The Street Charles DeGaulle Walked On

---

dans les jardins de mon pere, les lilacs sons floris


I already knew the big wooden sign
cut in strange foreign words
said, 'Children Not Wanted'.

The angry man had,
with his affliction of waving arms,
made me understand French

by saying it louder
each time he yelled.

I got off his precious grass.

Mon ami, would you like to see where i work?
It's just around here on the street Charles DeGaulle walked on.

He was new to this garden,
this oasis of sand
and I had already dug my moats.
So, I followed him

out of the garden
and into the street
all the way to the corner

to the place where strange shadows
grew in musty, cool air,

a big concrete building
with the

drip drip drip
of water.

He talked of his family,

then taught me to sing
his favorite song

in French.

He handed me his wrench
and said go ahead

so i shut off
all the water in Versailles.

Denying the Carnality of Onion

And what of those boys with bad skin, in Camaros,
ciggie butts snazzed up their sneers--
left, useless arm hanging halfway to hubcap,
other hand clutching a beer?

At eighteen, they left here, went cruising for angels
in towns with no names - like "Haiphong",
to cheer up those hoveled-down, domino bootie-boys
sandbagged by calls for reform.

No angel cum mannequin, backflushcunt angel can
ease their need for Cindy's charms.
What angels spit arrows?  What's left to repair those
lost boys who we took back with stones?

Let's fill up the dime stores with beer, porn and leather
meat slatterned by pre-packaged sheen.
Have Harlequin Cindies shag packages, grimly
chant mantras to what might have been:

  Inspire me, leftists!  Remind me why cameras wept
  cheers on the vandal-clad throngs.
  I'd thrill once again to trill "tear-it-down" rhapsody,
  gush to your vain call to arms,

  stop seeking salvation in disparate measure,
  let numbness salve holes left with guns--
  live elegant life as I hoped I would find: one
  more moonie coked up on darvon.

Log Rhythms

I've spent hours mauling
them. Next, I'll form rows,
nearly chest high, on iron dogs

out from the garage. Their length
has been coded to master design;
to fit snug, but not squeeze

over the firebox. Here, twenty-two
inches of free BTUs left over
from last season's hurricane.

Their prettier sisters have gone
on to be bookshelves or a bedroom
suite, perhaps an ergonome's chair

or some other new thing from Ikea.--
Think spotlights!-- and giddy
rushed spiels from the pitchmen--

think glowing
in halogen poses.
These will get picked up

by grateful new owners,
who'll invite neighbors to the unveiling.
Mine, cradled, just lie here--

in second ascension--
absorbing what sun's rays they come to.
At night, when the opposums come visit,

they'll pull on their cobwebs
and dust off their vines, ready
to proffer their sweet grubs by morning.

But mostly, they're aging,
if dislodged, left akimbo,
they'll be snatched by the lumberjack,

formed to the pile again.
Some romantic notion compels me
to gather them, burn them

to carols and wine.
Those that are younger, that seasoned
too green, may chitter, sap-swollen,

a time, in one massive flame
rose that won't tarry too long.
Would their beauty be fleeting

if beauty were viewed from this precept:
The embers and ash linger on
to be swept from the scuttle

with other debris
while their essence
is rendered to smoke?