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The Legal Studies Forum
Volume 30, Number 1/2 (2006) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum Lawyers & Poets Far Travels JAY FRANKSTON _____________________________ ■ In the middle of the ocean in the middle of life there is an island somewhere. Shipwrecked souls find their way to its shores and drink from coconuts the milk of sight. And the visions guide them through fires and storms to a knowledge of being grounded and centered at the core. In the middle of the middle there is a tiny hole through which life escapes when no one is looking and the flower pot with the wilted flower falls from the window sill unto the street below. And it crashes on the sidewalk but no one hears it. They are all asleep somewhere in classrooms. in concert halls, on park benches with newspapers over their heads to shade them from the light of the world, from a bland reality where there are no stones, no broken glass, no angry voices just the waves of the ocean crashing on a beach on some far away island in the middle of life. [405]
■ Seven layers above the horizon there are ships that sail forever out of sight, never looking back, never seeing the foam in their wake. Strings of pearls hanging from their mast [406]
■ With eyes half open and sleep still hugging my body I wake unto this paper to hold on to the dream. But the thread is broken. The dream is gone. It dissolved behind my reaching. Still it ripples through me and through my day, filtering the flow. And I stand, and I move with a slight trembling motion the dream still taking up space. I know it is there like a leaf on my shoulder. And I walk quietly so as not to disturb it. [407]
■ You work too hard. You drink too much and the genie is still in the lamp. There are ripe berries on magic bushes and a tree out there you haven't climbed yet. [408]
■ Rooms for rent by the day by the hour in sleazy hotels where condoms are provided but you bring your own whore. Streets lit up with walking cigarettes in high heels shoes and fishnet stockings. Invitations whispered in dollars and cents. Stark offers of sex on rye for here or to go. Dark alleys where drugs are played like a crap game. Anyone can play but no one wins. The cat's in the cradle or the garbage can. The graffiti on the wall screams desperately to those who walk by without seeing. And the sky turns gray and hides in a blanket of clouds. [409]
■ I went to bed turned off the light slipped into the envelope and mailed myself to sleep. The postage stamp was a collector's item from an album in some musty old attic. And I landed there in a trunk full of hats, granny clothes, tux and tails that I tried on to go to the formal ball of my dreams. [410]
■ Most of the time I was sitting alone, on the floor, by the bed, with soldiers of lead, an arm torn off here, a leg missing there, all victims of the great wars of my childhood. The sun filtering through the window and the shadow of the curtain, like lightning without thunder, brought life to my silent battlefield. Outside, on the street, young school mates of mine, waiting and chanting, sticking needles in my name, like pins in a voodoo doll, Frankenstein, Frankenstein, come on out now Frankenstein But I fought my battles with soldiers of lead, alone in my room, on the floor by the bed, charging up the hill, bugles blowing, flags flying, and the pain of fear inside. When my mother came home I ran to her arms and trembled. She held me and smiled but never asked why. I didn't tell her I was wounded that day, and she never knew I had cried. [411]
■ Died in Venice On the Piazza San Marco surrounded by pigeons without wings while the bells rang all around and the Gondoliers dressed in black steered flower covered gondolas through the canals under the Bridge of Sighs where I, so high, died in Venice. Died in Paris Street urchins sailing paper boats in the gutter the Seine carrying the body floating face down in the water. The Eiffel Tower rising like a huge phallus from between the legs of the Arch of Triumph under which burns the perpetual flame of the unknown soldier. Died in Geneva Riding a horse that threw me while playing a game of justice and injustice, caught in my ideals, victim of my compulsion to juggle emotions and fight windmills. Died in Budapest A hole in someone else's past through which I fell, trying to reach for the hand, the memory of she who is long gone, dragged down into the hell of the ghettoes, the camps, [412]
the ashes of loved ones I never knew, who didn t die in Budapest but elsewhere. Died in Madrid At the hands of Basque anarchists who took me for a gun runner while I was trying to change the tire on the car I had rented from Avis. Died in Madrid of a heart attack on the horns of a bull who saw my blood, redder than my cape while the crowd, stunned, rose to its feet and in one voice shouted Ole! Died in Amsterdam Among the Van Goghs without even cutting an ear. Died of envy of the talent, the pain, the genius, the spark of insanity. Died under a starry night, among brilliant sunflowers, calling out my brother's name Theo, Theo, where are you? Died in Bali On the island of the turtle died of enchantment, of ecstasy during a trance dance where the Gods, chewing the beetle nut, descended upon me and showed me the magic mushroom in their eyes so wise, so wise, I cried and died in Bali. [413]
■ the river flows where thirsty men crouch down [414]
Jay Frankston was born in 1928, raised in Paris, escaped the Holocaust to arrive in the United States in 1942. He received a B.A. degree at New York University and then obtained his law degree from Brooklyn Law School. He practiced law in New York for 20 years before giving up the legal profession. In 1972 he moved with his family to Mendocino, California and became a teacher at the College of the Redwoods. He claims to have taught a course there called, "Everything you ever wanted to know about the Law but couldn't afford to ask." Frankston has read his poetry in Paris, Prague, Madrid, Mexico, and throughout the United States. In addition to his poetry, he is the author of A Christmas Story (Summit Books, 1978) which has been translated into fifteen languages. He now publishes his work by way of his own press, Whole Loaf Publications, in Little River, California. His publications include Seeds: A Collection of Sayings and Things; The Offering: A Series of Meditations on the Meaning of Life; and Yom Hashoa: Remembering the Holocaust. The poems which appear here are drawn from Jay Frankston, The Girl in the Picture (Whole Loaf Publications, 1996). |
