olson: interlude

olson

dog-pricked swede of a man
he, too, back from the morgue,
hears about mina loy’s gig down in san antone,
heard plenty from pound in the bin, but
never got near the mina flesh, he’s just
second string modern, even if he is
first string in the post.

olson

takes a cab out of gloucester
to hell with maximus
hops a two-stop out of logan on southwest
inks the flight mag crossword while
the other tenants stash the overheads.
down time in dc, thinks of dorothy
shakespeare again, inscrutable buddha-dot, while
her asshole husband spit on about kikes,
douglass scrip, il duce, laughlin and creekmore
over at new directions, why the bollingen
hadn’t ponied up for the cantos, but
always, as sure as ruth rounding third
all 714 times, always
mina in the flesh
all mina in all flesh
like fucking venus
harlow turner even pickford when
she wasn’t primping for the screen, and
who’s the new chick not an ounce of grey
matter in her head – gardner
momma’s boy olson wants to deck the sandy-
faced bastard, throwing looks of commiz at dorothy
who finally pulls him aside, sez
“lighten up
except for the poetry, that mina shit’s like
all the rest
it ain’t real
his dick’s as worthless as his vouchers.”

olson

who’d walk the atlantic if he could,
walks the miles from
san antonio international to the
old woodlawn theater,
pushes on the plywood door,
crossed out actor’s studio sign sez
vietnamese food on wednesdays
drooling man film series fridays,
it’s tuesday,
steps back to see if there are third floor lacey
curtains, figures mina even in south texas
for lace:
no lace, no third floor,
people don’t live over in south texas.

olson

six strides across fredericksburg road,
ducks in the door of hoa’s buffet,
non southeast asian
slickbacked earringed white boy sez
“buffet or menu?”
olson shakes his wooly head, points:
“you do the wednesday thing?”
jake shakes back,
“she didn’t like our heat,”
how hot could she be she
didn’t like the heat thinks he,
sits down, jake comps an all
you can eat so hot olson
bleeds sweat, gets him through
a cold night’s walking.
maximus mind swells
graffiti strung like jewels
fat diego murals of the street
blind man walking after midnight sez
“hop along jack no place for man of
your size;” before olson can ask
throws back “cuz i can smell it, jack;”
no surprise, the churches downtown
are all locked up,
god’s hours are 9 to 5.
lights at the mercado
mariachis under a blue cold moon
christmas avalanche at mi tierra, jake spots him
from his booth of aftershift cervezas,
spots him a chorizo and eggs,
even olson knows it’s shit
food for the turistas, sez “why?”
“it’s the lights, man,” sez jake, but that’s not what olson
means, he means why the free food
“cuz,” sez jake – throws him a look sez you gotta ask? –
“cuz you’re olson, right?”
olson forgets his manners (and sense), throws him back
“and what would you know working in a—“
forgetting whitman at the p.o.
pound in the bin
eliot behind the grill of bank and trust
the levine cat at ford rouge
christ even himself in federal blue
stomping the streets of mighty gloucester—
jake cuts back with “and where else am
i gonna pay the bills, you ungrateful asshole,” but
shakes out a light to smooth it over,
back under the mariachi moon asks
“where can i drop you then?”
olson crushes him to his chest, grins big, sez
“you think i wrote maximus behind the wheel and
no i don’t want company.”

olson

wakes to a pointed toe
prodding his ribs
“you didn’t piss here i hope,” sez
the woman with the toe,
silver and copper hair under soft black
drips of blood red ruby from her lobes,
no leaves, no body for leaves, old woman—
but eyes to strip him bare.
he’s on his bad knees
creaking his way to standing up
the lunar baedeker thinks he’s begging
“i won’t have it,” sez she, turns to the small brown man behind her
“turn him out, Van.”
karate kid meets leviathan -