The revolution, this time, was 'to actualise the marvellous'.
The gunslinger
enlisted, far from sure of his part, for his weapons fired only
common lead,
not multicoloured lights or waves of kundalini. But he had,
in his dreams,
dived to the bottom of the ocean and seen the carcass of a
whale, with hagfish
at it all around like mad sperm around a dead egg, devouring
the infertile germ,
and felt his private share of responsibility, like a new organ
in his body, a harmonica,
maybe. He had always been around the edges, among the
listeners, tapping a foot,
but if he really was a boar leaping out of the sea, he wanted
to know that furious joy.
There was no commander as such to give orders, so he found
a place on the left flank
with the giraffes, and an old woman who had a tray of
buttons and a thermos
of black coffee, infinitely replenishing, which she shared
around like a suave host.
With gratitude he drank the unsweet brew in the tin cup and
remembered how, as a boy,
he'd loved the tubes of buttons in the haberdasher's shop,
like lasting candy,
kaleidoscopes, or magic money for buying magic things
from magicians.
Perhaps, he mused, that was where his longtime love of
finery budded in tulip-stripes.
Looking back, said the woman, it's all ravines and tempests.
You're cold, have my coat,
he said, stripping down to waistcoat and watch-chain. It's
bulletproof, and keeps the rain out.
Well, I like rain, but thank you, and here, choose some
buttons, son. The pearl is smart,
but please yourself. Thank you, ma'am, and in the yellow
dawn he chose plastic sections of Jupiter
and brass wafers for the charity of the poor, and pearl for the
whale and the egg,
and fake tortoiseshell for the giraffes, and fuchsia velvet
domes for sex and love
and loaded them in his old shotgun, and grinned like a fox
sucking shit through a sieve
because that's how it's done, and he followed the old woman,
who followed no one,
cocking her leg at every pillar, eating out of garbage cans,
sniffing bums in trousers,
her jubilant howl assuring him this wasn't desertion at all.
enlisted, far from sure of his part, for his weapons fired only
common lead,
not multicoloured lights or waves of kundalini. But he had,
in his dreams,
dived to the bottom of the ocean and seen the carcass of a
whale, with hagfish
at it all around like mad sperm around a dead egg, devouring
the infertile germ,
and felt his private share of responsibility, like a new organ
in his body, a harmonica,
maybe. He had always been around the edges, among the
listeners, tapping a foot,
but if he really was a boar leaping out of the sea, he wanted
to know that furious joy.
There was no commander as such to give orders, so he found
a place on the left flank
with the giraffes, and an old woman who had a tray of
buttons and a thermos
of black coffee, infinitely replenishing, which she shared
around like a suave host.
With gratitude he drank the unsweet brew in the tin cup and
remembered how, as a boy,
he'd loved the tubes of buttons in the haberdasher's shop,
like lasting candy,
kaleidoscopes, or magic money for buying magic things
from magicians.
Perhaps, he mused, that was where his longtime love of
finery budded in tulip-stripes.
Looking back, said the woman, it's all ravines and tempests.
You're cold, have my coat,
he said, stripping down to waistcoat and watch-chain. It's
bulletproof, and keeps the rain out.
Well, I like rain, but thank you, and here, choose some
buttons, son. The pearl is smart,
but please yourself. Thank you, ma'am, and in the yellow
dawn he chose plastic sections of Jupiter
and brass wafers for the charity of the poor, and pearl for the
whale and the egg,
and fake tortoiseshell for the giraffes, and fuchsia velvet
domes for sex and love
and loaded them in his old shotgun, and grinned like a fox
sucking shit through a sieve
because that's how it's done, and he followed the old woman,
who followed no one,
cocking her leg at every pillar, eating out of garbage cans,
sniffing bums in trousers,
her jubilant howl assuring him this wasn't desertion at all.
(2007)
This is one of the most interesting poems I've read for awhile. Ms Bishop writes terrific fiction as well. Her website is www.kjbishop.net. Please check it out.
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