our esteemed new poet laureate refugee
“i am practically…the invisible man.”
—jorge luis borges, the craft of verse
they say there’s a point of no return that goes unnoticed most of the time—like that voyage on the medea—a tramp steamer from nyc to port-au-prince—a scrubby little cargo-ship peddling the sullen sea—another ship of fools for you & me—full of toffs and tarts—sauve qui peut—life a comedy—a comedy of errors—i laughed & laughed until i cried—it was a more tacky tragedy then i expected—there aboard the dumpy medea—aboard the sleek elba—ships full of practical jokers like me—online journey to the extreme point of comedy…
the hotel trianon was getting dumpy—the bougainvillea needed cutting back—the palms were leaning down too close—“will you get me another mint julep, please?”—there i was reclining in a wicker chaise lounge thinking about nothing—my mind so very elsewhere that hot humid night—i felt deader than a doornail—i was way down there in the deep end of the pool—the verandah stretching on either side of me—this luxury-hotel for papa doc and the haiti élite—such a nice vacation spot for disillusioned tourist connoisseurs like me…
later on of course—there was little to balance the fear and boredom—even the trianon soufflé au grand marnier lost its appeal—the drums went silent—the singing stopped—the boungan boy spoke in tongues—older than creole—older than latin—older than fox-news—tall lean darby jones’ eyes turned up—so high only the whites showed—he was carrefour my mother’s lover—standing nude there at the crossroads—in the middle of the cane field at night—my mother took a Zombie lover—my mother walked with a zombie—zombie love put her in a deep trace—they kept her in a dark tower—by an ancient garden fountain—my father was a zombie—haiti was my home…
“you have no rouge or lipstick?”—the purser said no—“you must kiss me at the foot of the gangway”—why me the purser said—“an evening of riotous abandon”—can you manage your skirt i asked—“of course, old man—this isn’t the first time”—we went down the gangway arm in arm—“i was never a modest woman”—he did look more beautiful without his moustache…
“i played boadicea once—lord mountbatten herself in the audience”—i lifted my leg his skirt was caught—“does deceiving peron again count as resistance?”—i shrugged not knowing what to say—where was evita when you needed her?—we were nearing the venezuelan embassy—“where are you taking me?”—buenos aires was quiet as a cemetery—dead as a port-au-prince night of the living dead—i rang the buzzer—the ambassador answered the door—he was wearing a skimpy puce kimono—never had i seen him so less than immaculate—“this is borges,” i said—“he needs asylum”—the ambassador looked amazed—“luis?” martha asked—standing at the top of the stairs—“my dear,” the ambassador said—“may i introduce our esteemed new poet laureate refugee…”
“i am practically…the invisible man.”
—jorge luis borges, the craft of verse
they say there’s a point of no return that goes unnoticed most of the time—like that voyage on the medea—a tramp steamer from nyc to port-au-prince—a scrubby little cargo-ship peddling the sullen sea—another ship of fools for you & me—full of toffs and tarts—sauve qui peut—life a comedy—a comedy of errors—i laughed & laughed until i cried—it was a more tacky tragedy then i expected—there aboard the dumpy medea—aboard the sleek elba—ships full of practical jokers like me—online journey to the extreme point of comedy…
the hotel trianon was getting dumpy—the bougainvillea needed cutting back—the palms were leaning down too close—“will you get me another mint julep, please?”—there i was reclining in a wicker chaise lounge thinking about nothing—my mind so very elsewhere that hot humid night—i felt deader than a doornail—i was way down there in the deep end of the pool—the verandah stretching on either side of me—this luxury-hotel for papa doc and the haiti élite—such a nice vacation spot for disillusioned tourist connoisseurs like me…
later on of course—there was little to balance the fear and boredom—even the trianon soufflé au grand marnier lost its appeal—the drums went silent—the singing stopped—the boungan boy spoke in tongues—older than creole—older than latin—older than fox-news—tall lean darby jones’ eyes turned up—so high only the whites showed—he was carrefour my mother’s lover—standing nude there at the crossroads—in the middle of the cane field at night—my mother took a Zombie lover—my mother walked with a zombie—zombie love put her in a deep trace—they kept her in a dark tower—by an ancient garden fountain—my father was a zombie—haiti was my home…
“you have no rouge or lipstick?”—the purser said no—“you must kiss me at the foot of the gangway”—why me the purser said—“an evening of riotous abandon”—can you manage your skirt i asked—“of course, old man—this isn’t the first time”—we went down the gangway arm in arm—“i was never a modest woman”—he did look more beautiful without his moustache…
“i played boadicea once—lord mountbatten herself in the audience”—i lifted my leg his skirt was caught—“does deceiving peron again count as resistance?”—i shrugged not knowing what to say—where was evita when you needed her?—we were nearing the venezuelan embassy—“where are you taking me?”—buenos aires was quiet as a cemetery—dead as a port-au-prince night of the living dead—i rang the buzzer—the ambassador answered the door—he was wearing a skimpy puce kimono—never had i seen him so less than immaculate—“this is borges,” i said—“he needs asylum”—the ambassador looked amazed—“luis?” martha asked—standing at the top of the stairs—“my dear,” the ambassador said—“may i introduce our esteemed new poet laureate refugee…”
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