Title: Prussian Blue
Author: Paul Cameron Brown
Release date: March 5, 2010 [eBook #31514]
Most recently updated: April 19, 2010
Language: English
7 Not So Much 8 Serpentine 9 Lithuanian Dolls/Consulate Front 10 Begin And Beguile 11 Fire Bush 12 Skootematta 13 Animals And The Stars 14 And Then Some 15 Woodsy Backwoods Poem 16 Corner Store Fifties Reveille 17 Trout Lake Hotel 18 Northwoods Poem 19 Orange Lichens 20 Six Owlets 21 Twillingate 22 Bravura 23 Whisky Girl 24 High Frequency Draw (High Alert) 25 Red Fox (Red Horse Lake) 26 When I was a Much Younger Man |
I evaded capture today with only a handful of dust to escape that Old Sandman Death. Certainly, those maroon berries, so large & luscious, crowded on their fat stems had something to do with it as did the ground fog leaving its burrow as so many boll-weevils their crowded nests. And there might be something to the fact the moonlight sat fat & confidant in the night sky as surely as my head rests on this pillow and the poem invites itself into my lair of thoughts, much as nestlings charge the entrance to the runway of a tree. I walked flat out in an instance as standing urine held its own stench and the grim splash within the pond dead center in the wilderness underscores the tone of this warning. One thought encapsulates wonder though suggestive evil hides leaden leaves buried in lake mud down the corner eaves of someone's fire hydrant mind. When you pray for someone an Angel sits on their shoulder, when that same someone hates you does that Angel die of grief? Serendipity is a flower and those clouds re-arranging the breeze harbingers of forbidden things not so much like these boulders use hand-held scissors to open twilight and watch this fading light ebb forth tip-I-toe like a bird squeezed thru an opening in its cage.
[7]
More fragment of tree than serpent clothed in wet he mirrors me bedraggled in stone cloak or so it seems this cavernous ledge coven. Is he witch's totem swimming at yard's length I can web reach him startling darts of rain cutting lagoon's edge this sedge & eel grass dragon.
[8]
These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones not canisters of the Faith but cannon-balls engraved in tome-like stares so much waxen shapes, these dust cloths & spidery webs. Dolls with eyes stare lidless & forlorn such eyes are cracks minden shapes or basement eves hogans of the human form. I'm interested in the priapic silence of such dolls—their indolent aura in time one long amber twilight & the results are in the shadows have produced twins ...hazy silhouettes rough-housing in the dark, come passing headlights although the stampede of noises affects nought. Ticker-tape & collage in quick thick barrage these lonesome dolls slouching half-pinned in their stalls— a cat transcends crouching his spine then pelvic thrusts and tableaux change. People are divisive, dolls less so. the dolls know nothing of that.
[9]
If brains be gables & minds, say, the shutters in a derelict New England Mansion then intuition is in the eaves & casements the well-springs seeping into turrets & cupolas of all other nether spaces. These big, wide entrances are ourselves in all their splendor, notwithstanding the Winchester Mansions or Vanderbilt Estates where our very personalities are laid bare see antics give rise to attics feed in onto themselves where the Astor's of our alter-egos are resplendent in rich pride of self longing to manifest in lavish architecture so redolent of wealth yet see-sawing in, squabbling their thread-bare servant quarters where murderous passions bare dingy walls and where stained, yellowing wallpaper is harbinger to further heart-felt quarrels & what is unspeakable, gilded and more. Manifold and many, recant and lament. Repent.
[10]
If flies be dragons and they may you know. In large desiccated brambles where wasps go involuntary blue-green coelacanths these Devil's Darning Needles wedge in Flying Circuses frame pale diaphanous wet green sky as shooting columns twig and Rock Face. There, fire-bush entrance scrapes paler wax green fronds then Blue Holes into canopies thru the stars.
[11]
Sheldrake, a magician —the mandrake a mythic plant whose shriek drove listeners wild.... this lake, Sheldrake and its windsong-heartswoon counterpart, Skootematta with Shabomeka & a whiff of Buckshot Lake to boot, waves lapping the prayerful stones— water's edge the earth's bones.... Lakes an art-form hardscrabble scribble shorthand on a blessed land. The mysticism of basic shadows, occult shapes of ourselves.
[12]
Crickets are a strange place, cricks of dew hemmed with hoar-frost mushrooming by a door. The glens are fashions of a loom eerie pads are nightly rooms. The padlocks remove the key as grass-hoppers keep the meadow free. A twilight world along the edge at rapier's length this light, this point at end of the void.
[13]
The anger past as a cat arches her back a thickly rich robust anger blackest coffee in a thick earthen mug this thug & mugger with sufficient silk thread. Yet the assassin is back with catcalls & hiss cortisol adrenalin that lunge like that cat rapid-fire along the back garden fence this patio stroll my senses black. And time luxuriating like a thick veil. That dread pack with anger in the lead —what prevokes it— obviously really a pack of violent running lies—wolves hell-bent running over intent on deceit, thievery, then some. A narrative with a long reach.
[14]
I saw Bear shopping with Santa Claus at the North of 7 Plaza only he wasn't wearing a bib— only a cotton-wool imitation synthetic polystyrene white fluffy instead. I saw the Bear gracing a wall at the Old Trout Lake Hotel (part-time job), looking self-satisfied, smug back of the Mosque Lake Road but a self-starter, no less, lacking the wherewithal, nonetheless, to be a serious shit-disturber accolades & kudos aside, still circus Work is hard & good dancing difficult to come by, poor dish of custard, sticky stuffed bastard. yet the pay-off begins when Bear gets home with only grubs in the bank and maggots to show for his life's work, alas, no fireworks for free in the big grin as you den, leaf-off frenzy witch begins October month of orange zen zip up only can ya please.
[15]
I met Bear at the 5 n' dime sipping a Cream Soda he was voluble & needed to talk... "I got a shit-load on my mind," mumbling something about some run-in with a Mountie—tampering with Crown Evidence, the purloined Honey Jar, in question, Jimmy Dean was there, too, polishing his coolness though he would have his own Run-In later in the evening. As Marilyn had left, I decided to forgo Bear's company, still slurping his Soda & crying into the bubbles, some things never change.
[16]
The walls don't lack sincerity, here, or be accused of "ordinary," what with the bleached remains of a carbon skull, a yellowing pike head of uncertain girth, adder-like fangs positioned like the Bear Head gasping for the night air one wall over or the old pool table that's seen as many games as ghosts fly by or drinks downed in the penumbra Shooters flaming elixir stars, a shooting gallery of exotica and potent portions— crimson Garter, Pink Panties, the men in this lounge live up to that with cigarettes bullying the air, chortles, one doesn't expect to see southern good ole boys in the North Backwoods with no 'gators or Biloxi Blues but a gallows to good intentions, nonetheless.
[17]
Watermelon, ears of skeleton wet nose with marshmallow I saw the Bear leaning on Santa for a favor. II Here's Bear, week's growth of beard, long bushy eyebrows still reeking of gin apparently wanted the penny-strapped Claus' to dump Rudolph, spray-paint his coat white use Bear's fleshy drinker's nose to lead the sleigh that crazy night. III A tiff erupted Rudolph almost lost it santa ended paying Hibernation fees though Bear grumbled he wasn't bedding Next to no knot of worms garter snakes.
[18]
Orange lichens, in sun-like clusters, entomb the Rockface wall a sheer ascent from the waterline into glassy viscous green—- the plummet from skyward to lake face passes breathless squadrons of Dragon Flies —devil's Darning Needles threading the air where Wolf Spiders bivouac in web-castles, thin Draculas to their insect host each hairy mantle black with burrow moats at high watermark; yet unforeseen are the funnel lairs for bull snakes each water thrasher gracing the rotund, behemoth Rock lunging like a SSpirit Presence up from this watery chalice.
[19]
Six owlets sitting in a tree, six cats in effigy, six of both in a boat the leeward lives in Innisfree. Six women marching through a park, six lanterns at rest six cauldrons to six walking abreast. In the still of the morning I'd hazard a guess there's a little less.
[20]
We all end up badly and it's not the season nor the salt rather, I suspect but type of gherkin used. We all end, badly, at least the more modest of us do. the old salts they dine on limericks anyways. We all end up, sadly, the distances and the wiles only last up, sideways, and barely with the edge-ways of a smile. Some of us, sadly, limit our losses call off the posse quit deals, the quicksilver steals. Some of us, gladly, surrender or catch a slow boat to Twillingate, if not willingly, at least painstakingly.
[21]
Memory as embankment, a mudslide at High Tide with shades up... my avocado green brethren pleasures the soil. Memory as enchantment a Belle at a Soiree, pureed, Gaston at a Dinner Party. Napanee suggests sympathy, a serendipity... as water winders its way to clay in a moonlight turn of the bottle, I shall find a way. that's ironclad.
[22]
I like'em ragged round the rim, rough drawn at dawn panting at the edge, belly-button ring tattooed naval drinking silk panties shooters, not much in between if you know What I mean
[23]
Les bougies sur les tombeaux (The candles on the graves) antilles dread locks ... french chocolate it is not.
[24]
A magnificent Red Devil splayed out in his tracks; this tumultuous soul, baron of the backwoods with his provenance unknown ... this compromise to individuality abandons him to chorome death under a canopy-canapé dream-coated rock dome. Trepanned, empire of trees, dark matter & a castle of leaves, a fish-hawk for a tomahawk in his thermo-cline eyes ... dithyrambic young osprey in the offing, candelabra under stars. Going inland for freshwater prawns, sandalwood and tortoiseshells finding bewitchment amid moving cars.
[25]
When I was a much younger man, my spiritual homeland was a scrub-mile of bush with thicket leaves the size of your palms. Saucer-size holes of white air enveloped the edge of trees and the sky was large, an upturned pitcher placed upon its ears... edge-wise cicadas & June Beetles let out long throbs and the people rounded out lives between the farmhouse & the barn. This ennobled them and they were famously resilient and, in turn, redolent with firmness & the gladness of life. There was a Drive House, a pig pen, sheds & a chicken coop and, by night, stars became the earlier evening swallows gulping the space Left in the train of the moon. There was no one Empress of the Night anymore than a Prince or Kings towered across the landscape. Stillness and the largeness of things, predominated, and a hill cascading between the fields & pond held both largess and chaos in nature. A fence line divided the dynasties, then Regencies across an orchard & what seemed to many an enchanted bridge to the woods. It was here a boy made his stand. The language of rock/hillside/lakes & nettle stands like the back of my hand to fill a calendar wall, their musical sounds are brave arias in waves with sonatas first in strength, then pleasure. This Frontenac Axis as fortress, strong-hold, its booty lichens, moss, legends such as Meyer's Cave, John Meyers murdered for silver, Mazinaw Rock, the Mugwumps more water in this Davy Jones locker than all Araby, this wonder & merriment all strung in a violin string as webs of beads these lakes silver cistern, lovely listening, this necklace of forest wreath, placid leaf fingering wide-eyed watershed rich in Massasauga serpents like daggers in that tarn, karst topography lime-stone carapace Painted Turtle hemorrhaging as orange leaves in Sumac troves, copses as sky counts, lakes like the back of my hand ache with the wish I could swim them all, wallow in their own restless energy. Snapping Turtle Point, a pail of water and a beast three bucket sizes with a yellow underbelly like an alligator, claws, black raven mouth lunging his neck as some gladiator's sword primitive in his ferocity. Nigh near lacerated my hand, no wish, here, to leave digits there as new Finger Lakes. Names masculine to the touch and their roundness——Mississageon, Buckshot could pepper a listener or blur in seconds turning effete, Shabomeeka, Sharbot or learn likeness and leisure in the form of the lute, Kashwakemak, sound brittle——Rogue's Hollow, Marlbank, Lime Lake, the Claire River disappearing into a swamp & muskeg where one maps out one's personal Mythology— Napanee is and as Anthology.
[26]
The End