Sunday, March 11, 2007

The Gypsy and the Wind

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure erect
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breathing  and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear,
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.


Lorca was the supreme master of making the fantastic seem real.

A Brief Cautionary Note About Sacks

Sacks help the user hold, carry, and transport. Do not however place your head in the sack for you may suffocate from a lack of oxygen. You are correct, there is a small amount of oxygen inside the sack. But you will surely grow lightheaded if your head, and therefore both nostrils, once placed inside the sack, breathe this limited amount of somewhat “sackish” air. Sack air is in limited supply and after this resource is depleted you may very well suffocate. Yes, you are correct, some people are known for holding their breath for long periods of time, but not for breathing the air inside sacks. Yes, pearl divers did once practice the now largely obsolete method of retrieving pearls from oysters. Before the beginning of the 20th century, the only means of obtaining pearls was by manually opening oysters found on the ocean floor or river bottom. Free-divers were often forced to descend to depths of over 100 feet on but a single breath, exposing them to dangers of sharks, jellyfish, drowning, and decompression sickness. Yes, I know that, because of the difficulty of diving and the unpredictable nature of natural pearl growth in oysters, pearls of the time were extremely rare and of varying quality. No, these divers were not wearing sacks on their head while diving, of that we may be certain. No, this sack is not a bag, satchel, case, or basket. It could neither be said that this sack is a attache, backpack, briefcase, carry-on, carryall, diddie, duffel, gear, grub-bag, handbag, holdall, kit, knap pack, packet, pocket, pocketbook, poke, pouch, purse, saddlebag, suitcase, or tote. If this were a pocketbook, diddie case, carry-all grub bag, or even an attache, warnings of this type would be completely unnecessary. Also, resist the temptation to use this sack as a flotilla, warning flare, invitation, or campfire. I guess it could be used as a pillow if inflated properly, yes. A flotilla is something you might use to float upon. Ok, flotation device. No, I do not believe it could ever be used as a hamper or as a diaper. My observations resulted in the conclusion that sacks are best used for carrying things like groceries. Well, no one is forcing you to read this why don’t you just stop reading it then? Why don’t you try carrying your groceries without a sack? Why don’t you try it and see what happens? That’s what I thought. Sometimes you need a sack.


Slip into the mist
here chill stillness
bleats across the
grim sleeve of
my hour, you, so there

shower, enzyme of sleep
plasma of dreambeats.

Join hands and abscond
among pregnant ideas
thrum of fir, smell of musk.

Iced with morning frost,
green pine,
invite my nose to dance.

Shrill as news of a death
mind awaken to
red-winged blackbird.

Junta of orange sun
stab the horizon.