Immolation Row

By Tony Sanders

IMMOLATION ROW is a book-length poem in free verse, which is an extended
interior monologue. In its freewheeling, unpredictable manner, the poem is as
much a fugue as anything approaching objectivity. One door opened leads to
another and another. Sometimes the tone is somber, sometimes playful, but
throughout the book, the language is always engaging. The aim of the poet is not
objectivity, but demonstrate the sense of wonder people can find in a world of
uncertainty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493165643

Book preview

CONTENTS

IMMOLATION ROW

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I must not see myself heretofore and forget

To speak to the folks I don’t know

To cry out without being heard

For nothing all alone

I know the whole earth and each of your steps

I would like to recount something but nobody’s tuned in

Their heads and eyes turn away from me

Toward night

My head is a full and heavy orb

Which rolls on the ground with little din

*     *     *

Every one dances lightly

Between sky and earth

But a ray of light’s come

From the lamp which you’ve overlooked turning off

On the landing

Ah this is not over

Forgetting is not finished

And I still must learn to know myself

—Pierre Reverdy

(from Toujours Là)

IMMOLATION ROW

—for my children

I came here of my own accord,

Delirium was multi-faceted,

But single-minded without a purpose,

The sly blue of the pilot lights agreed,

So détente was domestic with a hitch

That stays with you like a boiled potato

In your dominant pocket.

Right-hand man,

Don’t you filibuster with me, don’t lie

In the hammock predicated on fear

Of Saturdays queued up like abandoned

Warehouse windows in dead mill towns,

The late day shadows gnawing at your temples

As if it were the north end of Boston

Or France.

The compass was confused

Or jealous over the elegance of watch fobs,

The deep history always bearing a weakness

For vest pockets and pantaloons.

Remedy was a destination and vice versa,

And that was saying something about the kitsch

Disbelievers at bus stops and pharmacists

In pince-nez peering over the counter

After midnight those times when gastritis

Or some surly relative ruled.

Nobody

Speaks of the operating expense of sadness

As if it were an STD or collect call

From so-and-so without a name.

The past is littered with harbingers,

Yesterday’s humdingers destined to become

Today’s peanut gallery. Who could guess

Shadows could be flexible and light rigid.

A hybrid chiaroscuro thing

Until

Somebody pulled the plug, the room darkened

And there we were, left to our own designs,

Twiddling thumbs while contemplating

Big thoughts, erstwhile knee-slappers

Subject to ridicule while in our hearts

We knew mischief in the wake of misery

Was subterfuge. Alas,

The roses in the vase,

The painted ones, thanks to Korea,

Wilted, albeit not to say there’s not charm

In elegy, minute elegy. Who could predict

Growing timid and changing shirts

After the long life of carousing would matter?

A platter of scrambles and hash browns?

The warehouse look in your eyes?

The truth of the matter is the eglantine

Aroma arrives at the most ungodly moment,

What else is there to do but tip your cap

In deference to your plight,

How long you choose to circumnavigate

Pro Bono is your business, as is

The fetching sight of a ladle in bean soup,

Would there ever be a dearth of crime stoppers

And heartthrobs vying for attention

While Fido dozed and some semblance

Of harmony fooled us for a sec.?

Goodness,

Weren’t we due at the ordination of waking

Long ago, what was the big rally in the square

About anyway?

Even running commentary has its faults,

We should be so lucky as to have the wherewithal

To talk ourselves through the haunting

Ataxia that throws us on our backsides

Each time the grainy solution

Starts narrowing into focus with the randy truth:

Chide me for I have erred, Lord knows

Who tossed the spirit template into the fire,

But it didn’t burn. Life in the middle

Is an organizational hazard, it’s the bookends

With their hoary ordnung that guide us,

Keep up looking forward and backward

Like bobble heads.

Perspective is always unsung

Until it lurches forth with old show tunes

Of personal info better left under the rug,

What else is there to do but wince and take your licks

As the simoom sears your feelings, leaves you

Hot and bothered at some one’s mercy

If you’re lucky! Experts would say to leave off pining

Too much, lest your sang-froid melt

Into an unseemly puddle visible to neighbors

And innocent passersby, and you never

Want to be stuck in the predicament of a window

With no shades, though, brace yourself,

Been there, done that is the norm where we hail from.

Until the master steps down

We’re on trial by jury through no fault of our own,

And while we’re reduced to passing hasty notes in secret,

Being riveted to the party line buys time

To chit-chat about the soon-to-be-relevant merits of plan B.

There were once start-up wineries in the mind

And the immigrant vintners anointed you

As the inside story, any semblance

Of a game plan was mere coincidence.

You were embowered,

And late

Afternoon’s empty airport-like