Bau
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The Burroughs Millions By Lucas PickfordCopyright 2002 |
Those poems are published in
"The Time of the Naguals: Poems"
Bau
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The Burroughs Millions
Way back in old St. Louis |
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103 rd Street BoysTalk a walk along Broadway Past the old time, come what may places See them huddled there in gray overcoats with their bitter twisted mouths and their thin, sallow faces There was Louie the Bellhop, George the Greek, The Sailor and Pantapon Rose Some of them are dead or just doing time now others well, nobody knows Sitting in diners and lunchrooms Dunking pound cake in coffee half drunk that dead look in their eyes well, it's no surprise kid It 's the gray, beaten weather of junk There are no more junkies at 103 rd street, theconnection has moved far, far away But the feel of junk is still there somehow If you listen you'll hear it say; You're hemmed in on every side kid You got no place to go but down So take your business to Walgreens You ain't gonna score in this town All the croakers you know have packed in, not a single one left who will write Now it's just you and your monkey to feed and boy is he hungry tonight
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An Unvisited Garden In Mexico (For Joan Vollmer Burroughs) by Lucas J. Pickford Her mind like Bill's Quick and funny Her head laid affectionately Upon his lap He studied her with clear eyes Her face soft and sweet before the Years of salt and Tequila had made strange And before the bullet in her brow They both followed unthinkable trades They doodled in Etruscan And read to each other The Codices of the Maya William Tell, a highball glass An invasion by the Ugly Spirit And in a sorrowful moment of Pure insanity she was gone I studied her picture taken on a Snowy New York street corner Clutching her coat, eyes closed A half a smile upon her face Perhaps Joan and Bill are together again Together in the land of far shores and In the land of dreams undreamt No poem ever finished Just abandoned Dust to dust I guess In an unvisited garden in Mexico. |
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P.H. Zuniga
(A Cut -Up Poem) A brownstone house on a tree lined street in the west 70's, a card in the window reads: P. H. Zunniga, M.D., "Please not to return", Fade out to a city built on low sand hills, Indian tablas in the background, writers, artists, passing through, shabby hotel rooms with rose wallpaper " Merry Christmas, Doctor." "Fight tuberculosis, folks." Your body is a boat to lay aside when you reach the far shore, or sell it if you can find a fool... it's full of holes... it's full of holes. Abandon ship god damn it! Everyman for himself! Arrive at the unknown: and even if, half crazed, in the end, you lose the understanding of your visions, you have seen them! Be destroyed in your leap by those unnamable Cool gardens and green lawn chairs and pools of the evening, under deep ocean of anesthesia, Morpheus, Greek god of sleep, Morphine named in his honor "All I have in the house" There was no warmth in the sun................. |
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"The Ballad of Phil White"
The Independent Subway line and grey ghost of Queen's Plaza panhandler following you along Begging for change until he trails off into dreamy past Phil the Sailor looked into the kid's eyes 'With veins like that son, I'd have myself a time' Remnants of blue movies, hypodermic needles, Times Square, Automats Up-town meets and no-horse towns strictly from cough syrup Duty calls On through raw peeled landscape of east Texas bayou And dead armadillos in the road And vultures over the swamp and cypress stumps Motel, motel, motel, with beaverboard walls, gas heater, thin pink blankets Johnsons who worked in hotels and Shits who finked at Riker's for pocket change and junk Phil remembered them all, making his rounds as a lush roller He was no Stool Pigeon, no Rat, and no Bronx Opera House No Canary, no Grassy Gert Phil the Sailor gave himself a long shore leave, maybe a little too long And when the heat closed in, he hit the road And hung himself in the Tombs |
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"The Time of the Naguals"