Van Gogh on Rue Goyer

Dear Théo, it is summer in Montréal, 1997 
the afternoon is blazing —

in my left palm a straw hat 
collects bits of shade
my hair culls blisters of sun
my eyes emit shards of night
my beard is a fireclaw
a blue kerchief streams
from my right vest pocket, a colleague 
to appease the dust of this street 

is this the future
or another dream?

Here the taste of tumult can eat one alive
these pants cuffs sawed by wind and tears 
exude brushstrokes reminiscent 
of The Potato Eaters —
and that man calls me menace 
when I stop to calculate the hues 
                   of his machine 

             metallic as the air 
invading my skin.

I seek the safety of a corner café
only to encounter fresh hallucinations
I beg the sympathetic eye of a woman
whose shoulders are wrapped in a cluster 
of rogue squirrels, reminds me of primeval Paris
her demeanor, her ability 
to cloak my perception, my colours 
clots every inch of my lungs —

Théo, as I touch her satin palm
she electrifies the present
am I still the same man, or
am I seeing things again?

Before I can configure the whorls of her head
she pushes me away — non non, mon erreur
je m’excuse as the plash of a passing bus
disrupts that rainbow of gas in a puddle
a professor leans over his table
disgusted and shouting that this world 
is drowning in degenerates —

Théo am I losing my identity? 

I dig for a sou and extrude only prisms of rags
O Madame I extend to you this leather palm
until you drop in it a piece of modern change
that furry woman tries not to snicker 
I thought I’d seen the last of you 
induces me to scratch the bristles under my chin 
until their reds burn my fingers
don’t worry I’ll repay you, I assure her
I’ve been told my work is promising —
when I paint you I’ll show how your face 
illuminates that wilderness of furs!

That professor who I hope will choke on his laughter 
is screaming monsieur beggar, go on home, 
drink some wine and get some sleep
to which I reply très bien, Monsieur
believe what you will and besides —
my eyes are too exhausted for tears
my gait is stiff, my hands are trembling
because that woman torn between a clochard 
and a bonhomme is attempting to walk away
after sliding me a coin — O Théo
she waits until my lips sink their stubble 
into a marshmallow rim — 
what’s this, coffee in a cup that bends?

Yes Théo in this place I am more ignoble 
than ever, the world still sputters predictable lies —
its labyrinthine tremors and emotional conundrums 
are more destructive than before —
all I can do is mop the wrinkles from my brow 
push open the café door 
smash this sun-eaten hat back on my head 
and hobble back up Rue Goyer.

Tomorrow morning the café owner
might be pleased to find a sketch
whose charcoal depicts a most arrogant man
making faces at a woman
as she removes her rogue squirrel camouflage
for the benefit of a beggar
whose brushfire beard lights up the room
as he seizes her coin between his teeth
having inscribed upon the sketch: 
this is for the woman
who saved my life with her gift 
of four sous.
 

Place Montréal Trust
 

Wednesday afternoons the fountain plumes
more ecstatically than on cold mall mornings
when omnipresent voices and feet
babble with ferocious impatience
and the dark green foundations 
don’t intimidate the hungry girl 
who wades for coins and listens
to marimba music 
while sticks of crimson cubes
sizzle into crisp Souvlaki.
 
Pepper, oregano and vinegar marinations
leap like fleas across the girl’s watery landscape
every sizzle diverts her from the task at hand
the security guard who knows her parents
and can no longer afford to care
looks the other way
when  she fishes coins
from beneath the furtive bubbles,
doesn’t see the scram in the souvlaki chef’s face
whose white hat sweaty with disgust 
lets her know her presence gives his business
a less than desirable impression,
and when he shouts at her to go
lean her chin somewhere else
she is distracted by the poster
of a well-nourished boy
whose teeth are airbrushed white
except for the two deliberately pressed
into a fête du souvlaki 
the skin around his mouth clean-scrubbed
exudes a handsome grin
as his eyes, frozen in time
shine into the hungry girl’s.
 

Beautiful Chaos © 2000 SASkarstedt

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