X Marks the Spot
Blending in the letters and verse of Elizabeth Browning Barrett abandoning England for Italy and love arranged somewhat chronologically.
Odd amalgamations with the poetry of Li He, he of the 6th century going going gone to the 27 club of poetic dissipation fronting the Doors or at least that’s what one might imagine.
Wandering with a ear to the sky and nose to the happy hunting grounds of Venice
with adjacent accents flown in the world over flowing over to tap a toe in the lapping waters of the Pacific Ocean under St. Monica’s outstretched arms, there’s a cannon up there in the park aiming to please and a plaque on a cement half-round where silvered John Paul Jones sat watching the horizon darken.
Jotting down publicly in a notepad whatever was radiating though the atmosphere on any particular day -a pretense to pretension, not that anybody can afford to pay any attention, if you saw the colorful spangled components of disorder and paraphernalia, wagon trains of shopping carts (while seabirds curtsey in the updraft above) tied to hollowed hurricane eyes and besides the kids in courageous sunglasses are tug-boating to cotton candy headaches and they will not be denied.
I mean trudging back around fire-islands of food, t-shirts and trinkets on the stilted legs of wooden railroad ties a sweet mixture of tar and salt spritz to breathe, the butt end of Route 66 veering off a little for the sake of a scenic photographic background you just can’t help it.
Emerging from the glass and concrete library of babble and homeless blessed washrooms with Dostoevsky under your arm possibly a little precious but no cause for ale
or book reviews.
For good measure Johnny was added addressed to occupant who is by no means meaning you with hopes, horses, Australia and a catalogue of noteworthy etceteras.
Some YouFool or another always putting things where anybody can see -so skimming the vicious vicarious ad/re-visors too.
Other evidence, who can remember? -some for a Western Star crossing over the road.
I wonder if Tesla would care for his name on a plate everywhere in a future so quite I can almost hear him smile.
There are apex hours of 2 to 12 string meandering, drum confusion, keyboard dairy farm animals, black & white soundtracks flown in, cassette dust, radio waves, which one’s Pink?
And, whatever else was at hand with twisty turns of retina vocabulary having it’s way.
Robert to Elizabeth:
“I love your verse with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett”
Li He for the Lady Jade:
“A fluttering butterfly her graceful beauty,
Wind and sun shrink from her slender body.
In secluded curtains, golden ducks grow cold.
On her vanity-mirror a lonely simurgh gathers dust.
Treading the mist, she’s borne home on the breeze,
Her tinkling jades heard on the mountain top.”
Me to You?
“Ok, take PCH north about 9 miles and up on the right it’s that Italian Villa looking thing
on the hill”