|Frank O'Hara & John Ashbery [The Junk Drawer of Shawn's Mind]|
The Decals in the Hallway
remanded Margery to an earlier contingency:
Sir Isaac fishing for compliments
in troubled waters, and like that. In a flash, a star
o’erspread their terrestrial inhibitions. Mother’s
hairnet came unknotted. She dabbled in bliss
all her life, early knew perfection’s spiteful sting.
He’d imbibed his father-in-law’s authority
as though it were ichor. Sometimes, transplanted
to the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand
in the vestibule, he’d curse children and the impossible
trail of conundrums they leave behind. It’d
be just like him, she thought, to leave
on the eve of the midnight of their secrecy,
secretly planning to be around next morning
when the gulls had drifted away and the engines given
And sweet it was to contemplate the immediate
future of immediacy. Iris and the little ones had run out onto the street,
cries came from the corner, like dishes falling
absentmindedly against each other.
Another corker, she planned. Instead
the call went out: Diversify! And in so doing
casually assuage some of your dopiest penchants. Here,
the anesthetized markets of the world await,
prostrate, time’s scalpel’s hobson-jobson,
while ninnies panic under the pancake tree, touting wired panaceas,
spillovers of earlier attractions, tie-in deals
with the Old One himself.
Cool invitations now apply.
Every faction would like to own its own behavior,
though we weren’t being modern just then. Far from it:
We were thinking money shots in Piazzola plazas
of retching grief, where not one codicil reaches striplinghood
unsieved. Yet the hole that encounters a crater
knows which antidote to swallow. Lord Henry waded far out
into the crabs’ private estuary, yet the water never grazed his knees.
The sun-driven sky’s paisley was as good as perjured; as collateral
it had probably peaked; yet who precisely are these camp followers,
and what is it that they think we have done that they want to ask us about?
As one protuberant pubescent I was tossed, over and over again in a blanket.
Sometimes I think I live there still. Certain declivities interested me then,
made me think about grad school, if only
to get away from the archaic rumblings.
I’d face an Everest of chilblains just to insinuate myself
with the wolf, one more time. They told us he was out, not to wait.
The joke was on them, they said.
They’ll be back soon.
|Sir Henry Yule [Wikipedia]|
ADAM’S APPLE. This name (Pomo d’Adamo) is given at Goa to the fruit of the Mimusops Elengi, Linn. (Birdwood); and in the 1635 ed. of Gerarde’s Herball it is applied to the Plantain. But in earlier days it was applied to a fruit of the Citron kind. — (See Marco Polo, 2nd ed., i. 101), and the following:
c. 1580. — “In his hortis (of Cairo) ex arboribus virescunt mala citria, aurantia, limonia sylvestria et domestica poma Adami vocata.” — Prosp. Alpinus, i. 16.
c. 1712. — “It is a kind of lime or citron tree . . . it is called Pomum Adami, because it has on its rind the appearance of two bites, which the simplicity of the ancients imagined to be the vestiges of the impression which our forefather made upon the forbidden fruit. . . .” Bluteau, quoted by Tr. of Alboquerque, Hak. Soc. i. 100. The fruit has nothing to do with zamboa, with which Bluteau and Mr. Birth connect it. See JAMBOO.