SANCTUARY III

SANCTUARY

Clarence Snopes

“It aint very
private here,”
Snopes said.
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary

He was the local—
Clarence Snopes guy of the dorm
Standing at my door.

“Well, c’mon in, then”—
I told him, letting him come
Into my dorm-room.

He had this crummy—
Calculating quality,
Sneaky & slimy.

He was a greaser—
From Gretna down in N.O.
A smooth character.

Lazy & no good—
His freshman year was his last
Flunking out back then.

“What do you want, huh?”
I said as he closed the door
Locking it behind.

“I need to write that—
English paper on Faulkner
But I can’t write none.”

I looked up at him—
Sitting on my bed watching
Him spreading his legs.

Big Easy Boy

“I aint loose-mouthed.
I been around.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary

“I aint loose-mouthed much—
Anything like that when it
Comes to private stuff.”

“Gimme that paper—
You’re writing for class right-now
I’ll pay you for it.”

I looked up at him—
He had his pants already
Unzipped & Half-down.

I nodded okay—
Got his Big Easy off good
Down to the last drop.

Then I gave him my—
English paper & then wrote
Another paper.

He seemed satisfied—
He got an A for English
Didn’t do no good.

He flunked outta school—
Everything else nose-dived down
I tried to help tho.

He was such a Snopes—
Snotty, selfish, so wise-ass
Tres well-endowed tho.

As I Lay Corrupted

“That instant that
we realize, admit,
that there is a logical
pattern to evil, and
then we die.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary

He lied thru his teeth—
Pretty soon word got around,
Knocking at my door.

It got so bad that—
I started tutoring for
The whole team next door.

The cute quarterback—
On the football team inside
The Broussard Hall dorm.

The Old Frenchman Place—
Then on campus had its own
Popeye & it was me.

It terrified me—
That I got obsessed with it,
Evil on the hoof.

I had this desire—
For naked carnal passion
Hemmingwayesque style.

Short, quick, simple—
Almost like obscene haiku
Succinct succulence.

Young jock corruption—
Huey P. Long Fieldhouse
By the Indian Mound.

Huey P. Long Fieldhouse

“onto the pavilion
and the somber
toadstools of umbrellas”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary

It was an old dump—
An art deco Thirties wreck
Of what could have been.

The Olympic pool—
Spurious Greek balustrade
A fancy ballroom.

With red-brick tile roof—
Spanish-motif stucco walls
And a balcony.

Summers were too hot—
To study books very much
Although I loved there.

Summer school back then—
More a joke than anything
A vacation spot.

Second time around—
Sanctuary make more sense
I didn’t get lost.

I was decadent—
Then & it was getting worse
Henry Sutpen & me.

Beyond Absalom—
And The Sound The Fury
I was now a Snopes.

Temple no big deal—
Neither was Popeye too much
I was tres jaded.

The young janitor—
The Joe Christmas of my life
He was god to me.

Bon the Beautiful—
My dark-skinned Creole lover
I knew him well too.

Working my way thru—
Southern decadence novels
Boyfriends of the Id.

Who needed those old—
Delta Plantations out there
The Fieldhouse would do.

I even enjoyed—
Butching it up back then in
ROTC drag.

Popeye

“Fix my hair,
Jack,” he said.
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary

“Sure,” the sheriff said—
“I’ll fix it for you right now!”
Springing the trap-door.

Popeye jerked his head—
Hitting the end of the rope
“Pssssst!” went the noose tight.

Had been on his way—
To visit his mother then
In Pensacola.

He was arrested—
In Birmingham for murder
A small-town cop dead.

His mother thought that—
Spending the summer over
There in Luxembourg.

The pavilion—
With decrepit promptitude
Berlioz etc.