the tale of the foolosopher

she thought it would work, of course, even though
she knew better. transformation comes from influence
and harmony, resonance of opposites, inductance and magnetic
flux. he was fire she was air. feed the flame.

he brought his past with him in boxes and tapes.
aquariums packed with spreadsheets and ledgers no
that isn't fair he had packed them with nothing
because he wanted fish, he wanted lizards to feed,
terrariums idealized in what
he might build or tend then leave
behind. it wasn't so much what was ahead that intrigued
him, it was the past, how it morphed out of his control
when the dealer shuffled the deck and dealt
the next hand. always the next hand you see and you don't
really have a choice of whether to stay in the game
the dealer's dealing, you're sittin at the table,
you either pick up the hand or see what the bouncers
do to you when you don't. in the old
westerns they used to shoot
you where you sat. you wish you were in the old west.
he does. not you. you were never in this state
before, where the fire raged around you
whistling , wake up lady bug, wake
up, ladybug
ladybu
g fly aw
ay h
om
e.















































home, what the fuck is that i lost my home
and i'll never get it back.






snort. yeah
not with that attitude.






























































() and the floor is her hanger
all her outfits a disshevelment
like the way her hair blows with the windows down
on the way to the beach
with the kids battling in the back
and i spy an anteater snout
and the rolled eyes as another stupid outing
turns into hell on wheels
because things are out of control.


or you could laugh, she said. or we could play
the quiet game. or i spy ten thousand red balloons ~
oh bullshit says b. yes look behind you in
the western sky. then the soda spills over so he
says i think they just went down your pants.
she yelps and everyone laughs, including b
who sees the color of the clouds back there.
he has to give it to her, ten thousand red balloons
might look like that. so all is out of control
zenning along all japanese gardeny; the frogs
like their little homes in the spouting pots,
aloe and water lillies and wormwood for the sour
stomach. yes, sometimes it's trippy, the messes
on the floor but thank gawd they leave his stuff alone
boundaries are negotiated, compromises reached.








he knows exactly where he put it last time
and it's not there now. she's always taking his damn
lighter, what a thief, man works all nite long can't come home
and walk without trippin over something then
she smokes all the rest of the weed.


no wait. that was her first .




projection.

you ate my peanut butter.
you always buy the wrong kind of toilet paper gawd!


~ gawd, you're useless!. ~
said in unison stalking into
seperate rooms.

when they negotiated the move
they tried to cover every contingency. "you know
the spare room could be your out "
he shrunk into a pintsized furball, bared his
teeth as the jaguar struck. cornered. no escape
besides he knew could feel the shriveled appendage
of belief at the top of his stomach, ravenous
never satisfied. he was desperate. she
had to know this.
it wasn't time.



time she cooed
when is anything in the universe ever
done on your schedule?



only the things you can manifest by yourself.
how's that workin out in there.




























*


but that wasn't what she wanted to remember
sitting in a paris cafe by the seine, applying lipstick
by the window, smoothing her brow with a puff
pad. the water in diamonds across her lips
reflections like the ones from the fishtanks
late at night inside the tent, where he sleeps
with his children on visitation.
the quiet storms. aftermath of a good time.


she lives like a teenager. so decadent. familiar things
in a new place. she accomodates the files,
moves all the accumulated frangipangi
of her past into the storage dump, gives him
the extra room, the shed, the living room even.
because she had a fire. she was a refugee
from commerce, things had dispossessed her except
for the art on the walls. how they blended to
make the place look boheme and classic americana
she wants to remember how she tried to make it
less cluttered, but curtains fell off the rods
pictures drifted out of their frames, dirt built
castles and the tides were late in coming.


and he tried to live like that he did but her
dribble castles just confused him, how
do you plant flags in that mess? or he might
begin to like the jagged paths
the canadian daisies made after the first
spring, and the slivers of lanolin soap
she'd leave around like dropped trowels.

just, scattering. one day she said why don't you
open your boxes? he said, no i have all my hope
in there. it's for my home.


she laid down among her soaps and candles
and canadian daisies and that's where
she slept for a week until the moon was dark
again. then she went to him with a box
she had taped shut and asked him to
take it with him when he left, please
dont open it till later
because she wanted her home back as soon
as possible.




*


out the door.
well, at least she didn't take him
like the other two. three
on a mattress, always bad luck.
wonder what's in the box?
probably dead kittens or something .


*

she sat on the banks
of the river , made all of block and stone
swinging her legs back and forth
like a child. she'd always wanted to go
to europe. behind her a dribble castle
rose to the heavens, courtesy of gaugin,
with a ribbon of hope in her hair.


*

or you could laugh she said.
jump into the spring.
like a gamble you had to take
because the cards just looked so right.
so he did. when he hit the water
he went all the way to the bottom
of the muddy river and pushed back up
like a bear waking from hibernation
and this time, the hunger was real.