Postcard
Mostly Angels now-a-days
Sunday, April 14, 2002
To everyone who ever loved some one.
The whole of life comes pouring out
We get old, and our bones creak like oak trees.
The human molecule consists of more than a brain with hands
We depend on the fruit and the grace of the land
we build homes and families as our parents before.
Large white pie
hot peppers and garlic
delivered to your door
Plane box simple
there's nothing wrong with the air
we have enough trouble already
this is not a drill.
A pair of ragged blue jeans an Oxford shirt
my high school blazer and a dead man's hat.
I saw you America
a girl mad as Ginsburg
howling at a junk yard sunflower
you found.
He watched our summers long the fall into winter;
how long has it been since you stomped that ground
the most beautiful sound in the world
is not the voices of the Angels praising God
but the sound of the devil weeping for his sins.
"Postcard"
Harold wore a loud shirt which was red with a Hawaiian pattern of palm fronds and scowling stone idols, all scattered akimbo over the whole of his torso. His straw colored Stetson Palmer hat seemed more from New York than St. Maarten's but Harold wore it cocked with the same self sure attitude as the scruffy local kids who wore Nike's and American football jersey's. The hat was his trophy, but it looked out of place on a tropical island, Teresa thought.
Harold seemed to own relatively little in the way of personal possessions: that hat, some shirts, khalkhi pants and sandals. He also owned a flashy laptop computer that could talk and take pictures. The machine evoked so much a superstition and fear with local people that Harold was sure no one would steal it. Teresa warned him that the temptation might be too great for some people, but Harold insisted "A person would be crazy to do anything like that. Besides who do you know that I wouldn't give the shirt off my back?" Nonetheless, Teresa kept the gadget locked in her safe.Some of the Dutch guys that came through her place were not to be trusted. Most of her tennants were transient, but Harold remained. He had been gone a month, and Theresa couldn't explain it.
She lost sight of him as he walked behind the some bamboo market stalls, But then he reappeared walking between two huge black men. Theresa recognized Marcus and Fred the dreadlocked brothers who played steel drums in the market when there were enough tourists to make it worth it. Harold loved to tease them both about voodoo and Ganga smuggling, and he always pestered them for drum lessons. Sometimes she would hear him practice, thumping away on pickle bucket in his bungalow . The three men laughed, all
at once, and loud enough to hear across the Plaza. Probably one of Harold's notorious dirty jokes, she thought. Theresa watched as Fred, the taller of the two musicians whapped Harold on the back of the head gently, knocking his hat to the ground. Harold put up his dukes in a playful pugilistic stance then scooped up his hat. Theresa chortled her amusement. Harold shook Fred's hand firmly as if to say it was all right, then he turned and walked across the Plaza towards her. "The guy is such a card," she thought. Like some trumped up archetype of a midlife crisis, she imagined he was coming over to announce that he was going to Spain and take a bull fighting because of religious experience he had while jumping out of airplanes. Harold seemed to take to sports of all sorts. When Teresa first met him, Harold looked about 60: a washed out white guy trying to prove his virility by renting jets skis and smoking human cigar's. She fully expected him to burst his heart trying to water ski but fortunately he had given up after week of painful wipe outs on the other hand she heard that he was becoming a fairly decent tennis player, and over the past year, he had always paid his bills.
Teresa knew Harold could see her looking, she grabbed a rag and swipped imaginary moisture off the varnish mahogany bar. "The guy thinks he's top of Hemingway," She thought. "But I should talk. Did I get a Ford scholarship so I could pour fruit drinks and Guinness Stout for tourists who can hardly wait to get back home and tell their office mates about the colorful folk statement on the trip to point, idyllic, picturesque St.Maartens. I'm a postcard from someone else's fantasy escape. She glanced up. Harold caught her look and waved from the middle of the dusty Plaza Teresa groaned and smiled, waving back half heartedly. She knew he was 52, but he looked a good deal younger than eat the year ago. His legs were strong and muscled from hiking on the island and his skin had bronzed from the fluorescent pallor in urban grocer to the ruddy glow that grinned across the Plaza towards her now.
He looked like some pagan god of enthusiasm. Theresa could her member growing up in New York City where all the stores in Chinatown had shrines adorned with statuettes of a jolly fat Buddha like man. "That's what he is," she thought. "He's my good luck charm." She imagined putting instance, fruit and flowers down in front of Harold, then regreted the thought, barely able to suppress a chuckle as he kept under the hacienda roof announcing; "Hey, remember me?"
Teresa nearly threw her bar rag at him. "You watch your step here mister!" She growled in her best patois which gave the angry words dancing lilt.
Harold threw up his hands in mock defense. Teresa laughed and he shuffled a few steps looking ashamed. " Now where have you been?" She asked in a gentler tone of voice. "Not Guadaloupe again I hope." He nodded. She turned away shaking her head dragging the rag down to bar laughing to herself.
"I went to the states," Harold seemed eager to defend himself. "There was a memorial service for someone who used to work for me." Teresa started to apologize but Harold interrupted. "No, no, they do this every year I should have told you."
The whole of life comes pouring out
We get old, and our bones creak like oak trees.
The human molecule consists of more than a brain with hands
We depend on the fruit and the grace of the land
we build homes and families as our parents before.
Large white pie
hot peppers and garlic
delivered to your door
Plane box simple
there's nothing wrong with the air
we have enough trouble already
this is not a drill.
A pair of ragged blue jeans an Oxford shirt
my high school blazer and a dead man's hat.
I saw you America
a girl mad as Ginsburg
howling at a junk yard sunflower
you found.
He watched our summers long the fall into winter;
how long has it been since you stomped that ground
the most beautiful sound in the world
is not the voices of the Angels praising God
but the sound of the devil weeping for his sins.
"Postcard"
Harold wore a loud shirt which was red with a Hawaiian pattern of palm fronds and scowling stone idols, all scattered akimbo over the whole of his torso. His straw colored Stetson Palmer hat seemed more from New York than St. Maarten's but Harold wore it cocked with the same self sure attitude as the scruffy local kids who wore Nike's and American football jersey's. The hat was his trophy, but it looked out of place on a tropical island, Teresa thought.
Harold seemed to own relatively little in the way of personal possessions: that hat, some shirts, khalkhi pants and sandals. He also owned a flashy laptop computer that could talk and take pictures. The machine evoked so much a superstition and fear with local people that Harold was sure no one would steal it. Teresa warned him that the temptation might be too great for some people, but Harold insisted "A person would be crazy to do anything like that. Besides who do you know that I wouldn't give the shirt off my back?" Nonetheless, Teresa kept the gadget locked in her safe.Some of the Dutch guys that came through her place were not to be trusted. Most of her tennants were transient, but Harold remained. He had been gone a month, and Theresa couldn't explain it.
She lost sight of him as he walked behind the some bamboo market stalls, But then he reappeared walking between two huge black men. Theresa recognized Marcus and Fred the dreadlocked brothers who played steel drums in the market when there were enough tourists to make it worth it. Harold loved to tease them both about voodoo and Ganga smuggling, and he always pestered them for drum lessons. Sometimes she would hear him practice, thumping away on pickle bucket in his bungalow . The three men laughed, all
at once, and loud enough to hear across the Plaza. Probably one of Harold's notorious dirty jokes, she thought. Theresa watched as Fred, the taller of the two musicians whapped Harold on the back of the head gently, knocking his hat to the ground. Harold put up his dukes in a playful pugilistic stance then scooped up his hat. Theresa chortled her amusement. Harold shook Fred's hand firmly as if to say it was all right, then he turned and walked across the Plaza towards her. "The guy is such a card," she thought. Like some trumped up archetype of a midlife crisis, she imagined he was coming over to announce that he was going to Spain and take a bull fighting because of religious experience he had while jumping out of airplanes. Harold seemed to take to sports of all sorts. When Teresa first met him, Harold looked about 60: a washed out white guy trying to prove his virility by renting jets skis and smoking human cigar's. She fully expected him to burst his heart trying to water ski but fortunately he had given up after week of painful wipe outs on the other hand she heard that he was becoming a fairly decent tennis player, and over the past year, he had always paid his bills.
Teresa knew Harold could see her looking, she grabbed a rag and swipped imaginary moisture off the varnish mahogany bar. "The guy thinks he's top of Hemingway," She thought. "But I should talk. Did I get a Ford scholarship so I could pour fruit drinks and Guinness Stout for tourists who can hardly wait to get back home and tell their office mates about the colorful folk statement on the trip to point, idyllic, picturesque St.Maartens. I'm a postcard from someone else's fantasy escape. She glanced up. Harold caught her look and waved from the middle of the dusty Plaza Teresa groaned and smiled, waving back half heartedly. She knew he was 52, but he looked a good deal younger than eat the year ago. His legs were strong and muscled from hiking on the island and his skin had bronzed from the fluorescent pallor in urban grocer to the ruddy glow that grinned across the Plaza towards her now.
He looked like some pagan god of enthusiasm. Theresa could her member growing up in New York City where all the stores in Chinatown had shrines adorned with statuettes of a jolly fat Buddha like man. "That's what he is," she thought. "He's my good luck charm." She imagined putting instance, fruit and flowers down in front of Harold, then regreted the thought, barely able to suppress a chuckle as he kept under the hacienda roof announcing; "Hey, remember me?"
Teresa nearly threw her bar rag at him. "You watch your step here mister!" She growled in her best patois which gave the angry words dancing lilt.
Harold threw up his hands in mock defense. Teresa laughed and he shuffled a few steps looking ashamed. " Now where have you been?" She asked in a gentler tone of voice. "Not Guadaloupe again I hope." He nodded. She turned away shaking her head dragging the rag down to bar laughing to herself.
"I went to the states," Harold seemed eager to defend himself. "There was a memorial service for someone who used to work for me." Teresa started to apologize but Harold interrupted. "No, no, they do this every year I should have told you."
