Gray nuisances, the men in asbestos overalls finding their way through the apricot fire of dark, eclipse Park Plazas with the stately elegance of empty dinner dishes or red trash cans against indentured snow.

Page 25 WINCING

You can't go back, to Love, a home.

memories of Pearl Bailey even a scatterbrained job curled like a Morning Glory about the ribs of day.

Everyone repeats not going back.

A sly ripple on the cape of wind, peaking with absentminded glee, into that bulge from within your past, beyond your left arm, called "before".

Dismissing angels, refusing to court hardship, not to mention wincing that comes from attaching the mouth too fiercely on privale parts and all flasks with firm memory; wheeling drunkenly on her thought.

her sayings, sculling backwaters of your mind with little fingers each repeating sane warnings.

Page 26 TORONTO

In Toronto, trendy bars absolutely must have a theme or at least end in "S". It's an unspoken rule. In-spots (notice the "S" again) recall the Lost Generation: Garbo's, Hector's, Lucille's; though less thematically inclined imbibers can indulge at plain sounding Sammy's/Charlies...

The really jaded seek refuge at the Parrot or Madcaps which more than suffice: while those seeking purity in their draught can take consolation at the common Brunswick or Molley's.

There's even a Barbary Coast for privateers.

While on the subject of Exotica, Magoos or the Kon Tiki infuse that Tahitian feeling. For the medic middle of the road c.u.m professional, it'a basic Malloneys, Eroticism is both underlying and apparently felt in the lush decor of Hemingways or, in the obviously suggestive supple Fingers.

Money could be added to Kissinger's aphorism power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, Certainly, the jaded or those otherwise afflicted with ennui and creeping malaise have a whole city as their ripe oyster. And what was that Montrealers say of Toronto?

Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse wilh Diamond Eyes. A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and two Persian lions carved in wood.

Salads Nicoise.

Dinners at Pre Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto equivalent. A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal in the forest. I drank a c.o.c.ktail with the girl of the white polo coat. Or as the cynic said,my pipe is the tent, the tobacco the days of my life.

Page 27 CRYING SCENE

If you're going to drop the gauntlet at least put on the dress of a full warrior -- paint, rouge, lipstick, sheer stockings and enough powder to smother a savage; then form a straight line and chant the litany (wise aboriginals never forgive, you know) and a good poundmaker is so adept at keeping score.

Page 28 NIGHT SKY

I can call a lake a kettle a splendid, ivory comb a snare -- tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.

the night sky my ariel home.

Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs a collarbone of doubt inching into my anatomy Everest-wide.

surging ca.n.a.ls into my throat.

I am a pianist plying my trade playing to waves -- the wharf and pier pa.s.sionate onlookers entranced with joy.

sailors wearing blond caps in stout approval their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.

smashed bottles acc.u.mulated days at sea lapping the dock.

Page 29 THE WORLD OF TEZCATLIPOCA*

"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ...

elements as plasmic water have programmed goals which they follow like earth encompa.s.sing genies.

In soft light amid hues of barbaric green.

walled edges of the cenote's fortress shine as eyes of the Cyclops, bloodlshot and ringed with nettled stone

A break in the clearing -- then ramshackle growth broken with vengeance of uprooted vine confronts the eyes of a jaguar*

(axe-breadth apart) between canopies of trees millenial rot, algae and monkeys carved in a jungle setting the shape of an iguana's room

* the same

Page30 IN THE CENOTE

Under a candlelit operetta of stars, the vertigo horizon trails to a shudder until, swallows the size of kites handstand in flying motion about pools of water then glide within reach of the cenote,*

cisterns deep and flagellant scars in earth that cradle still hands of pale, pumice stone.

All the tears of old Mexico refurbish this soil, anxious in blessing a brittle toil in sisal* groves harvesting hennequin*

to symbolize pity in flat expanse of Mission stone.

* A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin.

* Hemp.

Page 31 BELIZE

Giving myself permission to write -- points from Ciudad Juarez as well as the compa.s.s where taboos complete bayonet-sized memories a tadpole of doubt gleaned from shallow Canadian upbringing sojourning in the South.

A stranger came -- his beard the Columbian hillcountry mustachioed, the voice trailed off whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles, the Black Mamba or boomslang before brief rictus of pain.

I am writing this with an eye on fortune, it's not the cantina is dry just walls above this cot squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing between rosary beads and the day is hot.

Extend a cigarette, fumble another Spanish syllable pretend houngans are hombres Hidalgo just another green wine.

This utterance is mutilating and paper scrolls are an oath to take their toll pockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood.

Page 32 Buenos dias, senor, only don't say S a s k a t c h e w a n like light over mountains it's of little importance, really, won't, change the cabfare one i o t a.

The sea may cough little stars or an emerald coffin sit like a lampshade somethings go on...