The Devil Take the Hindmost

I like the kinds of poems

we used to use

to pry the young girls from

their porches.

Write me one of those, Mr.

Scratch.

This Poem is a Prayer

This poem is a prayer.

It wears that hat lightly.

You may be forgiven

if you cannot perceive the

devotion with which it

was crafted. But words

are goo. Ideas are balloons.

The desire to craft a

hopeful design fails at

the outset. And still for

Chloe these things are

built and built again

because we wish to emend

the world for her, some-

thing honorable and fool-

ish. Something dishonorable

and brave. And when it

breaks down, as it must, the

prayer, one hopes, will

still be there like residue.

The Plot to Kidnap Stonehenge

1

Randolph—Good morning, Sir.

Merlin—Morning?  Hmph, is it?

Randolph—Indeed, Sir.

Merlin—Breakfast then.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.  Soft-boiled quail eggs, dry toast, a banger.

Merlin—Quite.

Randolph—I’ll let you eat in peace.

Merlin—Wait, Randolph.  Mm, this quail’s egg…um, tell me, what’s on the agenda today?

Randolph—Full day, as usual.  Perhaps moreso than yesterday or tomorrow, as the case may be.

Merlin—This living backwards.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—What’s up first?

Randolph—Let’s see (rattling pages)…9 a.m., the King’s mandolin lesson.

Merlin—Poor Wart.  He’s horrible, of course.  Well, that shouldn’t take long.  He gets frustrated quickly, smashes instrument and we have to send for another.  Ok.  Then?

Randolph—You have an eleven o’clock with Mordred, Sir.

Merlin—Oh, hell.  That little eelshit.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—Do you have any idea what that’s about?

Randolph—No, Sir.  No idea.  He seemed quite hot to see you.

Merlin—Of course, he did.  Why doesn’t he take this up with Wart, er, Arthur?  I’m not the fucking king.

Randolph—No, Sir.

Merlin—He’s afraid of Arthur, of course.

Randolph—So it seems.

Merlin—Well, see if we can wiggle out of that one, eh?

Randolph—Um, yes, Sir.

Merlin—Problem?

Randolph—Mr. Mordred, Sir.  He can be so unpleasant.

Merlin—Oh, fie and damnation.  All right.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin--What else?  Give me something to look forward to today, Randolph.  Mm, this banger is especially succulent.

Randolph—There’s Guinevere at 1, Sir.

Merlin—Ah.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—She is one spicy little queen, isn’t she, Randolph?

Randolph—I’ve heard tell, Sir.

Merlin—A regular nymphomaniac.

Randolph—I cannot speak so plain, of course.

Merlin—Just between us, eh?  Randolph?  Have you ever seen a better ass?

Randolph—(blushing) No, Sir.  No, I haven’t.

Merlin—She fucks like a wild animal, Randolph.

Randolph—Indeed, Sir?

Merlin—Gets on you and moves that great behind around.  Ah.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—Well, that’s something to look forward to anyway.  Lancelot must be away?

Randolph—No, Sir.  He’s about.

Merlin—And she still wants Old Merlin, eh?  That little minx.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

2

Merlin—Come in, Mordred.  How are things in Cornwall?

Mordred—(bowing) Quite satisfactory, Merlin.  Rain, lots of rain.

Merlin—What is one to do, eh?  Everyone talks about the weather—

Mordred—Of course, you could do something about it.

Merlin—You sweet-talk.

Mordred—Not at all.

Merlin—So, what’s on your nefarious, little mind this morning?  Why so passionate to see Old Merlin?

Mordred—Off the record?

Merlin—If you wish.

Mordred—I have a plan.  A monumental plan.  Something that will make Camelot great.

Merlin—Camelot is already great.

Mordred—Well, the word on the street (here, Mordred lays a finger beside his nose) is that the whole Round Table idea is old hat.  There’s talk of the Queen’s concupiscence.  Many say Arthur isn’t the King he used to be.

Merlin—Blasphemy.

Mordred—Yet, there it is.  Covetousness, perhaps, but the word on the street…

Merlin—Right, right.  What is this plan?

Mordred—Well.  (Mordred moves slightly closer while Merlin unconsciously moves slightly away.)  Perhaps you’ve heard of the Irish Giants?

Merlin—So.

Mordred—They’re Giants.  And they live in Ireland.

Merlin—Get on with it.

Mordred—Well, word has it that they have built something.  Something miraculous, full of marvel and portent.

Merlin—The clock thing.

Mordred—(after a pause)  Perhaps.  A clock?  Perhaps.

Merlin—An astrological clock.

Mordred—You continue to impress.

Merlin—I hear things.

Mordred—This is no ordinary clock.  It is mammoth, built of bluestone and hand-carved  sarsen-rock.  And it stands a full ten men high, with lintels weighing 5 tons.

Merlin—Indeed.  Well, there are wonders in the world.  What has this to do with us, Mordred?  (Merlin is impatient thinking of the afternoon tryst with the Queen.)

Mordred—We can make it ours.

Merlin—(Surprisingly taken aback) Ours?  Well, that wouldn’t sit well with the fucking Giants, would it?

Mordred—They wouldn’t know what him them.  You spirit it away.  Whoosh!  You can do it, Merlin, only you can do it.

Merlin (hand to chin, rubbing furiously)—As much as it pains me to say this, I’m interested in what you propose, Mordred.

Mordred—Thank you, Sir.  It will be greater, more mystifying than your Cerne Abbas Giant.

Merlin—A good jape, that. 

Mordred—That it is.

Merlin—Fucking Giants, eh?  What?

Mordred—Exactly.

Merlin--Where would we put the damn thing?

Mordred—Well, there’s this nice space on Salisbury Plain.  Lots of ground, slight promontory, nice long path for an entranceway.  Some shrubbery.

Merlin—Salisbury, yes.  Yes, that might work.

Mordred—Thank you, Sir.

Merlin—What’s in it for you, Mordred?

Mordred—The pride of Camelot.

Merlin—Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.

Mordred—Well, I would want a finder’s fee.

Merlin—Ah.

3

Merlin—My Queen.

Guinevere—Are we alone?

Merlin—Quite, my Queen.

Guinevere—Ok, drop the “My Queen” crap and undo that robe.

Merlin—You little minx.  (He opens his voluminous gown.) Where is Lancelot?

Guinevere—Jealousy doesn’t become you, my Naked Necromancer.

Merlin—It’s only that, well, never mind.

Guinevere—Never mind, indeed.  That’s quite a stout birch-branch, you’ve got there, Magician.

Merlin—You’ve never complained before.  Unclothe thyself, my dear.

Guinevere—Make yourself young first.

Merlin—Oh, stuff and incense.  Here then.

Guinevere—Yipes.  I love those pecs, my Lothario. (She slips out of her silks.)

Merlin—And you turn around and let me see it.  The Royal Rear.

Guinevere—You rascally conjurer. (She turns and bends slightly at the waist.)  Here ‘tis.

Merlin—Holy cats, My Queen.  That is a formidable fundament.

Guinevere—And that is a thick staff.  Is it legerdemain or tribute to my pallid backside?

Merlin—.  Ah, Guin.  It’s all for you, my pretty.  As round as Norval’s shield, as white as Albion moonlight, as alabastrine as the cliffs of Dover.

Guinevere—Flatterer.  Bring that bludgeon here.

Afterwards

Guinevere—Ah, Merlin, no one quite fucks like an archimage.

Merlin—You’re not bad yourself, Toots.

Guinevere—That part where you turned briefly into a bull.

Merlin—Unintentional.

Guinevere—Inspired.

Merlin—Thank you.

Guinevere—Now, my horny magus.  What is this I hear about a granite moon-mirror?

Merlin—Bah!  Are there no secrets in Camelot?

4

Randolph—Good morning, Sir.

Merlin—Morning?  Mmmph.  What day is it?

Randolph—Thursday.

Merlin—Thursday.  (He shakes his hoary head.)  What happened to Friday?

Randolph—You slept through it, Sir.

Merlin—Indeed.  It’s very confusing.

Randolph—It is.  You were powerful tired, my Lord.

Merlin—Indeed, I was.

Randolph—Well, anyway, Sir.  Light schedule today.

Merlin—Fine, fine.

Randolph—The King at 10.  He wants to congratulate you on the piece of art you erected on Salisbury Plain.

Merlin—It’s not a fucking piece of art.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—It’s a timepiece.  An astrological wonderment—oh, never mind.  If you have to explain magic it loses its, its…

Randolph—Luster, Sir?

Merlin—Precisely.

Randolph—At any rate, it is the talk of the town, Sir.

Merlin—Well and good.

Randolph—Mordred is taking credit left and right for it, of course.

Merlin—I’m going to turn that turncoat into a stoat.

Randolph—Quite right, Sir.

Merlin—After all is said and done, we have it now, don’t we?  It’s ours.  It’s Britain’s.

Randolph—Rightfully so, Sir.

Merlin—Can’t help feeling a little guilty over the Irish though.

Randolph—Send them some rainbows, Sir.

Merlin—Randolph, you have a keen grasp of International Politics.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.

Merlin—And it’s popular, eh?

Randolph—Quite.  I hear the tourist trade is up 37% in just one week.  There’s talk of an inn, a roadway, and a couple of food stands.

Merlin—Good, good.  An unequivocal hit, then.

Randolph—Ye-es.

Merlin—You seem hesitant.

Randolph—There was a suggestion about the entranceway, lining it with topiary in the shapes of the Twelve.

Merlin—Inappropriate.

Randolph—Yes, and, well the name, Sir?

Merlin—Yes.

Randolph—Some people want to call it something else.  Woodhenge was such a bust, there’s talk that we need a catchier moniker for this one.

Merlin—Hm.  I’ll think on it, Randolph.

Randolph—Quite right, Sir.

Merlin—Anything else?

Randolph—I hesitate to mention it, Sir.

Merlin—Randolph.

Randolph—Well, the blood sacrifices, Sir.  Some people are taking exception to them.

Merlin—Nitpickers.

Randolph—Yes, Sir.  There’s also talk about Avebury wanting one, too.

Merlin—Imitation is the sincerest form, eh, Randolph?

Randolph—Quite, Sir.

Merlin—(striking his forehead)  The Giant’s Dance!

Randolph—Sir?

Merlin—For the name.

Randolph—Ah.  Quite euphonious.

Merlin—Oh, and Randolph, is the Queen about?

Randolph—Yes, Sir.

Merlin—Can we squeeze her in before the King?

Randolph—(allowing himself a small smile)  I believe so, Sir.

Merlin—Tell her I am ready to show her the Bull again.

Randolph—The Bull, sir?

Merlin—She’ll understand.  The Bull, Randolph.

Randolph—Yes, sir.

Nothing Matters

Nothing matters

yet still

I rise

and step from the tub,

half dry off,

find my glasses

abandoned on the

chair over which

I hung my pants,

scrabble for

pen and paper,

and steady myself

on the towel rack,

to write this down.

And Zooey Deschanel’s Eyes

Awakened by the horoscope

I boot up as if for camp.

There is a screen there. It

keeps nothing out or in.

I love the screen, its messages,

its duende. I can find a cure

for almost anything. I can

fall to pieces in poesies. Or

I can fall into Zooey Deschanel’s

eyes. And wake again to

the dream, every night, the one

about the other place, the

reality where this all happens

twice. Once to you and once to

all the lit-up strangers. Amen.

Poem found in Bluefield Woods

            “One would have fancied that the genii of romance were illuminating their underground palaces to receive the sons of men.”

                                    --Jules Verne

In Bluefield Woods

we were children.

The ravines may as well

have led to Hell.

Or at least to the Center

of the Earth

where dinosaurs waited.

We hid in the cane.

We spit and swore and

shot off our guns.

Bobby was a prince among

us. We knew it

even then, though we knew

little else.

In rain, snow, infernal heat,

Bluefield Woods

was our refuge.

The land was owned by the man

who invented

Fleer bubble gum. This

is what we understood.

He still had an outhouse

on his property.

We thought it a land at

least as exotic

as the Center of the Earth.

And when I found

a poem there,

in the muck,

folded as if in shame,

a poem written by a man,

a love poem to

a mystery woman,

I thought it the most farfetched

of treasure maps.

What poet wandered once

in Bluefield Woods?

It was a puzzle then

as it is now

all these years hence.

The woods are gone now,

of course, as

is the poem, as are all the

dreams we had

as we hiked around together,

young Muirs.

Most of us made it here,

into the next century,

that’s the happy

ending, though,

for that, it is not an ending.

In our fifties now,

out of the woods, we are

into life’s tender

stream, with children

of our own, some of us.

I hear from Bobby still,

every once in

a while, a brief email

that lets me know

he’s still around, still aware.

I want to ask him

now about the poem

I found in Bluefield Woods.

But I don’t.

Such things as poetry, as

sexual longing,

as mystery women who engender

such things,

seem foolish, as foolish

as our immature bluster.

And when I write a poem of

my own

I still hope that I am

up to the task,

the one begun by some long

ago hiker in

Bluefield Woods, the task

we are all given,

to reconcile past and future,

to resolve not to solve

the mysteries

but to enumerate them,

given to us each

and all,

if lucky, if cursed by desire.

"Listen to me.  I want to tell you something very important.  All of writing is a huge lake.  There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.  And there are trickles like Jean Rhys.  All that matters is feeding the lake.  I don’t matter.  The lake matters. "           

                             --Jean Rhys