II
The Existence of Sarge
The old man places his hat on the table and
All three have sat down, the same as if their
Ancestors had been there first. (Jump cut
To Sarge): who is all at once by the booth in
Time to hear the man stricken in years:
“Señor, buenas dias.” On this earth where
Animals have crawled into men, Sarge is tall
Among them, well past six-feet, oppressive
Everywhere, in a white shirt, sleeves rolled
Up that declare the beefiness of his arms
Which, if extended, could reach across bodies
Of water. He stands there like God of the
Plains country, heavy-footed like a troglodyte,
And what he says he says with the weight of
A dozen churches behind him: “You’re in the
Wrong place, amigo. Come on, let’s get out of
Here. Vamoose, Andale.” The old man, whose
Skin in second-stage bronze from too much sun
That’s gotten to it and won’t pull back its
Color, has feebly searched among the
Threads of his pocket and extracted the sum
Of his need. In quietude (etched in raw umber):
Reliquary hands are endlessly making a
Wordless offering in a coin purse. Then the
Very way the tight-wound voice of Sarge
Echoes through the café walls, out onto the
Street
, and back inside the Holiday Theater
Where I sit alone in the drop shadows of the
Back—: “Your money is no good here. Come on,
Let’s go. You too,” he says to the women,
Their torment half inside me. And with that:
He plops the old man’s hat on his head and
Picks him up by the lapels. Put the film
In reverse (I think). Tear out these frames
From time-motion and color; run the words
Backward in Sarge’s breath and sever the
Tendons of his thick arms in bold relief.
On the Subject of Staying Whole
With orange soda and scoops of popcorn,
I have taken the vague wisdom of the
Body to my favorite last row seat at the
Movie house. It is 1956…and Sarge,
Keeper of the Lone Star house, Sarge.
Always Sarge, facing down everything
From the screen. I am fourteen and the
Muscles come to a stop: From the spell
Of too much make-believe world that is
Real. If I yell, “Nooooo, nooooo.”
Would the projectionist stop the last
Reel of the machine? Would the audience
Rise up with me to rip down the screen?
I think now how it went: nothing was
Coming out of me that could choke off
The sentences of Sarge, a world-beater
Released into history I would later turn
Against. A second-skin had come over me
In a shimmer of color and light. I could
Not break free from the event that began
To inhibit me—gone was the way to dream
Outside myself. From inside, a small
Fire began to burn like deep doubt or
A world fallen…I held on. I held on.
Stop-Action: Impression
Of course, the sanctity of the café,
The just-righteousness of the Place.
And Sarge, absolute, stressing the plane
Of outward fact, as when the screen
Gives up the deep-in-air-rooted sound
Of his voice, the strong ejectives
And glottals; as when he unifies his
Muscle with the blunt instrument of
His words with which he tries to purge
His roadside dominion, so that man and
Women by his side shall be cast out,
Left unregarded to their own. The eye
Gets insulted by light and the thought
Descends—: that Sarge, or someone
Like him, can banish you from this
Hamburger joint; from the rest of your
Life not yet entered: from this Holiday
Theater and all sense of place.
Fallingrief of Unpleasure
The eye surrenders to the light and something begins
To go from you, as if you cannot but leave it: to
Wither on the floor, never to retrieve from darkness
Like fragments of thought flashing, the slow burn of
Each frame rises into consciousness with the meaning
Of failed belief. A fallingrief of unpleasure grows
In you and something, call it the soul, deep is offended
You want to go mad or die, but turn morose instead.
You lean back hard against your shadow and wish you
Could dissolve yourself in it, dissolve, fade to black.
Without a Prayer at the Holiday Theater
What the screen had released through the darkness was too
Much for a single afternoon. Without words, the child
Began to feel mortal, his mind breaking into awfulness:
A pulse-beat of dread worked itself down from his
Temples—there was, in his throat, a tightening dry
Knot and his mouth could not make spit. He longed
For something stronger than anything he was and the
Thought kept on him: why this was happening and where
He had failed. What had he been if not good all those
Years, off to Sunday school singing in the church
Choir? A wine-dark robe hung, brightly, in a
Practice room to prove it. Had the child been able
To ask nothing more of life than to turn desire into
words he would have uttered—: O Saviour, release
me from this fear; give me cool waters to temper
the heat of this wound which the back-row darkness
hides. Send forth your swift light of compassion
into the places of my woe. Climb down and be seated
next to me, All-Merciful, bearer of the world’s pain
Increase the faith in me that your deep justice will
triumph on the screen. I need to see it done. Be
in me my rock and my redeemer, the Eternal Defender
of my soul. Mend now my spirit, O God, weaver of the
good, that I may walk away from here feeling whole.
