Tricky and Holy Things

I'm calm because dosed on sun.

I know it's supposed to be dangerous now,

the sun, but I do it anyway. I'm not inclined

to easily burn. (Though I do burn.)

And let's just say that now

a man comes down again through the roof,

but it's slower, very slow, an arrival full

of flowers. He's the Flower Man, in fact, and beautiful.

He's got leaves and tendrils, tiny alpine blooms

out of his hair and cheeks, his fingertips

and chin, the kind of blooms that vanish

when you turn to look, but you somehow know,

you bone-well know they happened.

He's heavier and sweeter now, he's watching the room

for snakes and things

coming from the cracks and the old, old furniture.

I think that what's underneath

this house (which the man from the sky keeps visiting)

is a woman. And this woman keeps letting snakes

and other tricky and holy things in.

All of her routes and means are old, old.

They're getting older even as I speak,

maybe because I speak,

or because the Flower Man arrives.

He wants to sit down now, he wants to be at home,

but where? I can't forget what I know to help him.

I have to forget what I know to help him.

White spots, black spots, tunnels and swirls,

everything now but much later.

Well, if I try to look directly

at all those creepy, ancient things

(though my looking itself is young, young, embarrassingly

adolescent), well, what I see is that big basement woman

laughing her brains out, laughing scornfully

at us. (Thank god he's with me, I couldn't take

it otherwise.)

I think he misses the top

of the hill. From that always winding, switch-backing path.

I can see him there now with his glorious horn

whose sound knows exactly

what distant lake or peak

to bypass or swirl, for a moment,

around and around and around,

and his horn leaking flowers which become magazines,

which become TV sets,

which become TV sets attached to CPUs,

and choices by now so dense

we have to dance maniacally just to stand on the ground,

we have to dance maniacally to keep from burning,

frantically move in order to rest.

I can keep coming up

with colors and leaves, pictures and dreams,

but it seems I invariably need

the re-call switch, and soon.

Pause, Stop, and Forward

are fine, just fine,

but I need memory always

to give the picture body.

To give the room a chair.

I can get where I'm going without it,

but I can't get there

enough. Memory, but memory cleansed.

Memory drowned

in forgetfulness.

Here, my friend, flower-man, father:

sit down now in all this dizzy motion. I'm in this

with you. I'll try

to recall a right thing, maybe,

a good story, maybe,

to keep us both from feeling so sick
and afraid.