Felt no pain against the water,
the tea-cup sky was a turquoise colour in its wrath
illuminating ambergris city in spot checks below.

The sperm whale population was in decline.
Little or nothing remained of former commitments.
A bitter legacy consumed itself in half-truths
against the sound of upturned lies.

Winding alleys come as the conscience of well plaid cities.
are open zippers revealing the indecent poor.
The fire hydrant lives of cellar inhabitants strain
these urinals
for wretches sniffing out the edge of completed walls.

Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls finding
their way
through the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazas
with the
stately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cans
against indentured snow.
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You can't go back,
to Love, a home.
memories of Pearl Bailey
even a scatterbrained job
curled like a Morning Glory
about the ribs of day.

Everyone repeats not going back.

A sly ripple on the cape of wind,
peaking with
absentminded glee,
into that bulge from within
your past, beyond your left arm,
called "before".

Dismissing angels, refusing to
court hardship, not to mention
wincing that comes from attaching
the mouth too fiercely on privale parts
and all flasks with firm memory;
wheeling drunkenly on her thought.
her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mind
with little fingers each repeating
sane warnings.
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In Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a theme
or at least end in "S". It's an unspoken rule. In-spots
(notice the "S" again) recall the Lost Generation:
Garbo's, Hector's, Lucille's; though less thematically
inclined imbibers can indulge at plain sounding
Sammy's/Charlies...

The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcaps
which more than suffice: while those seeking purity in
their draught can take consolation at the common
Brunswick or Molley's.

There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.
While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the Kon
Tiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middle
of the road cum professional, it'a basic Malloneys,
Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in the
lush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviously
suggestive supple Fingers.

Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism power
is the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded or
those otherwise afflicted with ennui and creeping
malaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. And
what was that Montrealers say of Toronto?
Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh Diamond
Eyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and
two Persian lions carved in wood.

Salads Nicoise.

Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto
equivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal
in the forest. I drank a cocktail with the girl of the
white polo coat. Or as the cynic said,my pipe is the
tent, the tobacco the days of my life.
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If you're going to drop the gauntlet
at least put on the dress
of a full warrior --
paint, rouge, lipstick,
sheer stockings and
enough powder to smother
a savage;
then form a straight line
and chant the litany
(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)
and a good poundmaker is so adept
at keeping score.
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I can call a lake a kettle
a splendid, ivory comb a snare --
tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.
the night sky my ariel home.

Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs
a collarbone of doubt
inching into my anatomy
Everest-wide.
surging canals into my throat.

I am a pianist plying my trade
playing to waves --
the wharf and pier
passionate onlookers
entranced with joy.
sailors wearing blond caps
in stout approval
their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.
smashed bottles accumulated days at sea
lapping the dock.
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"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ...
elements as plasmic water have programmed goals which
they follow like earth encompassing genies.

In soft light
amid hues
of barbaric green.
walled edges of
the cenote's fortress
shine as eyes of the Cyclops,
bloodlshot and ringed
with nettled stone

A break in the clearing --
then ramshackle growth
broken with vengeance
of uprooted vine
confronts the eyes of a jaguar*
(axe-breadth apart)
between canopies of trees
millenial rot,
algae and monkeys
carved in
a jungle setting
the shape of an iguana's room

* the same
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Under a candlelit operetta
of stars,
the vertigo horizon trails
to a shudder
until,
swallows the size of kites
handstand in flying motion
about pools of water
then glide within reach of the cenote,*
cisterns deep
and flagellant
scars in earth
that cradle still hands
of pale, pumice stone.

All the tears
of old Mexico
refurbish this soil,
anxious in blessing
a brittle toil
in sisal* groves
harvesting hennequin*
to symbolize pity
in flat expanse
of Mission stone.

* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.
*