Untitled by John Gregory Brown
After the Troubadour
We play like children scribbling chalk;
vibrant pastel glyphs vanish in afternoon
rain. I was unopened, a letter
full of news waiting for
my seal to be slit, a bedtime story pressed
like the scent of hyacinth to your breast.
The hills of your breast
are the hush of prayer. Chalk
it up to perfect pitch: my hunger pressed
your heartbeat. The afternoon
wandered as we waited for
spur-of-the-moment, distilled red-letter
days sideswiped by the letter
of the law. Sorcerers keep abreast
of keening cries for
more Samaritans. I am the child, chalk
still in hand, scribbling in cool afternoon
rain redolent of the smoke and cypress
that envelops choirs expressing
the sanctity of great men of letters
and acolytes who come soon after, noon
sun blanching the hesitant. Your breast
molds my palm as parched chalk
memorizes holy water. Once before,
you evanesced to inhabit the four
corners of the spirit world. Perfectly impressed,
syncopated Gottschalk
stutter-steps four-letter
epithets. Let’s make a clean breast
of sunsets, late afternoon
waning into evening, other afternoons
looming like monuments. And what’s it all for,
if not to be here again, your bare breasts
beneath my fingertips? Come and press
your stealth into the house of stolen letters,
the swirl of chalk
dust, sweet afternoon delight, a compressed
cross to bear on all fours, chain letter
to savage breast, less permanent than chalk.
Sagrada Familia
Pope Emma apprehends rajah’s pajamas
and shares her spare essay. Prose opus
assures me hope. Perhaps Aurora purrs
horse opera or Eos’s rosy spree. Hush Rome!
Omaha Harry pushes happy hour soma. He passed
rum serum espresso as pure juju syrup. Sour spumes
arose. Harpy rays romped Jojo’s ossuary ajar.
San Erasmo says he’s sorry re: rumored moray horrors.
He erases pre-op perjury, preps upper rump promo,
and hums proper emo mass. Morpheus arouses
deep praise ashore.
Jejune paramours usurp Emperor Norma’s usury purse
on demand. One uneasy roué named Hosea pursued
a sassy mare harem. Prosperous January muses
redeem our suppressed pauper’s rondo.
Pampered rams spurned rare Japanese hay apres
sham serape duress ensued. Hyped-up seraphs parry
supreme repo madness asunder, apropos Padre Donny’s
demeaned purpose. Medea, aspersed, appears possessed:
she so needs more duende pressure headroom.
Mama Adoremus hammered Handsome Sonny’s
manna parlay. “I pray he drops damned seedy ruse
and dares sunny repose,” she moped. Señor Amanda
opposed propane omens as mere Sudanese preens.
“Manure!” she reamed and reopened
her posh odeum: Dorado Anemone.
“Oops! No hero!” paraphrased Papa Europa,
pompous nose-run and herpes majordomo.
Pharaoh Adam’s deposed perp mapped
a prude’s prenup rodeo daydream. Dense menses
roamed Nonna Paramahamsa’s saddened dojo.
“Horae may endorse Hades,” she supposed.
She’s unadorned, reddened, and as proud
as sumo aroma.
(STANZA BREAK)
Parson Sammy assumed unmeasured pomade
had dampened Nanny Sonya’s jaded ashram.
Sadhu Mose rendered unharnessed sura odes,
a dope rap he had presumed adjourned.
He eased Padua Amy‘s spore around
a ponderous nun’s open door and spread
a hundred unheard hosannas end on end.
Ares pondered modus ponens rumpus:
Daddy Romeo mussed Hoss’s moussed perm
on purpose and a demon remora shampooed
Auden’s hardnosed red-eye jodphurs
near some rash Moor’s sunroom made enormous.
Père Jude’s dharma posse assessed
dunderheaded mayhem phenomena
unappeased. Onan’s shy, papered response
summoned Sunday pyre dread. Sodom’s asp reared.
Amen, dear nomad. You need hone
your harp serenade anon. Sure as sunup,
you’re soon dross: reaper prey.
Salvation
The power of Helios centered on a fixed point
lasered to perfection. We marveled at God’s focus,
gasped and genuflected, expecting the resurrection
of the fabled phoenix. We had just begun to date
and felt sure that no love in history could hold a candle
to this romantic madness that felt so right.
Jeanine snuggled at my shoulder as I made a quick right
and followed signs to the beach at Devil’s Point.
She did her sand dance, vivid as a Roman candle,
and I watched her spin, grew dizzy, and lost focus,
almost forgetting that today was the date
celebrating Osiris and his signature resurrection.
Praise Dionysius and Lazarus, forebears of Christ’s resurrection,
which gave us all a soul and entrance to heaven if we play our cards right.
Jeanine giggled and stroked my thigh as she nibbled a date,
generating volcanic tumescence and driving me beyond the point
of no return. In the Folsom of my fever, I dreamed of focus
groups who forecast fate by using crane’s eggs they’d candle.
I slouched in a heap, my heat wilted like a spent candle,
and silently prayed I could orchestrate my own resurrection
from wanton hedonism when Jeanine whispered, “Let’s not focus
on the underworld, but channel all our strength to right
this foundering ship of fools, set a course for Paradise, and point
out to all sinners that Armageddon falls on a predetermined date.”
I knew my passion for Jeanine had blossomed from a chance blind date,
brokered by kismet, and was still as fragile as a floating candle.
But before I stray light years from my preliminary point,
the certitude of God’s gift of resurrection,
I’ll need a minute or two to get my mind right,
buff my eyeballs, and get my mojo in focus.
Don’t get pissed. No need to focus
your board, dude. Cop some condoms for that hot date,
regardless of condemnation by bastions of the Far Right.
Cradling her tired, tender breasts, Jeanine slowly inserted her candle.
We live in our animal world, singular only in our need for resurrection,
as we struggle to lower the refi by half a point.
Don’t lose focus and burn your candle
at both ends. At this late date, opt only for resurrection.
Stay on point. The path to the Pearly Gates is on the right.
About the author:
Robert Focht
Described by my two rescue dogs as a neo-transcendentalist, I live a solitary life in the ghost town of West Hoboken, New Jersey and divide my time between running headlong into fully-involved building fires and working on an unauthorized autobiography. My writing process resembles arson in a nail salon, igniting highly volatile organic polymer polish enclosed in tiny, clear-glass bottles with pink ribbed caps and applicator brushes, and leaving behind an apocalyptic landscape of unrealized pedicures.
I’ve had work accepted by Cathexis Northwest Press, Prometheus Dreaming, Curating Alexandria, The Helix, Metafore, The Esthetic Apostle, Poached Hare, Deathbed Capers, The Hoboken Terminal, and elsewhere.
In the artist’s words:
Born and raised in New Orleans, John Gregory Brown is the author of the novels Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery; The Wrecked, Blessed Body of Shelton Lafleur; Audubon’s Watch; and A Thousand Miles from Nowhere. His honors include a Lyndhurst Prize, the Lillian Smith Award, the John Steinbeck Award, a Howard Foundation fellowship, the Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities Book of the Year Award, and the Library of Virginia Book Award.
His visual art has been displayed in individual and group exhibitions and has appeared online and in print in Hayden’s Ferry Review, the New England Review, Flock, The Brooklyn Review, Gulf Stream, and elsewhere.
He is the Julia Jackson Nichols Professor of English at Sweet Briar College in Virginia, where he lives with his wife, the novelist Carrie Brown.