Lunar Follies

EASTERN SEA

A Time Capsule

Here is a tin pig, sporting a blue, badly painted-on sailor jacket and beating a tin drum; he is laden with dead hopes and wet with useless tears; his imbecile grin goes well with the grey Christmas morning; here is a tin pig with a key in his back; and here a dark booth in a Brooklyn saloon, and the angels sing; in a Bronx saloon, let it snow, let it snow; in a Manhattan saloon, winter wonderland and dark eyes, the wind off the East River knifing its way through the dead, brittle park; a dark booth, a dark night, a beer garden with colored lights swaying and the smell of salt from the bay, sound of foghorns and faint bells from the distant buoys; a snap-brim fedora, pearl grey; a flagstone patio and ice-cold outdoor showers in hot sun; vacant lot; clothes from Carson Pirie Scott, Lincoln Road, Phil Kronfeld, pulled from their exquisite boxes with sour, grudging acceptance, spoiled, soft, rich, expensive and poisoned and damned; a Bulova watch smashed in the middle of Avenue A; nickel-plated 0.38 Smith and Wesson revolver in a drawer under silk boxer shorts; slacks from Brooks Brothers, tweed jackets from Hart Schaffner and Marx, lighters by Dunhill, cursed, cursed, and, by Christ, cursed again; vacant lot; the sunlight in vast, smoky bars slathering the floor of Penn Station, all aboard for Miami Beach; a navy dress with white polka dots, white heels, white crocheted gloves, sad face; a Manhattan, a Martini, a Jack Rose, a Clover Club, a Whiskey Sour, a Sazerac, a Sidecar, whiskey, whiskey, gin, rum, quiet laughter at the bar, the snow beginning to fall, and nobody ceaselessly drunk will ever die; bitter cold, concrete platforms piled with freight bound for Jersey, painfully cold wind off the North River, smell of blood and death from the slaughterhouses, a pint of Carstairs for succor; dark eyes; vacant lot; New Year’s Eve hotel room, snow falling past the windows into the Brooklyn Heights streets, poor butterfly, she smiles through her tears; bottle of Worcestershire on the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, bowl of salad, platter of broken heart and acid soul; the old witch in the cellar swigging from a jug of warm Manhattans, the stupid girl; beautiful scarves from John David, silk and cashmere; bewildered face in the mirror, no one will ever die; vacant lot; strong tanned legs and dazzling white shorts; the taste of scotch on Christmas Eve, smoky neighborhood bar, the usual Christmas tunes on the jukebox; orange dress, scent of Conte Castile and subtle flowers exotic in a strange apartment, a white brassiere on a copy of Life, hello young lovers, goodbye young lovers, take it easy young lovers, wise up young lovers; Dear John I’ll send your saddle home, you dumb fuck, with mixed emotions; letter read and folded, read and folded, read and folded, oh fuck her!; a bag of old pots and pans, pitiful; soft mounting roar in the thin clear October sunlight of Ebbets Field; Cadillac Fleetwood limousine and English Ovals and shadow-striped gabardine suits and Borsalino hats and a gold Dunhill; vacant lot; dark lake shining in moonlight; dark pubic hair in a perfect V; moonlight perfume, distant tenors, “Miss Thing”; a chocolate-brown wool worsted suit, black onyx teardrop earrings; the hush before the band thrillingly attacks “Ice Freezes Red,” the hush before the tenor edges into the first notes of “Three Little Words,” these are men, men!; a martini, and another martini, and yes another martini, and another goddamn fucking martini, the breakfast of champions!; drunken face in the mirror, pale and sickly, ginger snaps and Four Roses will do it every time, fuckhead; clams on the half-shell, a beer garden, sad foghorns from the Narrows, sad? colored lights and the taste of the sea; a dead woman; a dead man; another dead woman, the smell of corruption beneath the thick scent of flowers; vacant lot; dark pubic V; a dead turkey in the sink, a crate of grapefruit in the bathtub; sixty grand lost on ten the hard way, easy come; Jimmy Gent off at 8 to 5 at Hialeah, running in the mud and out of the money, easy go; pizzaiola, white clam sauce, cannoli, sfogliatelle, and a t’ick minestrone; many, oh many a teardrop may fall; ice frozen red, granita like razzberry, right?; “Ko-Ko”; a bottle of Thunderbird, of Gypsy Rose, some Dexedrine, some Benzedrine, sweltering in Queens, the Bird on ice, you bet your ass, dead as a doornail, as hell, as shit, it’s all in the game, it’s life; faded khaki shirt, red deuce, Pfc stripes, faded khaki pants; a porch in Flatbush; the Fifth Symphony and Bullmoose Jackson, the “Jupiter” and Savannah Churchill, time out for tears; Camels and Lucky Strikes; oh, pregnant girl with trembling lip, whosoever fucketh you hath done took a powder; the Ninth Symphony; a bowlegged woman, that’s all!; sunlight on the empty beach, sails on the Sound, tight black bathing suit, cool cottage under trees, love, your magic spell is everywhere; Herbert Tareytons, grey Persian lamb, diaphanous white scarf, white tablecloths, and bread sticks; a pack of Chelseas, Virginia Rounds, Twenty Grands, Sweet Caporals, and Wings; old man falling off a chair toward good old Death, patiently waiting, faithful forever, and, oh yes, a hard worker, the roof scenically behind him as he falls, the tar gleaming stickily in the hot spring sun; a tin pig, a woman in brassiere and step-ins, silk stockings and tears, afraid to, afraid to what?; vacant lot; it’s all in the game; and strangers, unfamiliar women, weeping bitterly at the casket; flowers, flowers, the flowers.