Memphis Revealed

The outskirts are neglected, bespeaking danger
as abandoned acres of broken sidewalks,
condemned dwellings, tired warehouses
deteriorate in an outland
too quiet for the physical world
beyond the pale umbrella of control
by the authorities,
a homeland for unromantic souls
pursuing targets of opportunity
amid a Plethora of broken glass
littering an uninviting passage
to the heart of Memphis
contemplated by a romantic hiker
bent on savoring a necessary ethos
in all it's inartful agony
by walking alone and exposed
hearing the rushing sound of
the occasional passing car
driven by black folks minding their business,
unconcerned about the need to walk
this day through a fearsome portal
along the weed consumed side walk
descending under the overpass
into a subterranean realm of shadows
and stale light where a weapon is craved
and found in the form of
a rusted chain binder hook
pocketed in a closed fist to a
rushing sound of tires amplified
with echoes among concrete pillars,
enabling the methodical trek
through the netherworld shadows,
the lurking places for
soulless trolls,
through the self imposed crucible
channeling all fear, all pain
of a lifetime
into several dozen numb steps
lasting an eternity toward
deliverance to emerge
transformed into the warmth of
the bright day to find
a waiting streetcar,
shining, immaculate, perched
as a conspicuous relic
at the extremity of downtown Memphis
upon its new straight rails
as if in a dream,
as if materializing at an appointed time
to rescue tired souls
emerging from shadows,
hungering for the sight of
quaint curiosity shops
of true curiosity,
eager to board the street car to the sound
of a calliope horn,
forming a family as the wheels roar
smoothly upon the new rails,
as the car runs past a large
red faced woman standing in the window
of a curiosity shop
decorating an outsized wedding cake
made of wood,
causing the passengers to break
into a conspiracy of smiles
savoring the pregnant moment before
more bleak ruins appear,
mimicking Dresden to some degree
or an archeological excavation as
faded inscriptions painted on concrete
read, "Kress Luncheonette," "Woolworth's,"
"Shoe Repa," in the debris
of another former Memphis languishing
in it's place in geological time,
taken in stride by the passengers
riding the street car named "Contentment,"
through the city of Kings,
(Martin, B.B., Elvis),
to the unhurried rhythm of the
roaring steel wheels to the end of the line,
Beale Street,
appearing tawdry in dazzling daylight
but an avenue drawing the wanderer
to walk to the Mississippi River
exerting magnetism upon the wanderer
to come savor some real power
in the Age of Compromise and Fraud,
to come see a real river's eddies, whirlpools,
be hypnotized by the relentless
sediment laden current
the color of a young dark wine,
to hear the Mississippi speak a mouthful
saying, "You are free to be yourself,"
as it churns upon itself
in wild vigor and speaks plenty,
not like in the musical
where it says "nothin',"
"You are free to be yourself,"
the Mississippi tells you
as a wanderer recalls running wild
in this life tearing up the country
in blindness and power leaving
wreckage and grief in the wake,
the river speaks now
so clearly as it is turbulent
as life,
"Be a king," the river says as
the sun sets upon the discarded
dismal turgid past
rolling on down with the meaningless
torment of the churning waters
into the Delta night and
Beale Street brightly beckons
as the wolfish appetite grows
for ribs and blues
as the chain binder hook splashes
into the Mississippi,
as the footsteps fall in leisure,
up the hill to the sound
of the mournful trumpet
toward the neon palladium,
the grand carnival celebrating
the dictum of the river,
Beale Street and
the plate of ribs
consumed reverentially as in
taking communion,
the body and blood of Memphis,
before freedom is expressed
in the movement of the pelvis
to the throbbing bass and the discovery
of the inner Elvis.










Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 662 times
Written on 2006-11-07 at 23:14

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Phyllis J. Rhodes
mesmerizing!
2006-11-08