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| VACILLANT TIDE - Mark McGrain | ||
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Bumbershoots sprout from a bamboo’s potted stand, guarding the entrance to a water shed ambush. Break-wall harboring thoughts lost to the sea, near forgotten loves in far forbidden ports. Rain gushes off rooftops, splashing hard upon Chartres Street, a refill, poured freely of a suitor’s crimson cup: "The money," you whisper, "is nothing but for wine and reefer, and pornography spilled out upon the living room floor." |
Spilled out upon this table of cool, clear marble, porcelain bud vase erect, as thoughts heave heavily, drowned deep beneath a dank and darkened breast. I burst wildly into the street, dodging down-spouts, luring flooded storm drains like a raging torrent upon Jackson Square, Mimes and Tarot readers sent helplessly washing downstream in the swift and furious current. But the bells of Saint Louis Cathedral clang a merciful beacon: fending shipwrecks, channeling safe passage to those whose fortunes float patiently bobbing on the quieted surface of a hushed, still vacillant tide. |
