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Coming to Grips with White Knuckles



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COLETTE The waitress mainlinesthe cup under the saucerbalancing it on thewaistband of her armmuch as a junkiemight tie a tourniquet.Wiping the glass edgeof the tableclear of croissant crumbs& watching the barely dryreflection of her ownimage going thru the emotions.the California chicpothouse & gardeniabloom effect ofher work is enoughto leave a dirty smear.

CHINATOWN I And a little fartherthe Fu Manchu mustachecurved in mock epic proportionsof a scimitar un-sheaved for action,perhaps the executioner's progresshis victims entombed to their skullsin rolls of quivering earth--the parting of the wayscoming as your coin dropsto the rasp of histin cup chuckle.

TORONTO Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse with Diamond Eyes.A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and two Persianlions carved in wood.Salads Nicoise.Dinners at Pré Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto equivalent.A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal in the forest.I drank a cocktail with the girl of the white polo coat.Or as the cynic said, my pipe is the tent, the tobaccothe days of my life.

THE DRAPER'S CLOTH I imagine stars at the dragon's tail,eyelids ringing with butter.I want to brush palms aslightly as two sparks.take the wand of your waistin two plush handswith the pitiless gestureof a sparrowWe part the leaves in breath,arouse trees in envy.I sense colours more vividthan your tongueafter wine,explosions to cap the wind.To enter you in argument--a bough creeking in underbrush,svelte panthers hiding.And afterwards, sheets are open galleys,oarsmen ploughing breakersacross both sea and night.

POETS ARE MAGIC BEINGS She sits within the Magic Lantern--that facsimile for pleasure,decor of wineskins whereat $2.50 a garmentextravagance comes extra;skin like rosy flamesthe whisk of smokeat hearthsidesunlight about her face.Cherubs arise from those lipsand battle lines are drawnabout the sweet curvature of her breasts.A tight cashmere sweater ridescomfortably two of the finest King'sdeer headstrong thru Sherwood Forest.And, Merry Man,firmly planted in Lincoln Green,the plodding turf growing at odds within my soul--give this brief to the Sheriff at Buckingham;I cool my heels, the soft doe lies prostrate at my feet.She's loveliness,hair drawn as curtainssignalling the clouds,eyes that beckon twin dovesto flight, in swift passage, like the arrows.

CASHA A child-like fawnmoistened nudging &joyous breath,an allowance for leaveas her gentle handbudges my sibling cupping.And walking in a field of gardens--our Jardin des Plantes--a molecule in depthflowery pennonsnear Picardy wet.Casha tendrils here pinion the eye,little Annabel Leewith the sunshine wet in her parting handthat all the birds in grace sighat Saint Francis breathless.

THE JOLLY TUPPER Sun on the eiderdownbreaks tiny corners off the bedspread,declares green plants its biddingbefore summoning Fragonard's maidenoff her swing--so richly dressedin picture from the sunlit wall....