
A Duplex Only Turns 43 Twice
In memory of Chadwick Boseman
More insatiable than the desire to hoard,
Your fans say death’s a foreign coincidence.
They also say a forgotten coin’s never
Spent, but its odyssey costs us a day.
In 42, you slid like theodicy.
In Get on Up, you put an omen’s plaything
In women’s clothing, happy in your powers.
The side effects of too much love are having
A moment. Gratuitous special effects
Walked off the set, each in an understudy’s
Mood. If only they knew a boulevard
Of blood could undo all of our bridges,
They’d see that your desire to break a leg was
More insatiable than a marvelous horde’s.
Accidentally Down and Out in Dublin
“In Dublin we’ll be spiffy
When a-bubblin’ goes the Liffey...”
- Heard being sung near a gateway arch on Fishamble Street (lyricist unknown)
Corri says something to the effect
That Trinity College came to collect
What we hide in our hearts. My intellect
Would tell Brian Boru’s harp to get plucked,
But the Old Library’s long room is strict…
“This colossal ossification walked
With those antlers!” My father-in-law’s shocked
As Sfera con sfera makes time reflect.
The potato farls on Grafton Street
Distrain my attention until I eat
One or two. Whilst the buskers compete
With foul weather, the poet Tony Kitt
Points at the sun with his magic flute
And the way to St Stephen’s Green’s made bright,
Bright as what nocturnes can reignite.
Women and swans near The Three Fates sit
For a picture. Words can sting like a midge.
But I imagine if Ha’penny Bridge
Said “You’ve crossed me for the last time” that fudge
From Butlers Chocolates could blunt that knife’s edge.
Maddie watches the Four Courts allege
That the Custom House is a Georgian smudge
On the quay. Tiny G and I pledge
Those sympathies all memorials fledge
To the famine’s. Pours of Jameson Black
Barrel improve her cough and my black
Coffee immensely. The rain’s attaque
À outrance regreens St Columba’s book
In our minds. We say sláinte and toss back
Any pride that might dampen our craic.
The tin whistle and the fishmonger’s truck
Outside of O’Riordan’s help us lose track
Of time. On “Cockles and Mussels” we feast
Our hearts (“If guitars be the brewer’s yeast
Of hearts, don’t stop!” cries the unwieldy beast
In me), our stomachs on brown bread and roast.
With my eyes on Molly Malone, the bust
Of James Joyce rolls his. A bewildered gust
Carries three of us westward to Christ
Church Cathedral, where two from the past
Still play cat and mouse. That very same breeze
Takes both Keith and me through The Liberties
To the Guinness Storehouse. Bram Stoker’s knees
Are heard knocking as a few banshees squeeze
By us on Marrowbone Lane. We gaze
Down at creamy heads and out at the frieze
By O’Connell, where Fidelity bays
Like an Irish Wolfhound about to sneeze.
At the Aran Sweater Market, I drag
Oliver Goldsmith over to brag:
“That’s her – that’s my wife! Does she lift the fog
Or what?” “Does Filíocht wear like a fugue
Gold torcs? And do unicorns hope to flag
Her presence by stooping?” There in her bag,
All that I see is the smallest sprig
Of clover. “The Wicklow Mountains might beg
Her pardon,” he adds as we take our leave.
October gets mushy peas on its sleeve
At Iveagh Gardens. The winds there deceive
The day by speaking in ogham. No slave
To fashion, Kilmainham Gaol can’t forgive
Itself. We all listen as walls relive
The Easter Rising. I try to revive
My joy in the giftshop by autumn’s grave.
Here and There on a Triple-Helical Journey to the Islands and Highlands of Scotland
After “Octomore,” by Bruichladdich
“It is really a perfect misery to be alive when we have always to be going about like men with enemies at their gates, who cannot lay aside their arms even when sleeping or eating, and are always afraid of being surprised by a breaching of their fortress in some weak spot.”
- Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle
On Islay, I learn to drive on the left
And all the sheep look at us like we’re effed
As we make our way to Bowmore. Adrift
On Loch Indaal is a dram of the roughed
Up past, but Ned from the Co-op is daft
About Buckfast, so, when my neck’s too giraffed
By the top shelf, he points down. More bereft
Than “The Round Church” is of the devil’s craft
Is my vision of the sea eagle’s flight.
But on Cnoc-na-Faire, the WIFI’s tweet
Above the krex-krexing corncrakes at night
Can’t be heard (their cries outshine every street-
Light on Flora Street). For peat’s sake, I quit
My Scotch egg and at Port Ellen debate
The stars as they twinkle in triplicate.
When we land in Glasgow, we exfiltrate
Ourselves from yesterday’s coppery quilt
And heart-shaped hardships. “The Hebrides felt
Like a handsome hindrance to Rome’s assault
On everything. Glencoe, however, built
Amazement in less than a day.” We melt
All our boredom between the Great Glen Fault
And Ben Nevis. Five boobries catapult
To Glen Affric every gaslit gestalt
In the car. By Kyle of Lochalsh, where three
Great sea lochs meet, the sea eagle’s esprit
Behind Caledonian clouds from me
Stays hidden. The Old Man of Storr waves bye
As we trek towards Portree. There, a café
Serves the best Cullen Skink on all of Skye,
Or so we’re told under a chieftain’s tree.
I make of the Quiraing a bronze donee
When my pin from Achtriochtan is lost
There. I thole it with the spirited rust
Called Irn-Bru in my veins! Wanderlust
Flies to Inverness when I need it most;
When my meteorism bites the dust
At Culloden. (“Thank you, Lactulose!”) Just
As the beech trees at Clava Cairns untwist
Their branches, the hairy coos spot a ghost
From across the street. “Its surface might shrug,
But wind like a scherzo is sure to bug
Its monster.” We fail to get Nessie’s mug
On a JPEG; I mean to geotag
Them, but when our boat – like words in a brogue –
Gets accented, I press delete. We bag
Zero Munros, but each peak’s a drogue
To the heart of a luftmensch! Rhyme-fatigue
Sets in, so to Speyside we go. I write
To the unco guid, “Are my rivers not
As wet as are yours?” before we depart
For Leith. Time suddenly seems like my stout
When we get there: cask-conditioned just right.
After coronation chicken, we doubt
Any curry-free courier’s legit
Until my steak pie and the bagpipes transport
Me outside of St. Giles’ Cathedral. There,
I forget the Lothian sky and stare
Inward, where the sea eagles always bear
A quaich. On our way to Stirling, a pair
Of Kelpies distract us. I say a prayer
By Midhope Castle: “Dear God, please prepare
My soul for arriving late. Savoir-faire
Would help me if Afternoon Tea’s deferred.”