RIFFING ON THE MERMAIDS
I am dry and shriven, shaven of the head among the stars
Abraham looked down upon and saw
spread out like crumbs of bread cast upon the water
(and Jill came tumbling after)
An old man in an old bed
(”For God sakes, change the sheets,” she said.)
a dry man in a damp place
waiting for some signs of grace to appear
at the bottom of the teacup,
on the anvil of the ear,
in the faceless face
that time and time again
(and again. and again. and again)
– insistent as time;
– inevitable as rhyme;
crashes on my face like waves on rocks
and leaks like blood from rocks
from the corners of my eyes
and the creases of my hand.
Ain’t it grand? Oh, ain’t it grand?
this immoveable feast of sea and sand
spread out against the sky
like a patient choking on the table.
(They are coins that were his eyes)
And are we able?
able to withstand
the pearls that were his eyes
buried in the sand?
the promises and lies
clutched in a clinched hand, buried in the sand?
(Beware the Jabberwock, my son,
the eyes that peel, the hands that scratch;
beware the Jubjub thug and shun
the luminous Bandersnatch)
— Oh, ain’t it grand, boys?
— Ain’t it grand?
