Friday, April 8, 2011

Waiting For The Siren's Call

As I waited for the siren's call
the underbelly of urgency gnawed at my stomach wall.
As I thought of Monday and the email,
 or spoken word from an employer
that either echoes approval of my professional views,
or pans my performance.

Once again I dust my empty suit,
make another pot of coffee
and pace the house in silence.
Restless ennui fills my heart on this
sun filled Sunday.

Earlier I had done an 8K and made golden, granola
and talked with my sister about Boston and the brahmins
who think they own her twisted streets
After my sister left the house is silent.

We went to Annie's so she could remember old times.
Back to boredom now,to much tension to type.
There is nothing I can write as I wait for the siren's call.
Putting on my coat and gloves

I step into the dark blue, haze of cloudy night.
In the sculpture garden the cherry and spoon shine like brand new dimes.
I walk over the blue bridge and look at its lovingly shaped logs.
A savage named Jack Pine came here with his friends from the north.
They came to make this city by the lakes.

But now the economy has changed.
No more construction based on raw human power.
No more warehouses full of flour.
No more riding the rails to Chicago with an empty lunch pail.
I cross the bridge and over the traffic's roar I think of Lavonne some more.

I imagine you sharp on the attack;
spiking the ball into the opponent's court.
You jump float and...
they try to anticipate what your topspin will bring.
But a feint to the left puts the right to the test.
I see you on the beaches of LA
making a bump,
despite the sun, surf & strategy of tension
Lavonne is always ready for receptions.

My chilled fingers are clenched
and I laugh at my old joke on The Wedge.
Past the black leather, biker's  coffee bean store.
I see tattooed sadness drowning dreams of love in dark beer and bitters.
I see hipster's smoking American Spirit in all of irony's feigned nonchalance.
I circle Lake Calhoun like a midnight satellite.
I think of Lavonne and her little dog.

Has she heard Buckshot La Fonque?
What's her stand on US3?
Does she think Fishery Black is just another in the long train of sad, jazz hacks?
I think of your smiling voice & lusciousness.
I don't know the colour of your eyes.
Are they sultry? 
Are they impassive?
On the surface appearing placid,
but underneath you look at things with laughter,
 wear secret smiles,
 have rages & intelligently display a sales agent's wiles.

I hope to stare into your eyes
And we shall look into the abyss of each other's souls
And then come up for air.
Now as I head back home Rembrandt's J'acusse flashes before me.
Speeding cars ignore me.
Winter cyclists bore me.
Drops of snot flow to the frozen snow.
And the moon hides in Minneapolis smog.

It is 3 am when I complete my long frozen tour and step into the door.
I plan my next repast,
filet mignon with asparagus and mushrooms in homemade tomatoes sauce.
Today has become Monday
By civil twilight I will know if I will be enjoying employment's delights.
If my dream is deferred I will continue
to write my story in a book of plans.

Write code so that I can switch from sysadmin to developer mode.
Exercise to get into a triathalon in the cold
Learn to make bread,
listen to Kropotkin when I goto bed.
Learn the politics of dance in the Dakota
listen to Armin van Buuren while I practice headspins.

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