Pigalle Sketches

Beardsley sits over a glass of milk

at one of the quieter cafes.

Public women flower in doorways

show their petal thighs banter

with bartenders passing barristers priests

a milling crowd of tourists, cruising gays, pimps,

bureaucrats, and pensioners remind

him of a day spent drawing at a nudist camp

a little girl appeared beside his easel

yellow hair ribbon, a green stain

where she has worn a cross on her naked chest.

Her eyes amazed among the meat of bodies.

Someone at a nearby table sips his drink,

as if the memory of a lover crossed his mind.

Who was that woman stepping out of a blue sundress,

smelling vaguely licorice, and why

should he remember now-not only spice

that lingered in his beard, but shadows of her skin?

His eyes are closed. Dark circles,

purple tulip on the Tarot card that shows the Fool.

Extravagant behavior is required. Take off your glove.

How might massaging of a muscle loosen memory

where someone struck in anger or in sorrow, stroked us

tenderly until our bodies moaned with understanding?

This is medicine and free when we find it.

Meanwhile, back at the Hotel Flagrante,

rising from sleep in the dark, I wait a moment

for my head to clear before I put the lamplight on

to check the time. A voice from the direction

of my pillow, a groan that might have been my voice,

I thought, I've thrown my voice.

And was alarmed.

Surely a voice out of one's pillow is not interesting

as someone's voice out of a burning bush.

Nudes on the Rue Pigalle keep pairing off,

their hips, their hands, their foreheads touching.

Beardsley finds the eyes enchanting,

darkly erotic winks shy smiles and leers,

sloe eyes, eyes like bruises, heavy-lidded bedroom eyes

aloof and fathoms deep. Lynx, hyenas, crocodiles.

A tall woman moves in slo-mo,

wearing only boots and a tiara, pink pig on a leash

before her, parting the naked human sea.

Beardsley dreams of Picasso,

listens to his own, labored breathing.

CROWD OF ANGELS

Even without a giraffe there is nothing to hinder good government.

Chinese emperor, 1415

Madwoman Mary Barnes drank warm milk

from a baby's bottle, for her mother's tit was dry.

And in the desert, Marco Polo said, even

by day you hear the demons chatter,

and more commonly the beat of drums.