sw00346fdl-entry8of9

Fond du Lac



Twelve
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Johnson Street.  How easy it would be
to forget this jangled age, this Age of Crises;
but will Main evaporate for that?
Surrounded by bushes and evergreens,
the Zacherl Funeral Home whispers, waits.
No need to go past there.  I'll cross Marquette
right here, return to Main, and bear it out:
even to/ Stinky Point.  Besides, I'm getting
hungry.  The Super Valu sign dances,
Borden's dances.  Flickers on, the light goes
green.  Racing/ left of a kid scooting a wagon,
my left arm raises; my belt ticks a post.
Planing around the bumper of a car
leaving the Conoco station, I notice
the corner is clear, the light yellow, then red;
I turn.  "Aaaaaaannnt."  A blue hood jolts at the edge
of my eye; shocks me across Johnson, breathing
beyond the nails of--any moment--death.
Puffing, damp, I rest.


Thirteen
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                                  Firehouse No. 3:
and Purgatory, Greta, nothing and all,
rush; become my thoughts, snail exploring
the underside.
                       A 'hound: to Chi--; used cars,
washed: Gormican's; the Lighthouse Restaurant.
Never have eaten at this place.  Today,
though, just for fun--.  "What would you like?"  "I guess
I'll have the haddock plate."  "Say pal," a fellow 
in his thirties slaps, "you must be Catholic."
"Yes."  ". . . loading, bus to: Oshkosh, Neenah, Menasha,
Apple--"  "My name's Bob.  I've been hoping some
Catholic would sit next to me.  You see,
I've got this friend: he thinks religion's bosh.
You understand.  He tells me logic's stuck
in atoms, and that this human existence
is a, a closed system (some kind of number
set).  Get it?  He says nothing exists but
what we can see: nothing spiritual, pal,
exists!  Says logic proves it--he and his
educated friends."  "Coffee, sir?"  "Well now,
what do you say to that?"  "No thanks."  "What, pal?"
"I was just answering the waitress."  "Huh?
Haven't you been listening, pal?"  "I think--
I can't get into that now."  "Kinda sticks
in your throat, does it?  Well, my Catholic pal,
looks like we're sunk.  Helen,  another cup
of coffee.  Think there is an answer?"  "Yes."
"But you don't know it.  I thought Catholics knew
all the answers."  "Some might."  "Some might, pal?  Who?"
"I don't know."  "What's wrong?  Does the fish taste bad?"
"It's all right, I guess,"  "What's on your mind, then?"
"Horse kicks."  "Look, pal, if you've got a headache--"
"No; you wouldn't understand."  "Where you going?"
"Out.  Here, you can pay for my fish."
                                                     So man's
reduced to his chemistry, John; yet you look on
in awe at individuals because of it;
and for all your lack of belief, say you
respect man more, perhaps, than I.  It may
well be you do.  Still, "the still point of the turning
world", the fight against the wastelands, against
bland, personal ambiguity, against
unsympathetic proselytizing; yes,
even against accepting all.  To be firm,
yet tolerant.  That.  How?  And even so,'
that's not enough.  Fragile leviathan.
O Greta, I may never touch your ears
again.  






 Fond du Lac: page 9
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Brian A. J. Salchert