Part Five: The Sublime Porte

Lisa Jarnot

        I wish the world was made of candy             

                      and all the princesses in the castle
                      were getting ready to get married

                I remember a blue Ford Pinto,
                                    a pixilated screen door,
                     and maple branches swaying in the breeze

                                   there were dust Teds
                                      bison fairy purse
                                       the beast Edith

                                   there was a butt snack
                                 with a sausage on its head


                     there was a Duncan making rugs,  

                                   de Koonings of ghee,
                                   congeries of events,
                                   and I don’t like my hair


             The issue of Sarah drinking from
             the toilet was an interesting one,

                     a sparrow mottle
                           a leaf pizza for the worms

        into the eve of
            the relatively long arms
                of Uncle Mike’s
            Norway maples crinkling-brown

the heaventree of stars, promises of horseradish, humid nightblue fruit,
waxing homo erectus putting the boo back in booze, “to the loo” for “toodaloo”,

        into the eve of a picnic of trees
       of an autumnal yard of swiss chard,

              into a still life with ceiling and asshole:


                                        the dark of
                            topsy two feet         
                                  pork and nightshades

                                        into the eve of

            a commodius vicar   that silence impending  

                                      bravo alpha kilo   


        Two people who love each other have dry skin,

                the small sneakers next to the big sneakers                 
                that make a household




       waxing crescent moon, frost at midnight,
             and my King—

          he thought about guppies
            all the time
             the moon over Schenectady,
             the cold  soft moon,
             the cold  full  moon,

      a golden basin filled with scorpions



        What pleasure does
        Antarctica give us?

                    an intruder in
                    a cubby hole
                    in a dream

              rain, slush, palpitations,  agenbite of inwit,

        four bald eagles

                are a chemistry of stars,

    are a key to   spoonbills, ibises, and storks,

         an old moon, the froggreen moon

                currs, and this
                green, furred world



                 amateurish Chinese opera —
                     another winter storm


                           birth and death

                        snow   and    snow


           in the night  in the dark in the solstice



                       fear of extinction

          poor Franz Schubert’s molten pewter surf




    And Abel butchered


      for “let me know” a “let men know”  a waning moon smoldering day rage

                           for white swans   on the Hudson  

                           moon in Virgo, then a rut


                            Two girls, Bea and Daphne were at yoga.

            It was night time. Everyone was asleep in Fred’s house,


                         they were so afraid

                         they holded on tight to Fred


                 the 1918 rice riots,   occasionally a roach,      

         Then who should come in but Major Dalmation 2418?

                       SHEEP MORBET SOLVET            


          actually Martello tower was a hotel                

              was a busy weekend Sonia,
                   was a totalizing mythology that Dali glares at dulse


                             the air awake!

                     through Mr. Morales’ balls,

   catkins of birch    in the Jacuzzi        dogwoods in bloom

                                                 against the deception which
                                                 we are practicing
                                                 on these bees,

                    Did Kirsten’s gambling
                    cause Dale to
                    become unfaithful?     


                                    meditations on death
                                    interrupted by the

                                    empty shampoo bottle

                 aches slowly returning,

'autism' for 'autumn', 'September' for 'department' for John the Baptist’s Bagel Maven Café

                                  heaps of Bruce
                                  in the Wiscoy,

                          “riot veer” and “root beer”

                                 shit, teeth, eyeballs,             

                                 the tiny Kandorians,  


             the voices of the dead,                     
             saved in voice mail,
                              the Chilean neighbor’s small dog’s large and unusual heart.