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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
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Posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989
Purple haze phantoms
Glide like musical echoes,
Frenzied phantom feedback
Of music less heard
Than seen,
Spectral sonic wraiths
Sliding
All along
The watchtower
As I spy
With electrified eyes
A trippy vision
Of hippie heaven,
An acid flashback
From ’69
Made lovely
Lovely flesh,
A radiant psychedelic
Fever dream
That must be
On the lam
From a skull
That still remembers
The moist mud
In Max Yasgur’s
Alfalfa field,
Still hears the soaring
Roar
Of Jimi’s daybreak
Woodstock anthem,
Still wanders
The labyrinthine byways
Of the Haight
With the ghostly footsteps
Of an Age of Aquarius banshee
Who wails
Like a Fender Stratocaster
Guitar.She’s wrapped in
Wide candy stripes
Of hot pink and tangerine
From neck to navel,
Clad in hip-hugging
Bell bottoms
Patched at the knees
With paisley swatches
Of emerald green and
Electric blue,
The denim
Cascade of her long
Long legs
Ending
In bare feet
So tiny
They look pilfered
From a china doll.
Her long blond hair
Falls so very straight
To her delicate shoulders
Where it pools
Like swirls
Of gilded rainwater
Before sluicing
Down
Her slender arms,
And a gauzy scarf
Of sunburst orange,
Tied across
Her pale brow
Like a gypsy queen’s
Tiara,
Sets off
Blue ice eyes
That have just
Caught my own.And we move
In sleek glissandos
Across the floor
Of Nancy’s apartment,
Deaf
To the party’s
Orchestral cacophony,
Two lonely notes
Both seeking comfort
In a soaring
Shared chord,
Her gaze moving
Up and down me
Like fingers
Skating along
Steel strings,
Flashing a visual version
Of the sweet sad rawness
Of quavering
Delta blues slide guitar
As her pupils
Caress the splintered frets
Of my worn black
Leather motorcycle jacket,
Hold a vibrating
High note
As she cocks her head,
Madonna of the lava lamp’s
Rippling Holy Ghosts,
To pluck her pick
Across
My “London Calling” t-shirt,
To strum
My ratty
Paint-splattered jeans
As if the ruptured
And dangling
Strands of fabric
At the knees
Were an urban urchin’s
Stigmata,
To strike
Seismic sparks
Off my steel-toed
Harley boots
Before sending a
Blast of blessed feedback
Skyward
Like a sharp whiff
Of aural incense
When she reaches
Out and runs her hand
Through the buzzing
Spiky cluster
Atop my head
And says,
“Excuse me,
May I blow
Your mind?”And I exhale
A call-and-response
Chorus
Of Marlboro reds
Smoke,
Watching her
Watch
The tendrils curl and
Drift like Magical Mystery Tour
Mist
Across my pale
Blue sky eyes,
Twin puddles
Of rainwater
On an asphalt
Apparition
Draped in black.
“Consider it blown,”
Smiles my midnight sky
To her iridescent rainbow,
Thoroughly charmed
By her unexpected
Soft Southern drawl.
“Trés groovy look,”
I continue,
“Sweet Saint Janis
Would be so proud,
Flower chile.”But suddenly
I realize
That my last lyric
Has struck
Some undetected
Soft spot,
And I perceive
A sudden
Uncertainty,
A shudder
Of stage fright
That rattles her performance
As if she’s forgotten
The next verse
And the spotlight’s
Now far too bright.
She clutches
At the bright gauze
Snaked around
Her tresses,
As if embarrassed by
This flashy falsetto echo
Of
A time
When neither of us
Was even born.
“Do you think
It’s too much?”
She asks,
Her drawl deepening,
Her teeth nervously
Working the lip
Of her plastic beer cup,
As she drops
A heartbreakingly gorgeous
And keenly felt
Note of vulnerability
To the floor slats,
Where it shatters
Into blue-tinged shards
Worthy
Of Bessie Smith.And I hear her
With new ears,
A teenaged
Lost lamb
Playing the flamboyant
Lion,
Treading carefully
Along the kinds
Of switchblade streets
They don’t have
South of
The Mason-Dixon Line,
And I imagine her
Raiding
The thrift shops
That punctuate the Village
Like time warp drops
Of coffee-house coolness
And long-lost
Summer of Love
Be-ins,
Assembling the
Hip persona
She thinks she needs
To acquire
To strut in the footlights
Of the city’s set piece
With a beatnik’s
Laid-back maximum chill.“I think you look beautiful,”
I say,
Surprised at the absence
Of irony
In my voice.
I wave my left hand
At Nancy’s couch.
Which looks lumpy
From too much lovin’
On sultry
New York
Afternoons
When even the streets
Are in heat.
And we’re taking a seat
When Jen,
My editor
At the university’s
Student newspaper,
Plods our way,
Uninvited and
Shrill
As a high note
On an alto sax
Played out of key,
So forward
So urbane
So expected
So utterly unlike
The exotically plumed
Creature
Of gossamer spider-web silk
That I’ve drawn
To my side.And Jen says,
“I see you’ve met
My roommate,
Alyssa,”
And I counter,
“Yes I have,”
The lilting name
Playing in my mind
Like the pinging
Of metal wind chimes
Ringing
Their warm weather recital
As they dangle
In a window,
Teasing listeners
With coy promises
Of concerts
On Central Park’s
Great Lawn,
Heard
While leaning
Against
The moist weight
Of a lover
On a picnic blanket
Amid
The grassy scent
Of long hot cool
Summer nights.“Think you need
Another beer, Jen,”
I say casually
To the interloper.
“No, I’m good,”
She answers,
So I add,
With stiletto tongue,
“No, I think you’re
Really thirsty,
And need a refill
Post haste.”
But she defiantly
Stands her ground,
Talking shop
Talking nonsense
Until my patience
Reaches its limit,
And I hand her
Alyssa’s cup
And say, Fetch us
Another round.
“You got legs,” she protests,
And I answer,
“They’re occupied,”
And stare her down,
Hissing,
An angry aria,
“For Chrissakes, Jen,
Boogie on along,
Hit the road,
Strike the pavement,
Agitate
The gravel.”
And Jen’s eyes widen
Then narrow
Into slits
Brimming with venom,
Because she knows
This brand
Of patois
As well as I do,
Got blacktop
In her blood
Just like me,
So she storms off.And Alyssa
Bursts out laughing
At my exaggerated accent.
“Oh, God, thank you,”
She erupts,
Briefly clutching
My right arm
And cooking my brain
In the process.
“I must be paying off
Some karmic debt
For evil deeds
From a past life
To have been
Matched
With her.”
And I answer,
With a grin
That’s so shy
It feels strange,
Like a butterfly
That has alit
On a carnivorous plant,
“I’m kinda thinking
The same thing,
Only the other
Way around.”
She flashes
A surprised look
Surrounded by a blush.
And I soon find out
She’s from Virginia,
She loves R.E.M.
And astrology,
And she’s a Pisces,
And I’m a Libra,
And that somehow
That’s a good thing,
And she doesn’t
Know
If coming to the city
For school
Was such
A hot idea
Because it’s so different
From what
She expected.
Not the soulful sax
Rhythms
Of Coltrane
At the Village Vanguard,
Or the crackly snapping
Of fingers
As Beats applaud
A poetry reading,
Or the artsy scratch
Of a million brushes
On a million freshly stretched canvases,
But the basso profundo
Of the subway cars
Rising from the grates
In the sidewalk,
The dissonant free jazz
Of ten thousand car horns
Gridlocked
In crosstown traffic,
The machine-gun tempo
Of words spoken
In alien accents
Like my own.
And I reassure her
That sounds
Like she imagined
Are still here,
Always were,
Always will be
If you only know
Where all
The secret passageways
Are located.Then the evening’s duet ends
With Jen
Hovering
Over us,
Arms crossed,
Ice-encrusted back to me,
Waiting for Alyssa
To join her
On the walk back
To their dorm room.
Alyssa takes
My left hand
And tells me
That
She can read palms.
“You can tell a lot
About people
By their hands,”
The voodoo child
With the gypsy eyes says quietly
As she rapidly
Scribbles her phone number
Across the fleshy pad
Below my thumb.
“A lot,” she repeats,
Slipping on her translucent purple
Candies sandals,
And I nod in agreement
And in awe.I snap open the bolts,
The staccato percussion
Of paranoia,
To the apartment
I share with Acid-Addled Walter,
And plop down onto
The mix-and-match cushions
Of our couch,
Imagining Alyssa’s smiling portrait
Hanging on the frowning wall
Behind the TV
And sitting silently,
Tuned to the secret sound
That paisley makes
When it thinks
No one’s listening.
Walter turns from his
Elaborate rose-colored
Blown-glass bong,
Pot smoke whispering
From his mouth
As he asks,
“What’s up with you?”
I can only shrug,
Study the number
Inked across my hand,
Take a hit of the bowl,
And softly sing Jimi’s words,
“Whatever it is,
That girl’s
Put a spell on me.”
-- Atticus
Posted by alesta on September 3, 2004, at 17:03:27
In reply to Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
hi, atticus :),
your writing is amazing...have you gotten any of these published???amy
Posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 19:18:22
In reply to Re: Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by alesta on September 3, 2004, at 17:03:27
No, the intention is more therapeutic at the moment. In no particular chronological order, I've been using the poems to think about my life both before the depression slammed me in earnest in 1996 and after, in an effort to make sense of all this. If you go back to July 19 under the archive links at the top of the posts, you'll find many more poems in this autobiographical story cycle. I think I've posted more than 30 pieces at this point. I may try to get them published someday. Thanks so much for the compliment. :) Atticus
Posted by malthus on September 3, 2004, at 20:24:02
In reply to Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
Precious Atticus!
I realized this afternoon, as I checked Writing Babble for about the 10th time today and your heartstopping bolded name appeared, the considerable influence you have had on me since I started posting here.
On that dark, cool July morning when I came back and wrote Tobacco Run, you, who had inspired me to write poetry again, responded to me, and at that moment the darkness turn to dawn.
With your return that lightening has quadrupled as I have come to regard you as a fundamental fellow journeyer on a quest for scabbing over the lesions that lost love has elaborately created.
Thank you for dedicating your poem to me and to Jai. I felt as I read it that I was literally in that living room able to see your thoughts and emotions as they unfolded. I can see the two of you, the enchantment you both felt, and the shivering, pristine rush of realization that this is, quite simply kismet.
malthus uncharacteristically ebullient due to Atticus's homecoming
Posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 21:26:39
In reply to Re: Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by malthus on September 3, 2004, at 20:24:02
I missed you, too. I was really struck by the thematic similarities between your last poem and mine -- especially the music metaphor of two lonely notes coming together, yours generated by harp strings and mine by the psychedelic acid rock vibrating from the strings of Jimi Hendrix's Fender Stratocaster guitar. This poem is deliberately filled with titles of and allusions to Hendrix songs and even a snatch of lyrics at the end. This time something aural -- the soundtrack that I remember playing in my head that evening (Sept. 30, 1989; I'll never forget that date) -- turned out to be the hook for me as much as anything visual. And I guess that was true with the subway train-like clickety-clack rhythm of the previous poem, which ended up turning what was originally intended as free verse into a rhyming piece, as if I were writing song lyrics. This is an interesting new development, one I didn't anticipate. I don't know if it will lead the poems in a new direction in terms of construction or not. But it is helping to begin the process of healing. It's only a start, but it's the first time I've been able to really feel good about all the positives in Alyssa's and my relationship in such a long time. It makes me feel a little less fractured, fragmented emotionally. It's good to hear you sounding ebullient. But don't hesitate to reach out when you're not, too. I hope you got my e-mail so you know where to reach me beyond Babble. :) Atticus
Posted by AuntieMel on September 4, 2004, at 0:27:20
In reply to Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
Beautiful doesn't describe this.
It left me wistful for the days when I was that girl with the long blond hair with the headband, the blue eyes, bare feet and jeans.....
Life and I were both so free then.
Thank you
Posted by Jai Narayan on September 4, 2004, at 8:32:39
In reply to Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
The flash of ripped blue jeans, the scent of pot, Jimi’s purple haze….the boldly two circling…then the break into innocence and vulnerability. A dance of entwining, 2 becoming one, leather to gauze, voodoo to saints. It’s an old dance; the music and steps keep changing with the times.
I too did such a dance. Mine has replayed for decades in dreams. I invented new steps to the monkey, the jerk, and the free flow of movement not restricted by ritual or rhythm.
Atticus your dance is a well told tale.
I am honored to have my tribute.
Keep on writing…keep on keeping on.
Jai Narayan
Posted by Atticus on September 4, 2004, at 9:48:34
In reply to Wow! » Atticus, posted by AuntieMel on September 4, 2004, at 0:27:20
You're very welcome, Auntie Mel. Thanks for the compliment! And if you're a Hendrix fan like me, see how many of Jimi's song titles and tiny snatches of his lyrics you can find sprinkled throughout this poem. Ta. ;) Atticus
Posted by Atticus on September 4, 2004, at 10:01:52
In reply to took my time reading this :-) wonderful, posted by Jai Narayan on September 4, 2004, at 8:32:39
Thanks as always, Lady Jai. I think I managed to finally mentally distill and understand what I found so entrancing about Alyssa while writing this poem. To a punker who grew up in Manhattan, it was like finding this delicate, beautiful, incredibly vulnerable rose growing through a crack in the sidewalk, trying so hard to take root in the sometimes harsh soil of my tramping grounds. We had so much fun as I gave her a native's tour of my turf; it was as if I was rediscovering NYC alongside her, seeing it with eyes unclouded by cynicism. She was so different from Temple in this way; Alyssa wore her vulnerability and her heart on her sleeve, and she refused to put them away in a safe place, under a coat of urban emotional armor. MMMM. Sept. 30, 1989. I will never forget that evening. :) Atticus, feeling all dreamy now
Posted by AuntieMel on September 5, 2004, at 0:49:44
In reply to Re: Wow! » AuntieMel, posted by Atticus on September 4, 2004, at 9:48:34
Yes, I noticed the Hendrix bits, but they just seemed to belong to the poem and it didn't feel right to comment on them. Too much like looking at a beautiful person and commenting on how nice the ear lobes are. Is this making sense?
Posted by alesta on September 5, 2004, at 13:33:31
In reply to Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
hi, atticus! meet me on social if you're there...i'll let you post to me on there first so i don't look like an idiot if you don't get this message:) if you aren't there right now, all try and get you again later..amy:)
Posted by alesta on September 5, 2004, at 13:52:45
In reply to Time Warp Drops of Coffee-House Coolness, 1989, posted by Atticus on September 3, 2004, at 15:45:12
hi, again, atticus,:)
well, i waited for you on social for about 10 minutes..i guess you're not around right now. maybe you could just send me an email, either via babblemail or to enchantedmystic0@aol.com. then we can write and reply at our leisure...
take care :),
amy
Posted by Atticus on September 5, 2004, at 21:32:36
In reply to Re: Wow! » Atticus, posted by AuntieMel on September 5, 2004, at 0:49:44
Absolutely. And thanks. :) Atticus
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