My Own Private Cannery Row
David Antrobus Posted on Saturday, November 30, 2013 at 7:39PM 
© Tracy Prescott MacGregor
Rarely do I write poetry. Even more rarely do I allow it exposure. Not entirely sure why. I revere great poetry, but I find it to be a rare species: elusive and golden, hiding in shadows or, occasionally, in plain sight.
So here's a poem, no more fanfare than that.
My Own Private Cannery Row
"Accept loss forever." — Jack Kerouac
Here I endure my own private cannery row.
It crackles and breeds in
the dark parts of
an unruly heart—corrugated sheets layered over
smoky post-afternoons,
heavy enough with loss
and the memory of loss
and the fear of its return
and traffic
and iron
dragging gull
flocks in slick patterns against a volcano sun.
Twenty-first century. Under a bridge,
five slow crawdaddies move
in murky shallows
sluggishly annihilating an
immense fish head,
while Steinbeck sleeps
and, worse, will never again wake.
Makeshift guido, cursed on a contrary shore,
adrift off a refugee coast, face
boasting reflected orange
yet
this smudged collar's powder-blue and new-sewn
with my fugitive name (upset) in gold below it:
Beloved.
Strong.
Among.
The Woods.
Say it. Woods await those
who fear themselves
lost, and lost
indeed
is my new locale.
I might even call it
sorrowhood.
Plus this:
Names are potent, yet
the cogent grain of twilight welcomes smut,
refracting it for such long
drawn-out breathless
prayer flag horizons.
Music, too.
Blue jazz in a wineglass, Hendrix, bluegrass,
pure smartass, rhythmic
tantric belligerence.
Hopper beckons, eyes downcast. Lonely as hell—
old, weird America, less
permanent than it believes and now
utterly unnerved.
Primary. Planar. Endless
sunflower acres.
We've come so far.
A thick-framed window, sunlight
ambergold, pouring like
fresh-squeezed motor oil, dripping from a citrus sky,
easing us toward some
inarticulate lie: Desolation row, go, desperation
ground, loud, discovery known, flown,
deception pass, past, passed
below, ago, just so...
We cutouts tacked as
silhouettes. Transfixed somehow
with the mundane interplay of
pristine fonts on
the Grocery Outlet sign, where
we value our view; our warm, fawn
thriftstore pact.
But come, listen, lookit.
Gather the lambkins, reel in the nets,
trawl the depths and count up the lost,
bake the bricks, haul away the lumber,
give your day the ending it awaits,
its fitting close. Stumble past those who
would erode you, layer by
sheet, skin by cover, yet
keep on walking,
stumbling aloud,
humbled,
cowed.
Agog. Gaga.
And keep your finger on
the fuck you trigger.
Especially that. Especially that.
Let the soft burr of a charcoal evening
smear the essence of your face like an artist
learning shading, blurring, obscuring.
Rendering.
Recurring.
Sudden evening quiet. The warm preemptive air. Sacred.
Birds play then mute and the colours pulse dark, anticipatory,
so loaded, and indeed so
goddamned holy.
Abandoned flea markets,
green shoots and street scene clarity,
murmurs, a caress of freaks,
waterfowl feeding.
Someone in a waterfront townhouse,
on some higher balcony,
is picking a banjo; pure
vibrations in the wires
aching with backyard echoes,
the sound a trojan horse for a
renewed assault of grief,
while your final drama speaks
of absent fathers, trembling hands,
half-gleaned urges, mother throes,
white-hot and contradictory and
wholly lonely: these
secret
desert
fires.
Reader Comments (10)
Word. And so much more. Especially these:
"Music, too.
Blue jazz in a wineglass, Hendrix, bluegrass,
pure smartass, rhythmic
tantric belligerence."
Thank you.
Laurie! Yes, that felt almost like hip-hop in a strange way. Or like a hybrid of free-form jazz and rap, with Hendrix's ghost watching over, making sure!
Wow. Brilliant. Powerful. All of it.
Especially this:
"Hopper beckons, eyes downcast. Lonely as hell—
old, weird America, less
permanent than it believes and
utterly unnerved."
Aw, thanks, Jen. Like Laurie, you picked words that packed so much heat *and* light. I truly appreciate your feedback.
That was awesome. You got to read it at least twice. The imagery and rhythm deserve equal billing. Well in, brother. Even if it is poetry. ;)
Dan Mader! Thanks for commenting. I think this might need to be spoken aloud. Maybe I'll do that, find myself on a reading schedule.
Ahhhhhh.... but you know my favourite part by far is definitely this...
"And keep your finger on
the fuck you trigger.
"Especially that. Especially that."
... and I'm sure we both get it.
This is beautiful and painful for me to read. Love and beauty yo. ;)
Yes, multiple meanings, too. :)
I was haunted by the beauty of this poem. it's ghost guided me to every line and every word, locking me into a reflective trance, an existential glitch, that I struggled to shake off.
I saw Ted's ubiquitous fingerprints in the prose but any guilt for the piece was clearly yours. I loved it's shadows and light but most of all, I loved it's sheer beauty.
It seems unfair, that the insight and foresight necessary to fuel that undoubted talent here, belongs to just one person.
i was impressed by the textures of the poem; the humour; the darkness; the obscurity; the transparency. Shining through it all though, was the beauty.
I wish you could understand the power of your writing, Dave. I always read your work with pride and am usually so impressed that I can't wait to pass it to someone with unashamed passion stating, "I know him, He's my best pal. :-)
Pure dead brilliant, so it is.
Gordon
Coming from you, Gordon, this breaks through my usual denials and modest shrugs and goes straight in. Thanks, brother. And you know the layers of time that lie behind most of this: the references, the influences, the joy, the heartbreak, the love, the beauty, the outrage, the rainy Sundays trying to ignore (or goad) that scraggly fowl, all of it. The music, in fact. For that's what it is in the end. Music.