ONWARD CREELEY
I learned
of your passing
six months late
(and a euro short)
living
as I am
up in these
mountains
in this village
where Lorca played
before
they killed him.
I didn't
like it
when I got
the mailer daemon
on the last
email I sent you;
I thought
something was wrong
and found out
the next week
(I was trying
to send
you
a poem –
The Boat –
that's about
right).
You read
my poem
about rabbits
and longed for
the pigeons
in your past.
I just heard
the flutter
of sparrows' wings –
it may actually
be
a flutter,
whoosh
might be
more correct,
a rumble
in the air:
with eight
or more,
a concerto
of rumbling air.
Robert,
Poetic Brother,
I've got pigeons
at 12 o'clock,
pigeons at ten o'clock,
pigeons at four o'clock
(I'm not talking time
here;
I'm talking
12 O'clock High –
bogies at 12 o'clock).
At four o'clock
they are drinking from
the spring's fountain.
Today, Diecinueve de
Septiembre 2005,
they are drinking
at the fountain
early.
At 1:30 pm
instead of sunset.
The seasons
are changing
today
the seasons
are changing
today.
I think it
was sent
with my second email to you:
a nice photo attachment
of the then nicest bar
in the world –
the Closerie des Lilas
in Paris.
The barman
was mixing
a sidecar –
I knew it was
a sidecar because
it was
for me –
a beautiful blonde
walked outside:
you could see her
on the terrace
where Brett,
Jake and Bill
had drunk
in Hemingway's best
dream.
I don't know
if you had
made out
the blonde,
as I had,
late,
but you had
made out
the barman
and the bar,
and the perfect wooden
barstools
and the bottles
of Remy Martin XO
and Courvoisier Napoleon
and five different varieties
of Cuban rum.
I received a
two-word email
from you
in reply.
You said,
in succinct Creeley
fashion,
Let's Go.
I wish we
could have,
Amigo,
to our own dream
of Brett,
Lady Ashley,
a young girl
with heavy French calves
but perfect skin,
a face of
white of white:
I saw her
my last time
in Paris –
my first night
of the all-night
music in June.
I can see
her
in front of me now
as if she were here
in front of me now,
standing
in front of me
now,
a girl of about twenty,
(as nice
as finding fresh
music,
as nice
as finding fresh
Mozart),
the most beautiful white
face
you have ever seen,
a smile
on the Boulevard St. Michel,
beyond the trailer
selling beer and lemonade,
beyond the street-corner
musicians,
she is in front of me now,
standing,
with the face of
white orchid
whiteness,
a fresh orchid
on the night
of the all-night
music,
standing
in front of me now,
standing
in front of me
now,
white orchid
whiteness
in front of me
now,
white orchid
whiteness
white orchid
whiteness
white orchid
whiteness.
Let's Go.