Camel King’s South Bronx Sermonette
(an eyewitness report)
by Stephen D. Gross
A sky the color of battered pewter
becomes a She Wolf about to relieve herself
squatting heavily over the South Bronx, the bitch scratches
reopens a ragged wound through which I peer
through the antennae forest
across the neon puddling Southern Boulevard -
between the greening copper bas-relief gates
and into the Zoo
Where, on his customized turf
stands the Camel King
Heavily lashed eyes, brimful of bittersweet disdain
(he’s read nothing but Mencken since Miles died)
he ruminates, sniffs at the pair
standing before him - Sylvia and Blanche
frosted cuetips bobbing on chicken necks
Syl resplendent in white beaded faux-cashmere
creamy as a faux-baby’s ass
taunting Blanche with boasts of pre-med grandkids
(Sheldon and Sharma)
Blanche deftly countering with tragic tales
of Sidney’s polyp-ravaged colon,
followed by an aging neice’s miscarriage
Both ignoring the Camel King
in mottled, matted majesty
busily working his double-chaw of Redman,
head filled with opium dreams
of sinuous dunes, pious horns, dying embers
Sylvia stands transfixed, locked onto
the shred of slaw snagged on Blanche’s partial
watching its dance, its rise and fall
Pigeons digging mites from their barbules
freeze as the King snorts, shifts his weight
Expectantly they watch - they know what’s coming
Like warm, lazy surf the soft lips curl,
rolling into position they load, arch and fire
The tarry mucilage splats heavily
like toxic rain above Sylvia’s breast
catching her in mid “Gevalt!”
spiderleg tendrils creep inkily toward her
oozing hips, her multiple chins, her thin tight lips
Slackjawed, with dinnerplate eyes
mouth opening, closing, grouper-like and cold
Embarrassed, the pigeons hide their heads and sniggle
Blanche glows, secretly amused
unburdened, the Camel King returns to his smoky visions
of Lester , Lee, Clifford and the desert Sun
and the heatwaves forever pulsing
over his sweet Mama’s grave
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