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Patchouli And The Trojan Horse

November 6, 2009 by · No comments

Robert Baker

Photo: jenny downing

In a quiet conversation over drinks
with my very most new friend,
some woman wafting by Patchouli
explodes the Trojan horse
that I keep up my nose.

She asks if I’m OK, my maybe new friend does,
“A far away look.
My, my how rude.” She smiles.
I smile back and say I’m fine, long day
you know it takes a minute to unwind.
I know she knows that I know she knows, we’ve been around.

In spite of age, stage, station and urbanity
I am once more overwhelmed. Your memory,
swept down like an army in the night,
no hostages, no quarter given,
none asked, no weapon and no fight.

I had other plans you know.
Somehow I think you do.
How else could you strike with such smart-bomb precision.

The unruly scent transcends it’s
neuro-anatomic bounds
and Brown Eyed Girl, Piece of My Heart, those songs,
even Positively Fourth Street with the Hammond B3 Leslie,
short listed on the hit-parade of faded love,
will play all night.

“How about we look at a menu?
One from this millennium.” My relentless most new
maybe soon to be not friend suggests.

Having gained the upper hand
the flashback turns to absolutes:
war is wrong, love is free, together forever baby you and me,
a scene from Botticelli,
a passage from Gibran.

Existential bliss bumped up a notch on grass,
another portal to the horse.
I never touch the stuff, not one magic dragon puff
in years, but there it is, lying
on it’s back on a futon on the floor, wreathing up toward
a paisley ceiling and everybody so replete with hair.

So really, try to get this straight,
people change, time moves on.
Get a life.

“They say the calamari’s nice,” my rapidly becoming most
likely not next best new friend says, with a hint
of conviviality.
“Or do we have an aversion to suction cups?
Some people do. What then? Maybe humble pie,
straight to the special brownies? Have you got any old photographs?
We could sit here and look at old photographs for awhile.”

I don’t think she likes you.
Women get that funny, overly indulgent
edge in their voice
when they don’t like somebody.

Categories: Frontpage · poetry


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