SANCTUARY
Miss Reba’s Mansion
“The shades blew
steadily in the windows,
with faint rasping sounds”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
It wasn’t really
A mansion not really,
It was a temple.
Miss Reba’s whore-house—
For the rich delta bourbons
Up there in Memphis.
That’s where he took me—
Popeye my hoodlum lover
Way up there to die.
He kept me loaded—
It was twilight all the time
I felt like a ghost.
The shades blew thru me—
Thru fluted green & gilded
Otherworldliness.
Time had a blank face—
Like flowered blue china nymphs
Scrolled halfway to hell.
Delta Bourbon Ghosts
“They knocked at the door
for some time before she
made any sound. “It’s the
doctor, honey,” Miss Reba
panted harshly. “Come on,
now. Be a good girl.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Miss Reba’s big house—
Had a life all of its own,
Its own gone twilight.
Pellucid mirror—
It stared at me aloofly
A blank face in time.
Unequivocally—
Letting me know that it had
Nothing to do with me.
It was ancient—
Uttermost & profoundly
An old Memphis dive.
The ghosts of the gods—
Came & went in dark shadows
Profundity stirred.
I got to meet them—
Downstairs in the living room
Whenever I dreamed.
Down in the parlor—
The Delta Bourbon Elite,
The Dead Once-Living.
The Séance
“Now, now,” Miss Reba
said, “take another sup
of gin, honey. It’ll make
you feel better.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Saffron-colored light—
Lay dying on the ceiling
Tinged with purple sky.
They’d been waiting there—
For her to skip the rest of
As I Lay Dying.
Patiently yawning—
Suspended in nothingness
Cryptic crystal ball.
Ordering chaos—
In that other intricate
Shadowy old world.
Waiting for her then—
That dizzy speeding darkness
That dreamers evoke.
Powders & hookah—
Popeye the Evil Snake there
And Big Red waiting.
The Blue China Clock
“The clock was of
flowered china,
supported by four
china nymphs.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Only the hour hand—
Moved steadily measuring
The shadowy time.
But even its face—
Went pale & ghost-like on her
Entering the Dream.
The secret whisper—
Of blood flowing thru her veins
Knocking at the door.
“Come on, now, honey”—
Miss Reba said, “They wanna
Meet the new girl now.”
We drifted slowly—
Down the Sunset Boulevard
Winding old staircase.
They were all waiting—
An unearthly entourage
Of Rich & Famous.
She got to meet them—
Down there in the dream parlor
Sipping martinis.
Each one had their own—
Story to tell, unending
Going on & on.
Twilight Soiree
“It was twilight;
in a dim mirror,
a pellucid oblong
of dusk set on end”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
The Delta Bourbons—
The Mississippi wealthy
Planter nouveau riche.
The ladies with their—
Funeral parlor fans and
Mourning admirers.
The men exhausted—
From making their millions
Cotton, cane, bourbon.
Occasionally—
A young handsome Rhett Butler
Giving her the eye.
Or a young Southern—
Boy still virgin, dead from the
Battle of Shiloh.
Sitting lonely there—
Hoping she’d give him maybe
What he never had.
It’s amazingly—
Stunning & startling when
One notices it.
The living dead are—
Just like you & me, my dear,
Nothing’s really changed.
Counting Ten
“Count ten, now,”
Temple said. “Will you
Count ten, now?”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Not that it really—
Makes any difference
To the Living Dead.
Their world is foot-steps—
Tip-toe diminuendo
Mincing down thru time.
They knock at the door—
Pretending to be they are
Miss Reba for us.
Sometimes we maybe—
Even remember our dreams
Lucidly awake?
Turning the key that—
Locks the door to the deep vast
Unconscious world.
After that’s when we—
Wish we’d never have to come
Back to Now again.
Deep South Decadence
“Why did I wake
since waking I shall
never sleep again?”
—William Faulkner,
Absalom, Absalom
And that’s what she found—
Perhaps what she expected,
Knew while not knowing.
Knowing what she’d find—
Ahead of time, that life was
One constant instant.
An arras-veil art—
The what-is-to-be hanging
Docile, even glad.
For our lightest touch—
If we dared, were brave enough
To remember it.
Oneric Pulp Fiction
“Did I but dream?”
—William Faulkner,
Absalom, Absalom
No wisdom needed—
To make the little smooth slice
Thru the fictive screen.
No courage needed—
Cowardice scaring us from
The prisoner soul.
The Unconscious—
Our miasmal-distillant
Doppelganger self.
The spark, secret dream—
The Other that tugs at our
Veins & arteries.
The instant recall—
The fragile, evanescent
Moment of Freedom.
Anonymously—
Seething & waiting for us
To come back again.
The might-have-been world—
Recreating, renewing
Dying once again.
Vanishing again—
Unknowable as Other
Decadent double.
Miss Reba’s Mansion
“The shades blew
steadily in the windows,
with faint rasping sounds”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
It wasn’t really
A mansion not really,
It was a temple.
Miss Reba’s whore-house—
For the rich delta bourbons
Up there in Memphis.
That’s where he took me—
Popeye my hoodlum lover
Way up there to die.
He kept me loaded—
It was twilight all the time
I felt like a ghost.
The shades blew thru me—
Thru fluted green & gilded
Otherworldliness.
Time had a blank face—
Like flowered blue china nymphs
Scrolled halfway to hell.
Delta Bourbon Ghosts
“They knocked at the door
for some time before she
made any sound. “It’s the
doctor, honey,” Miss Reba
panted harshly. “Come on,
now. Be a good girl.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Miss Reba’s big house—
Had a life all of its own,
Its own gone twilight.
Pellucid mirror—
It stared at me aloofly
A blank face in time.
Unequivocally—
Letting me know that it had
Nothing to do with me.
It was ancient—
Uttermost & profoundly
An old Memphis dive.
The ghosts of the gods—
Came & went in dark shadows
Profundity stirred.
I got to meet them—
Downstairs in the living room
Whenever I dreamed.
Down in the parlor—
The Delta Bourbon Elite,
The Dead Once-Living.
The Séance
“Now, now,” Miss Reba
said, “take another sup
of gin, honey. It’ll make
you feel better.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Saffron-colored light—
Lay dying on the ceiling
Tinged with purple sky.
They’d been waiting there—
For her to skip the rest of
As I Lay Dying.
Patiently yawning—
Suspended in nothingness
Cryptic crystal ball.
Ordering chaos—
In that other intricate
Shadowy old world.
Waiting for her then—
That dizzy speeding darkness
That dreamers evoke.
Powders & hookah—
Popeye the Evil Snake there
And Big Red waiting.
The Blue China Clock
“The clock was of
flowered china,
supported by four
china nymphs.”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Only the hour hand—
Moved steadily measuring
The shadowy time.
But even its face—
Went pale & ghost-like on her
Entering the Dream.
The secret whisper—
Of blood flowing thru her veins
Knocking at the door.
“Come on, now, honey”—
Miss Reba said, “They wanna
Meet the new girl now.”
We drifted slowly—
Down the Sunset Boulevard
Winding old staircase.
They were all waiting—
An unearthly entourage
Of Rich & Famous.
She got to meet them—
Down there in the dream parlor
Sipping martinis.
Each one had their own—
Story to tell, unending
Going on & on.
Twilight Soiree
“It was twilight;
in a dim mirror,
a pellucid oblong
of dusk set on end”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
The Delta Bourbons—
The Mississippi wealthy
Planter nouveau riche.
The ladies with their—
Funeral parlor fans and
Mourning admirers.
The men exhausted—
From making their millions
Cotton, cane, bourbon.
Occasionally—
A young handsome Rhett Butler
Giving her the eye.
Or a young Southern—
Boy still virgin, dead from the
Battle of Shiloh.
Sitting lonely there—
Hoping she’d give him maybe
What he never had.
It’s amazingly—
Stunning & startling when
One notices it.
The living dead are—
Just like you & me, my dear,
Nothing’s really changed.
Counting Ten
“Count ten, now,”
Temple said. “Will you
Count ten, now?”
—William Faulkner,
Sanctuary
Not that it really—
Makes any difference
To the Living Dead.
Their world is foot-steps—
Tip-toe diminuendo
Mincing down thru time.
They knock at the door—
Pretending to be they are
Miss Reba for us.
Sometimes we maybe—
Even remember our dreams
Lucidly awake?
Turning the key that—
Locks the door to the deep vast
Unconscious world.
After that’s when we—
Wish we’d never have to come
Back to Now again.
Deep South Decadence
“Why did I wake
since waking I shall
never sleep again?”
—William Faulkner,
Absalom, Absalom
And that’s what she found—
Perhaps what she expected,
Knew while not knowing.
Knowing what she’d find—
Ahead of time, that life was
One constant instant.
An arras-veil art—
The what-is-to-be hanging
Docile, even glad.
For our lightest touch—
If we dared, were brave enough
To remember it.
Oneric Pulp Fiction
“Did I but dream?”
—William Faulkner,
Absalom, Absalom
No wisdom needed—
To make the little smooth slice
Thru the fictive screen.
No courage needed—
Cowardice scaring us from
The prisoner soul.
The Unconscious—
Our miasmal-distillant
Doppelganger self.
The spark, secret dream—
The Other that tugs at our
Veins & arteries.
The instant recall—
The fragile, evanescent
Moment of Freedom.
Anonymously—
Seething & waiting for us
To come back again.
The might-have-been world—
Recreating, renewing
Dying once again.
Vanishing again—
Unknowable as Other
Decadent double.
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