Jade's
Whip by Joseph Coroniti Author's Links |
(after, long after, Li Po)
1. Mounted on a phoenix and wielding the whip of Jade, you let me have it. I must admit, however, you do look radiant in your leather chaps-and that smell, your smell of cloves . . . Just when I thought the vicious cycle of feathers to flame to ash had spun out and you were ready, after long centuries to rest in peace at the bottom of the hibachi- But no, you let loose your, by now legendary, skull-cracking scream as the fat from the burgers drip-diddley-dropped on what was once your- and we're going way back now for this- your milky-soft baby's bum skin. Jade, piedra de ijada, stone of the flank is hard on the head and, notwithstanding the ancient apothecaries' lore, not much help for renal colic. If you, my Jade, knew the exact location of my kidneys they'd ache like hell. You'd mount your burnished steed, wield your whip of Jade, and let me have it. Things weren't always this way, way back in the early days, remember, dear? We shared a steak and kidney pie on our honeymoon in Zanzibar. Years later, settled down for centuries, we got an estimate for a kidney pool we never had dug. But there was always that hope of a better life, a next time. Time and time again we brushed off the soot and made resolutions for the coming epoch. But things never change. I know that now. 2. This spontaneous combustion has got to stop. After your last transfiguration two-step, I was in the burns unit for a year. You were eating a hamburger, insisting that turkey burgers were less healthy than the real thing. Then, ZAP! a ball of flame. Immediately, I started fanning the ear-piercing smoke alarm. One hand on my ear, the other waving for dear life the unread Times, fanning, fanning, wishing on a star, sick unto death of the Eveready Bunny Beast screeching from the ceiling. Your mount, your familiar, your phoenix is doubtless an exciting creature to sit astride- no-one side-saddles a phoenix. I can't remember the last time you opened your legs that wide when not "one" with your beast. Sometimes I find myself longing for a scraggly chicken that gives birth astride an automated egg collector, picks a peck of chicken feed, clucks, sotto voce, a cluck or two, then dies, pure and simple, without all these pyrotechnics. There you were again, engulfed in a four-legged orange flame. Before I could get to the faucet, you and your mount were a pile of ashes. You've no idea how close I came to sweeping you up and flushing you down the hopper-Whoosh! But, a slave entranced, I blew on the embers and watched you burn back to being. 3. Oh Baby in green leathers! your broad biker chaps flaming lemon lemon yellow yellow, carousing the pyramids on that hot bird. You've come back to me, my sweet! I only started seeing Alice because-well, I thought- I thought this time you really had joined that Taoist nunnery with your girlhood companion, Rise-in-the-Air. I knew you'd always yearned for "greater things," the life you were meant to live. I thought I was free, free to rebirth myself in my final phase. I'd knock the ashes from my pipe onto my dessert plate. Nowhere, nowhere to be found: your loving look of utter and irrevocable disgust. Mounted on a phoenix and wielding the whip of Jade you teach me that love's an ever-fixéd mark right about here-ouch! not so hard- a mark that's born out even to the edge of doom. Contagion Her kiss the kiss of death, or, at the very least, some aggravating hoof and mouth disease She is the vampire of midweek specials. Her kiss-never mind that-just sharing a beer with Her leads to penetration of the Over- wrought Soul She has left her mark- a fox bite a barbecue fork gone berserk. I hold my fingers to check the patient's pulse-the dike will not hold. The blood hiccups its way out I turn my pockets out under a complicit moon: garlic, with an expiration date from the last millennium, a plastic crucifix, whose Christ has been severed at the feet She is bloated, downright fat-her eyes a lunar sliver in a satiated haze. When she hovers over my bed, I muster all my strength and whisper, "We can't go on like this" She rubs the sleep from her eyes and reaches toward my cheek. I stay fixed on the light until-her tongue in my ear- she covers my face with her hair Ravenspeak Story if it exists at all hangs upside down in a shut black barn blood rushing to its head The raven if he speaks at all does not whisper intelligence to the general at the head of the army marching into the ambush set by blue-faced warriors The raven sings if this is a song at all of unalloyed joy or simple indigestion Perhaps the raven ate too much of whatever ravens eat and mutters wordless oaths of self- incrimination Only the Chosen can divine the mystery of Ravenspeak weightless throat music bones picked clean of meaning Perhaps the raven's sound is the pleasure of warm sun on blue-black feathers the majesty of sunspots spectacular for their silence The Boys of the High Wires One morning the boy wakes to the sound of his own voice an octave lower- his blond curls an electric Hendrix halo; he can barely wiggle his toes in his father's boots His hair grows darker; still, he is a boy. He insists on flying higher, "higher than anybody ever," until, as everyone knew he would, he makes his fatal error, misreads the winds and is caught up in the buzzing grip of the high tension wires He is a legend among us. Fathers take their sons to the Parkway to gaze up at the death defied boy of the high wires- a profound lesson in arrogance of reaching beyond limits Sons crane their necks to watch the boy fixed in flight above them. Their fathers tug their arms, "You've seen enough now. Let's go!" The boy's heart grows larger each year. It radiates through skin as thin as a wasp's wings. The boy's great wings, devised in a garage of dreams, have lost their feathers to the years, the sun, the insatiable hum of the high tension wires As Christ forms the apex at Calvary of fliers rooted in the rocky earth, the boy of the high wires flies fixed at the head of a V formation of boys beyond count- boys who, at last, have learned the lessons of flight Gryphons Gryphons ruin my day at the beach. They roar obscenities at each other through ill-equipped beaks from beach chairs on Nantucket. To make matters worse, their boss, the sun, sears my skin like chicken on the grill An old woman and a one- legged sailor play tug of war with a loaf of Russian rye. The old woman wins. She does a jig on the black sands and hurls mightily the sweaty loaf into the sea- weed sky where, by appointment, it is caught up in the paws of a cowardly eagle I could stay out here in the sun forever but for the Sea Captain sitting next to me on the peeling bench picking his bulbous red nose Wives and neighbors armed with rakes tear through the thick underbrush. I, meanwhile, devise intricate plans to drug the Gryphon guarding the treasure. I will have it all |
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