My Svengali, You

My Svengali, You.
11/20/1981

Slumbering heavily,
sunken in a sofa bed,
as deep November light
filters through dirty windows,
staining all,
misty gray, overcast,
suggesting cold dampness.
Objects swim in
steel blue colors,
that coat everything in this apartment,
giving it the appeal
of a sitting room
for corpses.

Fragmented dream sequences
sift and pass
through a subconscious,
being projected on
close eyelids,
a movie watched
by a sleeper,
whose cougar eyes
pace back and forth,
like caged animals,
tracking the images.

His employer, Shirley,
seated opposite, on the living room appendage,
a corduroy couch,
named the Green monster,
chats away,
while vague, shadowy women
in sheer, flimsy summer dresses
flit, floating about the
room.
He is chided
for not returning
that afternoon to work,
a hangover the reason
for afternoon's coma.
A guilt dream, surely.
Wittingly, he maneuvers the topic
to his
desire for a good, long lay.
She musically trills
a laugh, leaning back, opening
her legs under the dress, waiting....

Shift... Swirl...
grey turbulence,
misty passing...
Until solidity-
a small refreshment stand,
in front of a row of rundown
stores,
all cracked cement,
a sign advertises, 'Angelo's'
in black tarnished metal,
like lecherous, old man sins
on a street corner.
Women stroll
along green, mold stained
sidewalks,
moving gracefully by,
chiseled from
multicolored stone,
designer made women
cold, hard and aloof.

Young and clean-shaven,
he stands, facing Angelo's,
his best fox catching
visage on-
a look he carries in a back pocket,
next to his warm, pulsating
butt cheek.
One small, brown curled Italian woman,
a Rita,
but no - a Denise,
spies him and moves out from
the throng of flowing masterpieces.
She lithly slithers up,
all breasts and perfume.
Their leers broadening,
eyes eating each other up,
like magnets
thick with electric
juice.
A song reverberating through
one frame to another,
it draws floating beauty
to him, shaking in his
long-awaited,
ancient anticipation.
But just then...

sllliiiith - clunk! loudly,
a letter in the door,
and the sleeper awakes!

Boots pass quickly
at eye level,
outside this basement apartment,
along the pavement above,
as I struggle
to come out of the thick,
sexual swamp that
was dream-state.
Climbing from the palm
of my bed,
I greet the death grip
of November late afternoon light
and wince.
Moving in the dim reality
of funeral home
stage presence,
I bend to pick up
the envelope
between door and wall.
Scribble on the front
beckons,
"please open me!"
Then a column in hieroglyphic
semantics,
'fill
feel
Phil'
immediate recognition
of a script long
yearned for,
Nancy.
Breaths of cool air
blow through this prison,
a cave dripping with
stalactites of loneliness.
Reading, warmth spreads
from my stomach
upward,
filling me.
I so miss you
Hoodzie.
A plan
to distance myself
over a recent relapse,
crumbling in my hands,
as the paper trembles
in my fingers.
A "sail on silver girl,
don't let me hold you back"
type of
plan,
now melting.
But we are a
poisonous fountain
of youth,
yet how you set
me soaring!
These periods of separation,
I get to examine,
by way of dismantling
the intricate mechanism of our love
and study its fine and perfectly minute
clockwork tickings.
Slowing time,
immersed in the depths
of our poems and letters,
letting their veneer rollover
me, syrup-like and sweet.
It's only physical distance,
for by these contemplations
are the fires of
our fantasy
fed,
nourished and strengthened.
A jewel I turn in hand
admiring each facet in some
new, bright light
that comes by days longer
from your side.
Sifting through memories,
like some gold-digger
in a riverbed
with his pan,
I find....
... that Halloween night,
coming home from a dance in Philly
and me - the death's head,
you - the womanhood
warrior,
leaning over - you lay your head on my chest
and I,
stroking your hair
stroking your hair,
stroking your hair.
...nugget here,
nugget there,
this panhandler
always seems to strike
the mother lode.
But now I feel
your riptide
pull and draw,
compelling me,
such a hypnotist,
and I - a victim
willingly.
My lovely Svengali,
pinging the depths for me,
your sonar calling out
across this cold and singular night.
I arise, in trance,
from lone November mists
and walk...

shift, swirl,
snap to...
a pay phone,
pitching in winter's wind,
attesting to futures
of snow
in a lifetime
of failure,
I drop a dime,
and echo back,
"Hello, it's Phil,
how are you, babykakes?!"

The End