DEAD DRUNK
In Memoriam William Cannastra, 1924-1950
For Winifred Gregoire
1
And the muddy glasses on the floor stinking of stale beer and smelly
red wine
And the wreath of crisp dead ivy decorating the loft floor grave
And the senile remains of a rice and lamb hearts casserole on top of
the great rusty stove
And a welter of theologians and script girls on the huge triple bed in
the come that confounds the just and the apathetic
And the garbage man sleeping alone on a little truckle bed
in
the
comer
And the hum of the Hi-Fi nobody remembered to switch off
And the smashed victrola record sprawling helpless at the foot of
many accusing intact albums
And the indefatigable book reviewer sucking a spent athlete on an
off-center divan
And the eyeglasses the empty bottles the books the draughtsman's tools
the blank sheets of paper the dead letters
And the host supine staring brown-eyed at the Everest ceiling of his
over-tenanted loft.
2
But once the ivy lived
Wrapping the warm brown naked body in tendrils of
vivaciou~
green
As it danced through gray and hostile streets
Joy to the world or at least
The moment's festivity,
Pan.
For pipes a gramophone
Glasses for hoofs keynote a face that entices all the others' need
To be tender, hot, expansive to
Giveless mirages that crave
And crave in a vacuum
Graves.
