7469. THE SAILOR IS A BLUR

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.'