Aaron Duchan

vanities

the rain
dusk filling the chill air of
what will become another winter
night
the street light flickers on
stuttering
steady now
reflections bouncing off
the puddles on the pavement
the plate glass vitrine and
my glasses
I take them off to clean them
funny
how something so much part of you
can be so easily detached
zip zzip zzzipping up
against the cold (who invented the zipper anyhow?)
I somehow think of cotton candy &
the State Fair
the smells of the wet straw
the fetid bovine odour of
prize bulls
walking horses
& Greyhound buses filled with the phantom lovers
of a not so distant past
maybe my mother was right after all
maybe all is vanity and
vanity of vanities
and
it would be better to have a job
steady & solid & Teutonic
like Kafka's Castle (with a good civil service pension)
instead
of dreaming the sweet dreams of youth
at the advanced age of fifty something

(I always had a problem with
that
SOMETHING --
did it come to add or detract from whatever it was attached to?
or
was it simply an euphemism
a stand-in
as it were
for something else?)

Look Ma
I can only say
watch out for Chesire cats
in the Garden of Eden
they ruin
the elaborate set design
of the Tree of Life
with their claws
& testy feline ways
while the real culprit eats a wormy apple
from the Tree of Knowledge
& gets heartburn from too much junk food
in the MacDonald's of love

 

i am not who i think i am

i am not who i think i am
my limbs slowly catching root
slouching not towards Bethlehem
but towards
a numbness found only in the most
advanced cases of tribal memory
a disease inherited from
nomadic ancestors
quick of eye & tongue
but lacking in the most elementary
graces of mall hopping
watch out for the natives!
the sign said
they are not as numb as i
they have heeded the warnings
of the Surgeon General
they know that Batman
causes cancer
& that salvation is to be found
in boxes of Crackerjacks
they know that numbness is a sign of caring
but choose to ignore it
preferring
to tend their flocks of motorized camels
and weave new robes
from torn plastic sacks
i am not who i think i am
soaring over bargain basement visions
over translucent Lego cities
over anonymous phone calls
to the 911 of the heart
they say that the night time
is the right time
but with plastic bullets melting
with yesterday's dreams so boring
somehow mama i just can't find
the right key or a condom big enough
for this guitar that i'm holding
you see
it was meant to be this way
we were meant to be together
you a bloody howler &
me a parakeet jammer from
the wrong side of the tracks
watch out for the natives!
they have toothpaste testimonials
they have UN declarations
they have Bob Dylan bowing down
to a plastic baby Jesus
painted black & blue
that glows in the dark
yes
it could have been different
but then
i would have had to be
who i thought i was
wouldn't i?
and that
would have been
no fun at all

 

Chasing the 'Trane

note bent note
blue green red 1/2
1/4 1/8 tones
saxophone soaring
now grasping
squawking
a lone cry
reverberating through the pyramids of Egypt
ancient Nubia
New Orleans & New York
echoes of great & unknown rivers
flowing through hard be-bob scales
junkie cool stale smoke
cold coffee in paper cups &
12 hours of practise every day
you lived that sax John or
rather it lived you
shook you
changed you
you became Saint John
patron saint of the beyond hip
of the beyond time
encompassing & teasing us all
cacophonous poly-rhythms surging
breaking & reforming
Elvin
like a 7 armed Shiva
tempting you to embrace the divine
I loved you John
though we never met
you
a proud Black man
from North Carolina
by way of Philly and New York
me
a freaky Jewish kid
from Detroit
that mother of all factory towns
I played "A Love Supreme"
on my cheap record player (mono, not even stereo!)
& dreamed dreams of Venus
baseball
novas exploding
& cheap paperback solutions
to the problems of man

 

Wilhelm Reich we love you

what do you expect me to do up here,
play you a song?
no, i am not a traveling musician
playing for small change on
the lonely street corners of your
mind
singing an off key
tune
i am a shaman
a Voodoo
Warrior
out
to
devour
your soul
are you afraid of a mere poet? the
Sacred Riddler of lost cities
oceans
continents? i am putting
you
on
now
i
am but
the reflection of
your need
greed
lust &
an
occassional
pure
thought
that somehow snuck through
the self
concerned
jabber
of
your waking
life
you want to be entertained? this
is
the
wrong
address
i have a question
for you
do you really
love
yourself?
ah, i
thought so
another
case
for analysis
for therapy
for pills thrills &
an orgone box on 42nd st &
seventh avenue
do you masturbate? what?
how could i
ask you
such
a question?
simple
all it takes is
the will
to move
certain muscles
while breathing but
this
is not the point
of
our conversation
is
it?