THE SAILOR IS A BLUR
The sailor is a blur, for he does not come,
rather just arrives here, passing through
while all around him everything else is
solid with lines, life, and motion.
I am looking at this picture as if for the first
time : my memory see itself, back out, from
the hidden vacuum where it may have been.
All this reads as such : 'Outcast Girls, Naked
Realism, Female Sex, Tricks of the Trade, Revealing,
Intimate Secrets, Cardinals, Mayfair, Ascot
Technicolor, the Most Colossal Ever, Life,
Homeless Girls On the Make, Whisper, Wink,
Sunbathing, Quo Vadis, No Shame.' There is
a 1956 bus at idle. Plymouth taxi-cabs sweep
by - fat and bulbous - and the 1952 Chevrolet
truck decides to sit in traffic, shiny, black.
Oh, I guess it's all there. Times Square of a sort with
'neon, high heels, lipstick, jitney cabs, the cigarette
guy blowing smoke through the billboard, the electronic
wraparound headlines : Plane Crash; World Series; Riots!!!'
It is very quiet now, so much time later. I am staring
carefully at a picture. A Chopin Sonata plays in the
background - Opus something or other, better known,
she says, as 'The Funeral March.'