Woman in the Tree

" A woman has to live her life, or live
to repent not having lived it."

-D.H. Lawrence

a fork in the Peter and the Wolf woods
blades of gecko green grass
vibrate sensually
to the melodic moaning of the Pacific surf

so this is serenity however fleeting
eyes twisting
on the fork in the woods immobile

when you became the apologist
for the dingy drum circle I
knew in the marrow of my bones
that hell was freezing over-
I continued to gambol
knee deep in sin

a twang of the six-string
suspended in the deafening [SILENCE]
sauntered over across the clearing
-but from where/why?

Ha! Eureka! Good show right!

There-in front of the trinity
of trees plagued with arthritic
knuckles and knees
exposed to the tempestuous
mood of the Pacific
signposts of a lovers quarrel

time is butter on hot waffles

three or four day excursions can
become a daily occurence

Roman candles burst behind
the Russian bushes banshees
shrieking punch-drunk on
a boxed wine of Bacchus' most
maddening varietal

we aren't alone we are never alone
law abiding liberals walk
with their panting dogs slightly
aghast (good gawd sir we are
a sight I advise you to simmer!)

Retreat! Pull back! Headfirst
into the thick of things!

I think of Young
Goodman Brown and wish for the cover
of New England darkness
blanketing the city on a hill

I know we are walking in the
footsteps of the
Prince of Darkness
that sly old devil
we are caught in the silk spiderwebs
of a dream within a dream
grains of sand slipping through
our porous hands
plummenting below to the swaying grass

that's when
the faces appeared blossoming
from Mother Earth
compliments of the recent downpour of
Father Sky-
and I stared unabashed
tete-a-tete with hobgoblins Greek gods

I am dripping

Oh woman!

I saw you
hips curving
like a snake slithering across
a steaming jungle floor
I saw you
reaching out for a chalice of wine
I saw you for a speck of time
plastered into the eucalpytus trunk
six feet tall
yet fresh as a field of jasmine after a March storm

oh darling!
I saw you stuck
in time unable to move beyond
the bars of the tree and
I gasped startled petrified
I saw that you could never leave
never love
another man or
or anyone

oh woman!

my mind
away across the woods
into a barren desert
and i wept bitter mustard tears
i wept



streets of Florence in summer
the opaque heat sultry
heavy like original sin
oppressing as
Dante's cold-hearted inferno-
gyspies cry seagull cries for money
hunched over
gnarled like the roots
of a copse of wispy willows
sprawled in a gutter faceless!

you two mongrels
you two gallants
dig your gyspy freedom with your
red-blooded american hands and feet
that tromp all over cobble-lined
streets of the Medici
snaking alongside and beyond the Arno-
rucksacks of the celestial bums
overflowing with stolen wine
bread fruit condoms
moleskins Petrarch's verses
papers tobacco hash weed-

winsome-the streets of humanity
that exhale yesterday's renaissance
and inhale today's labor pains
of promise-
winsome-the repugnant wails of a
preacher of by-gone days hypnotizing
the city cut down savagely by the fires
of the papacy!
winsome-the mosaics! the bronze doors!
King David with Mick Jagger swag!
the dome!
the manner in which
the Italian women
choose to ignore you
both of you
women in flowing Mediterranean dresses
with hedonistic breasts
oil black Gucci sunglasses shielding
Latin eyes
cigarettes planted firmly
in their pagan mouths
the smoke dancing heavenwards
long olive legs exposed
supported by
stilettos on
piercing your famished hearts
pricking your essence just
south of your gasping

two mongrels
two gallants
perched on a street corner
watching the flowering of humanity
pass them by

Florence! ah Florence!
your opulent streets dazzle those
opalescent eyes
that dart
ever hungry with the appetite
of lions

© Dan Guerra