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Title: Prussian Blue
Author: Brown, Paul Cameron
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Prussian Blue" ***

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  Prussian Blue

  Paul Cameron Brown


  I evaded capture today
  with only a handful of dust
  to escape that Old Sandman Death.

  Certainly, those maroon berries,
  so large & luscious,
  crowded on their fat stems
  had something to do with it
  as did the ground fog
  leaving its burrow as so many boll-weevils
  their crowded nests.

  And there might be something to the fact
  the moonlight sat
  fat & confidant in the night sky
  as surely
  as my head rests on this pillow
  and the poem invites itself
  into my lair of thoughts,
  much as nestlings charge the
  entrance to the runway
  of a tree.

  I walked flat out
  in an instance
  as standing urine
  held its own stench
  and the grim splash within the pond
  dead center in the wilderness
  underscores the tone of this warning.

  One thought encapsulates wonder
  though suggestive evil hides
  leaden leaves buried in lake mud
  down the corner eaves of someone's
  fire hydrant mind.
  When you pray for someone
  an Angel sits on their shoulder,
  when that same someone hates you
  does that Angel die of grief?

  Serendipity is a flower
  and those clouds
  re-arranging the breeze
  harbingers of forbidden things
  not so much like these boulders
  use hand-held scissors to open twilight
  and watch this fading light ebb forth
  tip-I-toe like a bird
  squeezed thru an opening
  in its cage.


  More fragment of tree
  than serpent
  clothed in wet
  he mirrors me
  bedraggled in stone
  cloak or so it seems
  this cavernous ledge coven.

  Is he witch's totem
  swimming at yard's length
  I can web reach him
  startling darts of rain
  cutting lagoon's edge
  this sedge & eel grass dragon.


  These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones
  not canisters of the Faith
  but cannon-balls engraved
  in tome-like stares so much
  waxen shapes, these dust cloths
  & spidery webs.

  Dolls with eyes stare
  lidless & forlorn
  such eyes are cracks
  minden shapes or basement eves
  hogans of the human form.
  I'm interested in the priapic
  silence of such dolls--their
  indolent aura in time
  one long amber twilight
  & the results are in
  the shadows have produced twins
  ...hazy silhouettes rough-housing
  in the dark, come passing headlights
  although the stampede of noises
  affects nought.

  Ticker-tape & collage
  in quick thick barrage
  these lonesome dolls
  slouching half-pinned
  in their stalls--
  a cat transcends crouching his spine
  then pelvic thrusts and tableaux change.

  People are divisive, dolls less so.
  the dolls know nothing of that.


  If brains be gables & minds, say, the shutters
  in a derelict New England Mansion
  then intuition is in the
  eaves & casements
  the well-springs seeping into turrets & cupolas
  of all other nether spaces.

  These big, wide entrances are ourselves in all their splendor,
  notwithstanding the Winchester Mansions
  or Vanderbilt Estates where our
  very personalities are laid bare
  see antics give rise to attics
  feed in onto themselves
  where the Astor's of our alter-egos
  are resplendent in rich pride of self
  longing to manifest in lavish architecture
  so redolent of wealth
  yet see-sawing in, squabbling
  their thread-bare servant quarters
  where murderous passions
  bare dingy walls and where stained,
  yellowing wallpaper is harbinger to
  further heart-felt quarrels &
  what is unspeakable, gilded and more.
  Manifold and many, recant and lament. Repent.


  If flies be dragons
  and they may you know.
  In large desiccated brambles
  where wasps go
  involuntary blue-green coelacanths
  these Devil's Darning Needles
  wedge in Flying Circuses
  frame pale diaphanous wet green sky
  as shooting columns
  twig and Rock Face.

  There, fire-bush
  entrance scrapes paler wax
  green fronds then
  Blue Holes into canopies
  thru the stars.


  Sheldrake, a magician
  --the mandrake
  a mythic plant whose shriek
  drove listeners wild....
  this lake, Sheldrake
  and its windsong-heartswoon
  counterpart, Skootematta
  with Shabomeka &
  a whiff of Buckshot Lake to boot,
  waves lapping the
  prayerful stones--
  water's edge
  the earth's bones....
  Lakes an art-form
  hardscrabble scribble
  shorthand on a blessed land.

  The mysticism of basic shadows,
  occult shapes of ourselves.


  Crickets are a strange place,
  cricks of dew hemmed
  with hoar-frost
  mushrooming by a door.

  The glens are fashions of a loom
  eerie pads
  are nightly rooms.

  The padlocks
  remove the key
  as grass-hoppers
  keep the meadow free.

  A twilight world
  along the edge
  at rapier's length
  this light, this point
  at end of the void.


  The anger past
  as a cat arches her back
  a thickly rich robust anger
  blackest coffee in a thick
  earthen mug
  this thug & mugger with sufficient
  silk thread.

  Yet the assassin is back
  with catcalls & hiss
  cortisol adrenalin that
  lunge like that cat
  rapid-fire along the back garden fence
  this patio stroll
  my senses black.

  And time luxuriating like a thick veil.

  That dread pack with
  anger in the lead
  --what prevokes it--
  obviously really
  a pack of violent
  running lies--wolves
  hell-bent running over
  intent on deceit,
  thievery, then some.

  A narrative with a long reach.


  I saw Bear
  shopping with Santa Claus
  at the North of 7 Plaza
  only he wasn't wearing a bib--
  only a cotton-wool imitation synthetic
  polystyrene white fluffy instead.

  I saw the Bear
  gracing a wall at the
  Old Trout Lake Hotel
  (part-time job),
  looking self-satisfied,
  smug back of the Mosque Lake Road
  but a self-starter, no less,
  lacking the wherewithal, nonetheless,
  to be a serious shit-disturber
  accolades & kudos aside, still
  circus Work is hard &
  good dancing difficult to come by,
  poor dish of custard, sticky stuffed bastard.

  yet the pay-off begins
  when Bear gets home
  with only grubs in the bank
  and maggots to show
  for his life's work, alas,
  no fireworks for free
  in the big grin as you den,
  leaf-off frenzy
  witch begins October
  month of orange zen
  zip up only can ya please.


  I met Bear at the 5 n' dime
  sipping a Cream Soda
  he was voluble &
  needed to talk...
  "I got a shit-load on my mind,"
  mumbling something about some
  run-in with a Mountie--tampering
  with Crown Evidence, the purloined Honey Jar,
  in question, Jimmy Dean was there, too,
  polishing his coolness though he would
  have his own Run-In later in the evening.
  As Marilyn had left,
  I decided to forgo Bear's company,
  still slurping his Soda &
  crying into the bubbles,
  some things never change.


  The walls don't lack sincerity, here,
  or be accused of "ordinary,"
  what with the bleached remains
  of a carbon skull, a yellowing pike head
  of uncertain girth, adder-like fangs
  positioned like the Bear Head
  gasping for the night air
  one wall over or
  the old pool table
  that's seen as many games
  as ghosts fly by or drinks downed
  in the penumbra Shooters
  flaming elixir stars,
  a shooting gallery of exotica and potent portions--
  crimson Garter, Pink Panties,
  the men in this lounge live up to that
  with cigarettes bullying the air, chortles,
  one doesn't expect to see southern good ole boys
  in the North Backwoods with no 'gators
  or Biloxi Blues but a gallows to good intentions,


  ears of skeleton
  wet nose with marshmallow
  I saw the Bear leaning on
  Santa for a favor.

  Here's Bear, week's growth of beard,
  long bushy eyebrows
  still reeking of gin
  apparently wanted the penny-strapped Claus'
  to dump Rudolph,
  spray-paint his coat white
  use Bear's fleshy drinker's nose
  to lead the sleigh
  that crazy night.

  A tiff erupted
  Rudolph almost lost it
  santa ended paying Hibernation fees
  though Bear grumbled he wasn't
  bedding Next to no knot of worms garter snakes.


  Orange lichens, in sun-like clusters,
  entomb the Rockface wall
  a sheer ascent from the waterline
  into glassy viscous green---
  the plummet from skyward
  to lake face
  passes breathless squadrons
  of Dragon Flies
  --devil's Darning Needles
  threading the air
  where Wolf Spiders
  bivouac in web-castles,
  thin Draculas to their insect host
  each hairy mantle black
  with burrow moats at high watermark;
  yet unforeseen are the funnel lairs
  for bull snakes
  each water thrasher
  gracing the rotund, behemoth Rock
  lunging like a Spirit Presence up
  from this watery chalice.


  Six owlets sitting in a tree,
  six cats in effigy,
  six of both in a boat
  the leeward lives in Innisfree.

  Six women marching
  through a park,
  six lanterns at rest
  six cauldrons to
  six walking abreast.

  In the still of the morning
  I'd hazard a guess
  there's a little less.


  We all end up badly and
  it's not the season nor the salt
  rather, I suspect but type of gherkin used.

  We all end, badly, at least
  the more modest of us do.
  the old salts they dine on
  limericks anyways.

  We all end up, sadly, the distances
  and the wiles only last up,
  sideways, and barely with
  the edge-ways of a smile.

  Some of us, sadly,
  limit our losses
  call off the posse
  quit deals, the
  quicksilver steals.

  Some of us, gladly,
  surrender or catch
  a slow boat to Twillingate,
  if not willingly,
  at least painstakingly.


  Memory as embankment,
  a mudslide at High Tide
  with shades up...
  my avocado green brethren
  pleasures the soil.

  Memory as enchantment
  a Belle at a Soiree,
  pureed, Gaston at a Dinner Party.

  Napanee suggests sympathy,
  a serendipity...
  as water winders its way
  to clay in a moonlight
  turn of the bottle,
  I shall find a way.
  that's ironclad.


  I like'em ragged round the rim,
  rough drawn at dawn
  panting at the edge,
  belly-button ring
  tattooed naval
  drinking silk panties shooters,
  not much in between
  if you know
  What I mean


  Les bougies sur les tombeaux
  (The candles on the graves)
  antilles dread locks ...
  french chocolate it is not.


  A magnificent Red Devil
  splayed out in his tracks;
  this tumultuous soul, baron of the backwoods
  with his provenance unknown ...
  this compromise to individuality
  abandons him to chorome death
  under a canopy-canapé dream-coated rock dome.

  Trepanned, empire of trees, dark matter
  & a castle of leaves,
  a fish-hawk for a tomahawk
  in his thermo-cline eyes ...
  dithyrambic young osprey in the offing,
  candelabra under stars.

  Going inland for freshwater prawns,
  sandalwood and tortoiseshells
  finding bewitchment amid moving cars.


  When I was a much younger man,
  my spiritual homeland was a scrub-mile of bush with thicket
  leaves the size of your palms.

  Saucer-size holes of white air enveloped the edge of trees
  and the sky was large, an upturned pitcher
  placed upon its ears...
  edge-wise cicadas & June Beetles let out long throbs
  and the people rounded out lives between the farmhouse & the barn.
  This ennobled them and they were famously resilient and, in turn,
  redolent with firmness & the gladness of life.

  There was a Drive House, a pig pen, sheds & a chicken coop and, by
  night, stars became the earlier evening swallows gulping the space Left in
  the train of the moon. There was no one Empress of the Night anymore
  than a Prince or Kings towered across the landscape.
  Stillness and the largeness of things, predominated, and a hill cascading
  between the fields & pond held both largess and chaos in nature.

  A fence line divided the dynasties, then Regencies across an orchard
  & what seemed to many an enchanted bridge to the woods.

  It was here a boy made his stand.

  The language of rock/hillside/lakes & nettle stands like the back of my hand
  to fill a calendar wall, their musical sounds are brave arias in waves
  with sonatas first in strength, then pleasure.

  This Frontenac Axis as fortress, strong-hold, its booty lichens, moss,
  legends such as Meyer's Cave, John Meyers murdered for silver,
  Mazinaw Rock, the Mugwumps
  more water in this Davy Jones locker than all Araby,
  this wonder & merriment all strung in a violin string
  as webs of beads these lakes
  silver cistern,
  lovely listening,
  this necklace of forest wreath,
  placid leaf fingering wide-eyed watershed rich in Massasauga serpents
  like daggers in that tarn, karst topography lime-stone carapace
  Painted Turtle hemorrhaging as orange leaves in Sumac troves,
  copses as sky counts, lakes like the back of my hand ache with the wish
  I could swim them all, wallow in their own restless energy.
  Snapping Turtle Point, a pail of water and a beast three bucket sizes
  with a yellow underbelly like an alligator, claws, black raven mouth
  lunging his neck as some gladiator's sword primitive in his ferocity.
  Nigh near lacerated my hand, no wish, here, to leave digits there as new
  Finger Lakes.

  Names masculine to the touch and their roundness----Mississageon,
  Buckshot could pepper a listener or blur in seconds turning effete,
  Shabomeeka, Sharbot or learn likeness and leisure in the form of the
  lute, Kashwakemak, sound brittle----Rogue's Hollow, Marlbank,
  Lime Lake, the Claire River disappearing into a swamp & muskeg
  where one maps out one's personal Mythology--
  Napanee is and as Anthology.

  The End

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Prussian Blue" ***

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