A burning arc, reaching from the Orient to the New World,
Bisected by the man-made date line,
A bow and arrow, shot right through a vapor trail.
It’s been turbulent, Ernest, not the romantic notion you pitched,
In the Shakespeare Bookstore with F. Scott and Maddox Ford at your feet,
Creativity juxtaposed with delicious oblivion.
Now belted in, Narita glowing below, you sit across the aisle,
We ignore each other, for now, forever,
You muttering about Pamplona and a cool local wine.
I’ve no interest anymore in your Valencia, your Florida Keys,
In a fish well caught or a bull well slain,
If the cost, Papa, is delicious oblivion, and a Ketchum, Idaho hole.
I know you, Rider, gonna miss me when I’m gone,
Juneau glows below one wing, you fade as flotsam at ebb tide,
I slowly deconstruct myself in order to survive
.
Georges, another morning on your barge along the Seine,
An old, manual typewriter belches carbon copied prose,
Of Jules and mysteries before an afternoon of sweet oblivion.
Edmonton is dark as you lean toward Papa with your eyes on me,
No regrets, you call across the aisle, and Ernest seems to laugh,
You lost generations, you generated romantic oblivion.
Descent onto the prairie, wheels down on terra firma,
Thirteen hours of ethereal musings of art and art’s muses,
Art is romance, romance art, but no oblivion.













