by Gerard Malanga

Xena! Xena!

I distinctly remember the first time
I set eyes on you
one mild October morning
as I was going about my ways,
whatever they were,
& I paused for one instant
overhearing someone attempting to dispose of you
& I turned & walked back
& this stranger asked me to hold you
& I held you
& it was love at first sight
like it’s done in the movies}
& in this movie of real life . . . It’s God’s way,
realizing you were extra–special
like no feline I’d ever encountered
& I was right
for the life we’d have ahead
& now it’s nearly 15 years.
It’s been a long life in many ways,
many montage,
many words written not written & vintage, even.
In many respects,
we’ve gone beyond those words lost to me now.
Words I can only guess at.
Your face aglow of the countless fade–outs & fade–ins.
Those late morning naps on the window sill
blessed with the sun’s warmth.
Those sleeping nites beside me
& waking me to the call of a new day.
“In the end, there is no end.”
I see a heart happy & a heart heavy & that is you.
I see a downward spiral.
A matter of 10–minutes, at the most.
Impossible to resist those memories returning, recurring,
less focused now. Diffused
& more diffused,
like the drifting snows,
leaves furling & unfurling.
Your kitten mischief. Your tyger tyger eyes.
How does one measure the ephemeral?
How does one stay in the present?
My watch telling me it’s 7:23 p.m.
Nothing is gone from you.

Adieu Xena, bonjour Xena.

by Gerard Malanga

Elda,
Am I asking the impossible beyond your time and mine
had fate rolled our dice out differently?
Had the gods blessed us with eternal bliss,
had the seasons reversed themselves to satiate our wanderlust,
to find ourselves in a hotel splendide on Lake Genève
or a beach–front cottage out in the misty Hamptons,
a hide–away deep in Maine’s upper northern reaches?
There are no photographs of us that I recall
that show us as memories resisting memory
or where we sensed to be.
Our dream selves.
How did this all come not to be?
The timing’s off.
We came together once one late night after closing time at Max’s,
1969 —
I was house –sitting for Charles Rydell —
and then we slept in —
smothered in our sensuosities, c. this & c. that . . .
and then it’s 1992 suddenly,
the one time I can claim a date exactly.
No, I correct myself!
You reached out
and suddenly there we were in Woodstock
where you interviewed me
and God knows where that tearsheet’s been misplaced
among those archives sleeping.
And I’ve been lucky trying to remember for the both of us
and still our angels blessed
us nonetheless
where we picked up last in that deep dark confusing sleep,
too early yet to prophesy.

by Gerard Malanga

Dear Alex, Mr. Liberman:
This is a letter that will never reach you I’m afraid.
Words I’ve penned in the dark as nite moves on
before my dreams evaporate,
or in my mind’s eye
the very way you’d stand observing canvasses or a single swatch.
Or in jovial conversation
in a public setting, say a vernissage.
I’ve tried standing there myself,
using you as mirror image,
like in a tap dance.
When was the last chance the last?
I’ve practiced placing the right foot forward just a bit,
the forward glance.
That class–A act.
Your hair combed back.
It could be raining slightly,
but the pitter patter rounds out that look
of the bon vivant, as you dash into Café Flore,
or any shoppe along the Saint–Germain–des–Prés,
Midtown Madison, the many twisting turns of Oxford Street.
Life’s just a soft midday breeze,
café au lait,
news of the day
as you fold the Times in half
the way I learned it in 8th grade class
with I’ve forgotten whom, I suppose, it’s been a while.
The cool collective nuance of a life
knowing who you are or where life finds you,
where you’ve gone & coming back.
The perfect stance, near–perfect,
explaining little. No need to.
Your vision in full swing,
as near to perfect when trying on a suit
to feel the fit is right.
The rule of thumb:
to match the color of your eyes, then some.