Carnival in Grunge City

When the sullen mists parted, she came walking through,
one hand on her head, elbow bent, the other arm also bent
and grasping the back of her neck, so that her breasts,
one wrapped in the lavendar silken cloth which had
fallen away from the other, pushed forward into the air,
nipples poised for contact.
Her auburn hair was wild and full, making a nest for her face.
She wore a tiara on her head, and many silver bracelets
around her arms, and the lavendar silk cradled and
accentuated the break between her thighs, and the roundness
of her stomach, and the movement of her knees as she walked.
There was a constant smile on her lips, sometimes faint,
but often wide and full, and her eyes passed from languid
to sparking to laughing as people passed her, dancing
and joking, reaching to touch her, blew kisses at her.
Funny how much she looked like the Mucha painting of the
?Lady of Summer? she had had on her wall as an undergrad.
What music is she walking to? Is it the Carnival drums searing
in the background? Is it the tinkle-tankle music from the
nearest bandstand? Is it an inner beat born of belly-dance
and Latin music rhythms? Anyway, is it the same all the
time or does it flash and roll as you watch for awhile,
cycling through different strange attractors and attention spans?
Close your eyes and watch for awhile and tell me. You can't help it.
If you try to ignore her, she will appear in your dreams.
During Carnival, they don't ignore gorgeous, sensual, electric
women gliding through the crowds like queens of the night,
decked out in their finest and sleekest. They worship them.
But there are so many, that the worship becomes a generalized
buzz-prayer that encompasses the whole festival, the day,
the place, the time, the season, the movement of everyone
and everything around you, the erotic in all of us and everything.
Have you ever gotten hard or wet from the sound of laughter in the
next room? That's what I mean.
No puede me miroir et respirer en la mismo tiempo,
says a t-shirt over another woman's breasts.
You can't look at me and breath at the same time.
Poets get together and celebrate, Carnival is the renewal
of the erotic in this grey city. "When men lack a sense of
awe, there will be disaster," says the Tao. And
elsewhere: "The valley spirit never dies; It is the woman,
primal mother. Her gateway is the root of heaven and earth.
She is like a veil barely seen. Use it, it will never fail."
Carnival is the Spirit and Goddess of the City. Flowing into gold.
Carnival is landscapes of light and memories of rain,
the spilling of wreckage and desire,
and the dolphins of our dreams bouncing the sun on their nose.
Love, it disappears daily, and must be constantly re-found.
Carnival is one big re-boot.
Step away from it for a moment so you can see what I mean.
Just a few blocks away, close enough so that the air is
still charged, but far enough so that the music is subliminal,
a garbage truck passes down rumpled streets strewn with
the wreckage and tattered husks of living.
At a stoplight, the driver spies a lady and waves
to her and she responds pleasantly, maybe a lady
from the 'hood, but perhaps one just caught by the spirit.
They talk a bit, and then the driver leans down and
hands the lady a bunch of flowers, gathered from the
top of some random trashcan, but still with some
freshness to them. And they wave to each other as
he puts the truck back into gear and drives off.
Such is the spirit that pervades and softens
during Carnival time.
Walt Whitman lived with a man and a woman.
Sometimes the creative spirit needs such dances.