1. |
The Portrait of Heracles
04:53
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The last time I met Spence
Was at one of Nina’s stately affairs,
Amongst people leaning ‘gainst pockmarked walls
In the style of a French Impressionist.
He turned to me, and said offhandedly,
“How long until one of them fucks it up?”
Bearing, then, a vague resemblance
To a portrait of Heracles.
And I said
With listless intonation,
“All your life
Unbridled and freewheeling…
But for you
To draw such a sharp divide,
Between your past and the artist life….”
And he replied,
“For this you must barter—
Just look at those men flailing round with bravado,”
And I caught wind
Of a mnemonic impression
Of a man (still the portrait of Heracles)
It was neither
Saturated nor angular
Anymore
And I said, "Look out the window,"
For the snow had started falling….
In that Egyptian boudoir
We saw the sky in a side-view mirror;
Saw that Spence—by then my foil and confidant—
Was struck the same way as I was.
We were ushering in January ’06,
When I gave Nina the ransom bid,
Said, “You know you’re twice as brilliant?”
Knowing well that under Debussian skies
Spence and I would brave that fire.
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2. |
The Silver Chain
04:12
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Jim’s parting words
Were Vee’s hex to him
As the door closed,
Rattling the metal cage;
Lane, watching him
Intently from
Behind the cab window,
Assumed as if water
As Jim walked away….
The silver chain
He had in his palm
Was not as cold as that muscle;
No, it was slightly hot,
Hot to the touch,
So when the car pulled over in the fusillade
Lane repeated Vee’s name
While he gathered the sovereigns.
The wind carried down yesterday’s debris,
Cans and newspapers
Were lining the tawdry streets;
He stood in front
Of a four-story building
That was covered in dust and graffiti.
There, he saw the peaks
Of the tower of kings,
Saw the weighty pall in the periphery;
Saw the grey overpass,
Fiddlers and raconteurs,
Tinted shapes of passing women...
He could hear it then,
From the far distance:
Vee’s voice as it drew closer to him.
But the silver chain
That Jim had handed him
Was now a totem in his hand—
For it had turned into a writhing snake.
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3. |
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Another, again…
You see me lying down,
But you don’t pick me up.
You don’t say a thing.
You hold my hand, but you
Don’t pick me up...
You don’t pick me up….
My friend,
Why could I not see the light?
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