You son of a whore,
you goddamned arrogant bastard,
all your money pissed away,
again and again,
vagrant and on the move
your locomotion never stops,
travel never gets old
and vagabondage becomes
a rhombus;
Paris to Vienna
to the Schwarzwald,
to Moscow, to mermen,
ending on an island paradise;
idylls of an
out and out scoundrel,
a picturesque rogue,
leaving his life,
his skirmishes
on the road and
of his own free will,
coming to peace at last.
What a life!
Melchior comes juggling
along life’s distorted turnpike,
his cloak, a crust of wool,
disappears around a corner,
but like an architrave,
supporting and adorning,
Melchior, our low water,
our ebb tide,
our luck, reappeareth!
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Along this road
his breastplate creaks and
squeaks, debased from
too much hard use;
a skillful soldier,
a better captain, but
bad decisions among
gentle folk folded him up;
a bungled passage,
a few hasty words and
departure was final.
Skipping out in the night,
the moon is reticent
and behind closed doors
what goes on is
nobody’s business and
no help to this wanderer;
no charitable souls
in God’s light or livery
live here.
Melchior strides on like
the dragoon he never was,
ramps comically and
catching some
dumb country lass,
retires at last with a sphinx
who stinks of more than knowledge;
in the morning her lovely
stone arms hold no more than
the billow of Melchior’s bedclothes.
He left hours ago,
marching across the inhospitable heath;
his intent lasted to a satisfying root,
a roll in the hay and
no goodbyes;
doesn’t have the time.
These adventures come in flocks,
and what in all the world,
what in all the world
is as real as the red herrings
thrown across his meandering trail,
in the windings of his ways,
and windy, too, from too
many open windows,
too many getaways;
no time for introspection
in the heat of the moment.
Melchior whispering in the
grey ears of Death, it’s not time
yet, it’s not, but Melchior’s fears
assume oracular importance;
on his snorting horse
he rides hard, rides on and on;
any delay may pitch him down.
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The poetry of the moment given
to the most Fabian of his
lights of love,
the best of all his rare birds and
clear-toned canaries;
let her do with it
what she wants,
speak clear-toned vowels
never before heard
in any of the lands he saw,
the cities and villages he visited;
like a Bengal tiger raging and
shifting his line of march,
like a beggar, too,
when occasion demanded.
This is the end.
An island of peace,
a romance of fate and abdication.
Before we resume our
various hyperborean tasks,
let us pay some respect
to this scoundrel, this devourer,
this waster, this wanderer;
let us be warm and friendly
all the livelong day
to his memory,
to a man
not afraid to go his own way,
large bold unpredictable,
who performed tawdry wonders,
who had his luck,
good and bad,
and laughed at it.
Let a last percussion of
prima-donnas shout loud
the glad verbiage of
approbation and love;
glory, glory, glory,
in excelsis,
Melchior,
cog and wheel,
type and terminal of
the armies of disorganized chance.
Melchior, props we are
and we know it,
not necessary for your support,
but in your unwritten reports
signal us sometimes,
put us in your island scrapbook,
for we, too, trace your footsteps
and this, too, Melchior, remember
delusion we do and deceit,
when the harpoon of doomsday
pierces our gloomy backs.
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