Poetry Magazine, Robert Sward, April 2001

Poetry Magazine

Robert Sward

USA

http://www.cruzio.com/~scva/rsward.html

http://www.podiatrytime.net/sward.html
Irving M. Sward, DPM

Rosicrucian in the Basement / Selected Poems
Black Moss Press, Canada, USA

ROSICRUCIAN IN THE BASEMENT

i.

"What's to explain?" he asks.

He's a closet meditator.  Rosicrucian in the basement.

In my father's eyes: dream.

"There are two worlds," he says,

liquid-filled crystal flask

   and yellow glass egg

on the altar.

He's the "professional man" --

 so she calls him, my stepmother.

That, and "the Doctor":

"The Doctor will see you now," she says,

 working as his receptionist.

He's podiatrist--foot surgery a specialty--

 on Chicago's North Side.

Russian-born Orthodox Jew

 with zaftig Polish wife, posh silvery white starlet

 Hilton Hotel hostess.

ii.

This is his secret.

This is where he goes when he's not making money.

The way to the other world is into the basement

and he can't live without this other world.

"If he has to, he has to," she shrugs.

Keeps door locked when he's not down there.

Keeps the door locked when he is.

"Two nuts in the mini-bar," she mutters, banging pots

 in the kitchen upstairs.

Anyway, she needs to protect the family.

"Jew overboard," she yells, banging dishes.

"Peasant!" he yells back.

iii.

"There are two worlds," he says lighting incense, "the seen

and the unseen, and she doesn't understand.

This is my treasure," he says,

  lead cooking in an iron pan,

liquid darkness and some gold.

"Son, there are three souls: one, the Supernal;

 two, the concealed

    female soul, soul like glue...

holds it all together..."

"And the third?" I ask.

"I can't recall," he says.  We stand there:

He begins to chant and wave incense.

No tallis, no yarmulke,

just knotty pine walls and mini-bar

 size of a ouija board,

a little schnapps and shot glasses

on the lower shelf,

and I'm no help.

Just back from seven thousand dollar trip,

four weeks with Swami Muktananda,

      thinking

Now there's someone who knew how to convert

the soul's longing into gold.

Father, my father: he has this emerald tablet

 with a single word written on it

and an arrow pointing.

TAKE ME HOME, I NEED REPAIR

  “Take me home, I need repair.  Take me please to anywhere.”

   --The Red Hot Chili Peppers

       --For my son, Nicholas

He's a musician

 prophet

  a raging Apollo

gold hoops,

 diamond stud earrings

toenails and fingernails

    painted black

6’3", 200 pounds

legs propped up

on a wobbly stool

   Listening

Magic-Red-Blood-Hot-Sugar

 Chili-Sex

What I see is insanity.

Whatever happened to humanity?

"Good lyrics," I say

"The Chili Peppers," he says

"it’s rap and it sucks.

Actually, I like Punk more--"

White steel guitar in hand

he demonstrates:

Fuck you... he sings.

End of demonstration.

Now he's Anthony Keidis

a tube sock

 on his dick

One hot minute, and I’m in it...

Next he's trancey, anguished

Sonic Youth

Later:

Washing windows,

scrubbing floors,

 dancing

doing

 standup

   impressions

My son the genie

my son Mr. Clean

Tries to jump into my arms.

Where do kids come from anyway?

 "Fucking life

  Everything sucks," he says

Mourning Kurt Cobain,

 Hillel Slovak and the others

overdose dead.

Youthanasia

Whip-smart

Funk Da World

Funk Da World

I'm the father, I'm supposed to tell him--what?

"I know the truth," he says,

"I know the truth."

Publication Credit: Another Chicago Magazine,
forthcoming in a new book by the author from Black Moss Press Canada