stops to talk. Algiers
            To the other side, they join the second line.
            I think they've come to play my funeral.
            I came to a violent end, monkey-wrench
            Bashed down through my skull, cracking it open.
            I knew my mind was ash & gone, as soon
            As that brain-wrenching, wrench-braining sank in.
            The blow left a bloody wreath about me,
            Left me to the wake of a dying march,
            Six feet under sea level, just like a well bucket,
            Below the river's boa constrictor flow,
            But face down in blood. The knock, my body thought
            Out loud, eclipsed my ear drums; dumb,
            Deflated, I bled to death, fed to defeat,
            Knocked down on St. Peter's Street, at the foot
            Of the gate. A guest, I didn't know the twist
            Of the wrist required, because the ancient gate
            Was rusted, couldn't be trusted, the lock too encrusted,
            To turn the key. How could I know I blazed
            Like a lamp, my back to the crossroads, drawing
            Shadows to me, bloodthirsty. A swarm of
            Termites blocked the light as I was hit.
            Gate & I got acquainted as my ghost fled.
            It was not just another stomp to the yard. There is
            A will to read, the testament of one
            At an intersection with death, a raft's
            Lift out of the old life adrift, a draft
            Of levees & yards of ovens, obelisks
            And bearded oaks, ashen folks, remains.

            

            Crossing

            I lean on the horn, relax, free drift The West
            Bank is the east. Water loops, the ferry's
            Horn blasts, Algiers diminishes, so face
            The East Bank, the other side, low & wet
            A town's looming below the horizon,
            Moon bath, empty tub's rim, walls of a basin,
            Water everywhere but in, a flood plain
            Drained by pumps & valves & valves & pumps
            As squeezed with noise as trumpets. Great marches
            Approach us, great voices humming, haunting
            As they wail. Gate's mounting faucet cools.
            St. Peter's arched position, mine the depths
            For blues to stir the bath with, Gabriel,
            Loosen your lungwind, Gate, let yourself get
            The better of silence. So the brass starts
            To bend the tunes to words I know as if
            By heart. I spot on the banks wharves of crates,
            The crudities of trade, bananas boxes piled
            In pyramids. Underneath cypress trunks
            Made pilings sunk into the reptile swamps,
            Planted a town to float upon for lack
            Of a surface of bedrock, have rotted through.
            The city sunk into its basin long ago.

            It's hard for me to stand on the sill of the tomb,
            So step down onto (dry) land. Instantly
            Buskers horns blasting, their ease a cause
            For wonder, pledge to lull my deadened heart,
            Then haunt me with their tunes. I hunt for change.
            I tip my hat, repress an urge to shout
            Out rage & stomp for joy I doubted mine
            To feel, blurred as I turn on my heel.
            I recognize the strangeness. I like it.
            I toss their brass voices coins; horns splash,
            Flowering fountains, wakes awash in wishes.
            Naked booms of forceful motion, of cane
            Perfume surreal, erotic pushing, thumps
            Of devotion, daemonic, reveal
            There's a will to read, the testament of one.
            Next a busker asks me, what'll yours be?
            For kicks I ask what he would charge me for
            My wake. Spare change, he expects, plus fees, or
            A bucket of cold beer, we're even. Mere
            Coin's inconsequential to me now. I quake
            Through my marches for the poor of spirit,
            Bereft of resources, but I must eat
            As well. I'll play your wake; we'll share cold beer
            From an icy bucket getting there, so
            You'd better start to prepare, he warns me,
            It's a long walk from here to the old back yard.
            Part of you will change, even dreams now,
            And from out of what seems will forge the strange.
            It's not too hard on you, but you must witness
            What it is first hand: not just hats put
            On chests to catch spare change thrown down in passing
            Can recover an undertaker's cost;
            Host exhaustless, I make way for the next
            To cross & come along, into the earth
            Or smoky sky, chin up, walk on, you will
            Be missed. I made a hymn, The Gate of Horn:
            Go on you ghosts, thaw as you will, because
            This old blue case has been, at last, dismissed.

            With my foot now down on (dry) land, I am
            As if with clay compounded, planted
            A mound, my limbs stretched to the sun, the blast
            Of Gate's horn in my ear, his humble chore.
            He says I know I'm there when all I hear
            Is "Come on in, Swing it open, Gate." A rocking chair
            Will be our seat tonight, for Pennies from Heaven.

            Sandbars swollen to dunes, as Hopewell Mounds,
            In the lap of the oxbow low country,
            Spanish moss seeps as fresh rain falls; sun to steam,
            A monster of stubbornness cured, a pot
            Of cooling gumbo comes, & spoon. In throes
            Of spicy pain, the lounge act croons, Paradise
            Needs rain. 'In youth when I thought love I tasted
            Death'; her breath was broken sugar cane.

            

            Waking I

            I bring this up now, under the weather
            With a bug, turned up late, hours flipping
            Through an old biography of Gate, I
            Passed out in my seat, & dreamt again
            Of Liberty & Perdido Street. A tune
            That shrugs as it sings, bringing good news
            And bad news, like a riverboat the horn of Gate.
            The heart's pieces hurt, songs of the species,
            Swinging with changes, wash up on the shore.

            Another ruin's broken, frozen here, thawed
            March into open air, joyfully press
            Into Congo Square, in heated blood of June;
            The second line thunders out its great despair
            When its column passes. Drag up your feet,
            Pull down your locks; take off your glasses.

            I ask who I am, where am I in all of this,
            For lack of clocks, in slacks of indigo,
            How will I know my aching space? Satchelmouth
            Saunters over, asks for a match. Sulphur
            Catches, flame illuminates his face. "Listen Pops,"
            He states, "I know why you've come, to get back
            On your feet." He's right, I'm dreaming: I sweat
            It out: a rag of blues oblivious to heat,
            He knows it's obvious, stomp of the street.
            The weight of it hits me: I'm used to this.
            Vipers, we sip the gage, sweat out bagasse,
            The fishy spice of bay leaf broth & turtle meat;
            He proves unfazed by the heat, & by
            The violence beneath the brothels, lack
            Of improvements, impoverished, the crush
            When push comes to shove, threadbare, wearing
            No costume, unspruced, coal-smudged: a young man
            Smiles at me, not the later Gate in soft
            White hat to pose with his own ball club, nor
            The fearless King of Zulu, coconuts & all;
            Neither the one in two-toned shoes. A lion
            Of Jane's Alley, Born on the fourth of July,
            More like a Shelley, shot cool as a child
            Emperor, kicked from school, Leo towering
            As though it were an oath he took, an oath
            To liberty's growth: he was born of last
            Night's ignis fatuus, dawned illegitimus.

            

            I strengthened my lungs on the junk cart,
            He answers, played licks folks liked boldly.
            They grew tinhorn behelden. Now I can lengthen,
            Cajole the lyricz. The blues flow out
            And flood about me; I get hot. Folks
            Got the fix they sought, they seeks, they love
            It down & dirty, Pete Lala's, Lulu White's,
            Past dawn. Tricks, requests, ladies, a hornman
            Is restless, lips rippled, unexploded.
            At night he plays it all, next day he wears
            Down soles as guide to the next soul departed,
            Big-hearted mind on the next world, blowing
            The wake of another existence, a lion
            Gone on, a butterfly flown from a plucked
            Down house of flesh the moth's just as a line-
            Fresh cloth the starched wind hatches, voice in song,
            One horn's long notes. A man's will bends, into
            Music blends. It ends because there is some bone
            To pick. I hope none of the charges leveled stick.

            

            Mixing

            A tapster, sir, parcel bawd, one that serves
            A bad woman, whose house, sir, was, as they say,
            Plucked down
            -Measure for Measure

            The fat consultant (sulphur) comes to us
            From Jesuit Bend, condescending: You say
            The river's within us. I hear it talk.
            He would sound looped but on the mark. We spoke
            In the Victorian lounge, Hotel Darwin,
            Once a cigar merchant's mansion, then soon
            Thereafter whisky with potassium
            Of cyanide shortened the merchant's life:
            He drank the mix to join his wife who'd died
            Three years before, downed his elixir.
            The house changed hands. Once a hurricane fixed
            Its tower, forced a powerful change, un-
            Noticeable now were you to look for it.
            Ivory & brass, dusk blown into glass
            Of velvet leaves, lead plating, rich in must
            And damp, both tawdry & enchanted haunt
            To hunt through: regal degradation's dew,
            Its trusty jasmine just past sour, aching
            Wants of old & powerful molds like new.
            Louis Malle made of its upholstered stew
            A movie set. He dreamt of Jelly Roll, of
            The District before the Great War, of Bellocq,
            Storyville's photographer, dreamt of
            His enchanting muses, Terpsichore
            I cannot assume you know of him, or
            Of his story, encephalitic Bellocq-
            Click & flash of cameras, mercurial
            Young man-you make up what you will. Someone,
            A brother, a priest, defaced with markers
            The original plates, so the models
            Are marred, are made anonymous. Honest
            Ripeness leaves one light-headed, the faces
            Blackened on bodies freshly bright. Flesh peels
            Off of the sofa; softened, she kneels,
            Utterly blue, polite: Olympia's over
            The toilet, a battered Villon's on the seat,
            A poster of Roman Bath's above the tub.
            Bertha looks for medicine behind the mirror.

            Later on the front porch the guests to folks
            On the streetcar passing look pressed, respectable,
            Stretching their coin for the magic hour,
            As the fattening sulphur consultant sits
            And sours for hours, downs a dozen drinks.
            Left of him our editor knocks on the bar,
            Bertha, Times-Picayune; a predator,
            She winks at me. I say what'll yours be.
            The geologist next to her works three
            Weeks on & two weeks off, on an off-shore
            Rig for Shell, then lists three days in the bar,
            Describes its petrol-porno hell, the grief
            Of boredom without relief, spoiled flows
            From brutal drills, manned by shallow hands,
            Run of the mill out there far as I know.
            The exterminator of termites sits
            And pickles in a series of double Dickles.
            Some make-up artists filming downtown
            At the Minor Basilica come in
            For catfish blackened, the Fridays in Lent
            When it's on the house. They cobble the pay
            They lack together slowly, bottomless cups,
            Leave tips for change. It would be rude to pour
            The well. It's not like work to mix, you think.
            Folks talk. You serve the crooks their drinks,
            Their bloodies & doubles of neat Ten High.

            "Thanks Big Chief," or, "Okeh Poke," Saturdays
            Sammy & I without relief work on
            Till long past 3am, rubbing lipstick
            From some tumbler's rim. A man in black tie
            Slips, & then his leaning lady, she's all
            The swell of hips & deep in cups on top
            Of him. O Miss Liza, Little Liza
            Jane, O Eliza, Little Liza Jane.
            Yeszir, says Pops, thazza fine synthesis there,
            Just keep your eyes on the hidden razor.
            Hazard that ride if you dared, unforbidden
            You did in a dizzy zone& then after
            Too brief a spell to snooze off all the booze,
            You rise to Sunday brunch shift, wretched, fuzzy.
            Togated folks, split like peaches, bruised, stretched
            Under inveterate oaks devour slabs
            Of brisket & cornbread biscuits, mimosa's
            Fizzy dew, & tell their stale jokes, ordering
            In speeches. The wakeful night's miasma
            Still hangs raw in the air, the floor behind
            The bar, with freezer burn, antiseptic
            Odors of soap & beer. Cast skeptically
            In blue-I play a disc the horn of Gate.
            Through glass like tusks beams bask the shadowed room
            In sun, as gates of ivory, lilies open,
            Gates of horn. Miss Betty brings me oysters
            She's just shucked, exchange, a Bloody Mary.
            I mix some bitters & soda, & toast
            To Byron & St. Charles Baudelaire:
            Stay drunk on life, debunk the doom called sin,
            But look on dawn as a kind of medicine.

            Waking II

            And it's a long way to Tipperary
            If you lean out far enough from the deck
            Of the ferry you can hear the horns blow,
            And see ahead the graveyard crests of floodgates,
            Upon which all our hopes shall hinge, or else
            Hereaftermath, the bitter taste of lasting
            Flood, of silence to hello below there,
            O long descending path, we're down to this.
            Old Diogenes, all pageantry in his tub,
            Along St. Charles flows & barks rude gaffs.
            As soon he's filled your windows, dawns to the brim
            And you don't stay dry. The Bucket's Gotta
            Hole in It, Gut Bucket Blues, let's listen
            To a sky full of the Dipper, nothing
            Left to fear, a tuba's pulse to hear, as loops
            Of water, lapsed debris pass on along
            To the silted, sulphurous sea. We sip
            From lard buckets cold beer, undo our buttons,
            Show beads of sweat; they run down our hands like oysters.
            We're almost numb from icy foam. You dream of moments
            Of no violence, left ours to enjoy,
            The few there are. Rejoice into the dim.
            I think to myself, the music proves there's
            Medicine in him. He has a line to ease
            Whatever grave you have to say, one man
            Alone, of all who rambled there, one man
            In clownish gear amidst the whole affair
            Rambled all around, in & out of town,
            Could baffle a frowning ear into a bit
            Of laughter outta loss of back o' town life,
            And lift you off your seat to make you dance
            Though you were dead, stewed in blood gone to your
            Sweaty mind, a witness waking singing round
            And round can't pass on this, so back into
            Her kitchen go to find that lucky rocky
            Whisky, icing; urns broken, inky coffins,
            The earth's hidden depths; we feed on matter
            Decomposed. Zeno keeps time on skins,
            Vulture bones on the rumbling barrel drum.
            Our mirth is mulch to salve the failed earth.
            Once the body's gone, she will have her due.
            The spirit's yours, dawn; the body's down to worms,
            The dew upon the lawn. Swing Gate, sweat out
            The hots the roots, refresh the common plots.

            

            Risking

            A coin turns up for a song antique shop,
            Royal Street: Antony Dionysus drives
            Two lions, a feast made for our laughter.
            Place your heel upon its metal & dance
            To the hereafter, the shine of passing
            And the tossing shore. Return to the hotel.
            Columns suited to be redoubtable,
            Obelisks rounded with longing's risks, ladies
            In gowns of mostly skin, like moons or rings,
            Orbiting them Upstairs European
            Bathrooms, a walk across the vaulted hall,
            With porcelain tubs on lion's paws
            And tiles white as teeth. Above the tub
            A diagram framed of Aquae Sulis,
            Roman Bath: sacred water, full of coins
            Thrown as wishes, fountains & dishes, hands
            Of vendors: Roman Bath for us: Bertha
            The predatory editor, she & I,
            As showy youths, undressed down to our bones,
            And as it is with the loneliest, lust
            Owned us; we illustrated stunts & grunts
            Right out of Suetonius, just as
            Countless others gone a-coining before,
            Joined holy over vulgar fare. This source,
            The navel of earth is new to us, is here
            And now, when we know who & where we are.
            This source bubbles upon the table a coin's
            Throw from the bar. As our cosmic laughter
            Crashes down to rubble, to die iszz easy,
            Lasting's trouble. Into a wreck the wake of one
            Who lived a talkative life, was broken
            Early into experience, & senseless
            Expertise, a boiling voice, we have
            Now spoken. Needy for conjunction,
            Human as we are, we nod & dine on
            This mess of humble fare, beset with thieves,
            This life set in the round, of strained words, stained-
            Lung-songs theatres of absence, stuttering
            Like Moses or Mather just to muster,
            Bring me a thermometer mother, I'm
            Tumescent with drams, dreams of a murder,
            Covered in mosses. I wasn't-was-am
            Not-care not I play on the house, a hat,
            Then count my change. My charge is swift my range
            A gift my bark & limbs are loosely planted. Brushed
            By her blouse cuffs, on the balustrade's bluff,
            Pining I wish no more to gaze behind.
            The shrug of a shoulder? No, this is a design,
            A bed, a chair, a window, columns & porch.
            As the sun twists down, a slice of navel
            Orange on her snifter's rim, the moon's horn
            Rises, soaks in branch water. The earth's pulse
            Presses down. It's pleasant. My tongue's spent lifting
            Her keystone until laughter soaks the crescent.

            

            

            Changing

            We term sleep a death; yet it is waking
            Kills us, destroys these spirits,
            The house of life
            -Sir Thomas Browne

            The pumps & valves collapse, the tub fills in.
            Over the levee volatile river
            Water wheels-delivering us up to
            Eventuals-the show's run out of the house.
            "This hothouse is an ill house too," the priest
            Curses, house & emptied body. Kicked about
            A soul mustn't fret, don't strut but wander on,
            Trusted by no one Let the termites feast.
            Knocking available, forced to run
            From rain burned into strength of will, my limbs
            Succumb to heaviness, exposed, no longer
            My old flesh. That's when Rocky, the Gateman
            With the keys begins to bark: What gives you
            The right to dance on in? But I've left rings
            In baths, I say to Rocky, extending
            A palm, just to reach this spot, pored over
            Unreadable maps; I've climbed The Darwin's
            Rotten steps to book this dark & simple room.

            I slept out gaps of time, & then came to,
            Violently undone, quickened, without
            The change to leave, wading adrift from sleep
            To waking up, a saturated safety valve.
            Overflow, beyond our fears, the river's
            Curves in blackouts blaze: Didn't we ramble?
            Lazily enough. Everyone gets a lift,
            Or so it goes, once those butchers cut him down.
            Call the roll for the lodge, fall in: top hats,
            Long coats, black ties & tall boys of beer, coldest
            In town, no mounted cops can hold us back,
            Folks all beady with sweat. Sun needles, wool.
            Horses wheel, canter; stray dogs swing along
            To scores of smoke & brass, the cypress box
            Passin slowly by, the line rambles on
            Along St. Peter's; soon the gate has swung
            Behind, bougainvillea abreast of us, bulls
            Of the best for sacrifice, & the corpse
            By tongues long scolded, tongues of flames the curse
            Of smoke-filled lungs, up to its chin in dust
            And masked as dusk in the smouldering musk
            Of the Titan Crematorium, runs
            Out of breath. The rest of musty death
            Awaits, the stuff of dew in satin dawn,
            Dandelions, stiff, a tin of snuff. Who'll breathe
            A word of it? I dream of Liberty
            And Perdido again. Again I strike a match for Gate,
            Again two vipers catching up, but now
            He's old as he was on the day that he died.
            I'm on your side, he says, I've got a tip.
            Now listen Pops size of the change you want,
            You need, demands big coin, a long time on
            The run. Wait no longer. A Lion must
            Go after it, must get to its heart. Most
            Let go, laughs Gate, before they've knocked to hear,
            Come on in, Professor Medicine, swing
            Until you're through. You get your three scores ten,
            Suddenly they're administering unction.
            This is the last of the New Orleans function;
            It's time for Gabriel to give me a lift.
            It's lucky I've got a top lip left.
            The tears & pain of feet, of lips, of brow,
            They make us smart. Their beauty overcomes
            You now. "Another roarer lost," I died
            The summer you were born, the other side
            Of the Sound. I woke without a horn & lost
            My breath. This top lip's my bloody wreath.


Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2005. All Rights Reserved.