Prosody at the cafe du coin
When a poem takes place
history tips its hat to the world.
A curious revenge is heaped upon many onlookers.
Many patrons remove their clothes.
Many partisans conspire to become friends.
I came here to deal a blow to fascists
to watch the maitre d' grow old
to undermine an old regime.
I came here
to mend a conspiracy
with a silver thread of wisdom and
a secret habit of revenge.
I came here
to circulate false rumours,
about the heart, about the way we gather evidence,
about the way the facts arrange themselves
around a mood.
Instead, I am soliciting opinions
from the kitchen help, investigating
the claims of martyrs,
making war heroes out of any new arrival.
Everything is suddenly black and white
an empty space
choreographed by many ambitious eyes.
Old newsreels of clubbed feet and twirling carrousels.
A rag-tag band of revolutionaries,
courtesans and periwigs,
clamouring to the tune of howitzers
and the Wurlitzer machine.
An impromptu gathering of newsmen and amnesiacs.
A warren of empty faces,
in the sallow shadow of dusk's wooden leg.
They are in the presence of a poem.
Of a heart that believes we are only here once.
Somehow a poem begins this way,
plans its arrival in the world.
Begging like a monk, threatening
like a terrorist,
hurling insults like any angry mob.
It is a commerce like any other,
inspired by pennies
to grow old.
Plodding, like a charity, through the news of the day.
Slandering its employer in any rent in the universe,
any cafeteria-like atmosphere,
any place to improve upon its suffering.
Dragging its feet to old promises.
A jealous inhabitant of the universe.
Everything is worth a poem.
It argues poverty, but proffers contrition.
It says it is monastic, but loses ambition
publicly.
It makes much out of tolerance
but is in constant dread of any new advocacy.
It remains non-partisan
waits patiently,
for a new tutelage, any authority
to call its own.
Once it was an explorer
today it deals in ocean front property.
Once it spoke of freedom and immortality
Now it jealously guards its itinerary.
Once it cried complacency,
today it makes a faith out of greed.
Overnight it begins to look like a holocaust.
By morning it is a legend.
This kind of strategy is well-known in the Palermo cafe.
It pays little attention to detail.
It walks softly on clouds.
It greets you friendlily at the door.
You are the seminal figure in a turn of world history.
You enter Nero Claudius Caesar.
You somehow manage the utensils to your mouth.
You know you are the same piece of information
when you leave.
The waitress knows this is a coincidence of facts.
She knows you are a charlatan,
an accomplished liar.
She numbers her dialogues this way.
She knows her part in the casualty.
She has been an accomplice in any number of small victories.
Her dance card is not yet filled.
You return to the business at hand.
At times dressed in gold,
at times dressed in black.
Marvelling always, at how you have become a customer
in this tryst with the eternal.
A hand tucked under a waistcoat, a surfeit
of ambition.
A looking glass for the world.