THE SULTAN
errol miller
A powerful black light
flickers in my dramatic poems
trembles, then departs, streaming
down my legs to dissolve in Southern dust
it is a second season for inhaling the scent of roses
on an afternoon of sweet spore-like vowels soaking
in the mouths of ladies done up for literature
from West Virginia the wind seems to move
over the earth in search of death's hideaway
down the hallway Jason plays his harmonica
blue notes of mild euphoria sift to the bottom
of rum-soaked mattresses in sad hotels
a private world screaming in my ear
suppose I washed the Aircastle windows
released a little prayer for guidance, this
alternate route to muddy alluvial Zion
clogged with Buicks with dented fenders
of course it is autumn on Long Island
Gatsby's rented painted maidens
prancing far past three a.m.
the silhouette of New York City glowing
like Atlanta's Union fire, look
at the shadowy figures shaped like people
waiting for the ferry boat, for Doomsday
shooting off priceless to the stars
they'll never pay another dime to government
wherever the process of death and decay begins
a man remembers, a rather pretentious look
over material pretty things, the land
enduring, of course, and music
and the white-oak tress of Dixie
but the honeysuckle's, if they
are to comfort us, must perish with us
in that powerful beacon sliding
down to snake-eyes where
no thief can then repent nor
varmint of night endure.
