::::Dialogue with a StrangeGoodlookingMan (( iv ))::Jennifer Long:::: [ prose poem ]

part i
part ii
part iii
author’s blog

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My soul calls out to me,
“Come be alone!”
So I drive out toward the place
Where I love to sit,
Deep in the park
Where the birds sing sweet,
And I can ponder and think.

And speaking of thinking,
As I feel that pull,
I stop and decide to avoid the fates.
I’ll go completely the opposite way.
I drive to a lonely strand—
A sandy shoreline where nobody ever bothers to go,
Or bothers to stop, for that matter.

I step out of my car and survey
The empty, wind blown beach.
A wasteland of tumbled up weeds,
Briars, and blackberries
Give way to grain after grain of sterile sand.

The winds are pushing the waves to the limit.
They pound and turn, relentless, and crash,
Over and over, lulling me into their rhythm and pulling me close.

I think about sitting right down on the sand,
But the repetitive beating and pulse of the sea
Has hypnotized my soul.

All in this world I can see for this moment
Is wading steadily into that water
And relieving my every qualm
In the heart of it’s conquering waves.

My feet reach the wet, overpowered layer,
And the first bit of water foams and sprays on them.
My toes gasp a bit
But hold on for dear life
As I continue out to my knees.

Trudging now against all opposition
That would push me back to a sanded seat,
I’m in all the way
Up to my narrowed waist.

My soaking clothes hang wet and heavy,
Floating in the excess, pulling in the tow.
I pull my shorts off and fling them beachward,
My top quickly following.

I dive straight headlong into the waves,
Riding them, big, and gently swelled.
I’m completely free, exhilarated,
By their overwhelming largeness,
And all of my helpless flails.

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking—
I feel a Whitman moment coming,
A riptide of multitude proposing,
Floating me out of control.

Suddenly bobbing up like a cork
From an elegant bottle of perfectly aged wine,
It’s him,
Out of nowhere,
The strange good looking man,
Skinny dipping with me.

His landfall a few short meters there,
Nonchalantly sharing my wave,
A smile on his brow
Like a navy frogman,
I wonder if he opens his eyes under water.
I kind of think he did.

His knowing eyes stare deep, right thru me.
To the soul who tried to avoid
His chancy advances,
He speaks the words
Stronger and more delicious than any,
Then he twines and turns me up in his arms.

I feel my heart going down for the third time,
While only the mocking bird’s throat can chant
The pains and joys,
The uniting of here and hereafter,
As you sing to me
In fitful risings and fallings
Your transparent hints and reminiscings.

::::Dialogue with a StrangeGoodlookingMan (( i ))::Jennifer Long:::: [ prose poem ]

Part ii is here.

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My ticket tells me
To keep on going—
Past first class,
Past the wings,
To sit by the strange man
On the plane.

Strange because,
He is strangely good looking.
Strange because,
His soulful eyes
Hang full
Like Ganymede and Callisto,
As they orbit
The old worn book
In his hands.

He raises them only
Momentarily.
They follow me
Sliding clumsily in
To the window seat
There beside him,
Then back to the ancient text.

Addicted to archaic things, myself,
I cut my eyes over
To see what tune
Those delicate little ink blots
Are dancing to on that yellowed page.

I am surely not disappointed,
For the feast upon which
My gaze alights,
Is the particular story
Of the last day
That Socrates ever lived.

My lean gets a little
“Leanier,”
And maybe my breath
Gets a little
“Breathier,”
But the strange,
Good looking man’s eyes
Get a little retrograde
In their motion,
And ellipse a little my way.
“You like the Dialogues?”
He asks.

In flagrante delicto,
My eyes are caught,
Their only defense to go
Io, and Europa, and get to orbiting
Just like his.
I nod my head.

We both go back
To the story—
Right to the part
Where Socrates says,
“Out of sleeping,
Waking is generated.”

“I like this part,”
He whispers.
Io and Europa dilate a bit,
And I nod my head again.

“What then is generated
From this life?”
The wise man under the
Sentence queries.
“Death,” Cebes calmly answers.
The strange good looking man
Suddenly quotes out loud:
“And what from death?”
He closes the book and
Looks at me full on.

I know the story quite by heart,
But I’m not sure if I can speak.
The strange, good looking man
Is staring deeply into me.
Those eyes are orbiting me
For the moment,
And I am thoroughly paralyzed.

“For someone who likes “Dialogue…”
He starts to say, then stops.
The Song of Socrates
Has charmed him
Like a magnificent
Hooded cobra,
And his swaying,
Fanning, courtship dance
Has mesmerized my Soul.

“Life,”
He kisses me
Full on the lips,
The taste of his wisdom
Precarious on my tongue.

Endangered love;
Endangered knowledge;
Speculative peace;
And thrills concrete!
I succumb,
Losing all consciousness,
And wake with
His right index finger
Just inside my mouth.

“Mmmm,” he says,
Waking beside me,
“In other words,
I like your dress.”

Jennifer Lives Here