Abe's in the Gulf


Peto, Reminiscences.
Such silent stillness
in a wooden door.  This
repressed memory (forsakenness).

The mottled copper green, absinthe.
Like curdled Liberty.
Coins, ticket stubs... three
paths into the shredded labyrinth

of old glued paper notes.  Almost
erased, some calculations –
sums, additions...
within the mandorla (Abe’s

photo-ghost).  Abe’s playing golf
today, down at the Gulf –
in Florida, with grimacing
elf.  By the marred lake, full of pelf

& flattened tires... distended Brown
Decades of gaslight shadows,
drilled by torpedoes
into stunned prey (pressed down

under demented mansions).  Still
there is another window
clears this reified view
(black coral reef of sacrificial

scars).  The solidarity of living
stones is leaping light –
scaled from a dragon-fight
like trompe l’oeil Thanksgiving


or hologram of humming bird
circling the whisper dome
of spiritual freedom.
Ghost Dance, suspended word

hung from the apex of the tent –
a veil of murmuring linen
around the target sun
of a salty human sacrament

of joy, shipmate!  Ahoy, Jonah!
Cresting the deep wave,
smiling palm-wave
circumference hailing hurrah

for the red white & blue!  Old Glory
spangled by Love!
Columbia, dove
of Liberty... Emancipation story!

So the battle lines are drawn
at last.  Maid Marion –
trampled onto a plane
with Jack & Jackie, by the Lion-

Tooth (orange-tan phony-booth) –
you loose one gray thread
from the bleeding head
of Apollinaire... qui chante... the truth

shall make you free.  The limestone
wrinkles beneath clear streams.
Sovereign of human dreams,
arise like Francis to your servant throne.


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