Dangerous Things to Please a Girl

Travis Cebula

B L A Z E V O X [ B O O K S ] Buffalo, New York

Dangerous Things to Please a Girl by Travis Cebula Copyright © 2015 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza Cover Art by First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-186-3 Library of Congress Control Number: 2014943803 BlazeVOX [books] 131 Euclid Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org

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  17

Selected Poems

my dearest Angel,

my one back at home— few things are more

perilous, pitiable, or lost than

[I am] a poet who wanders

these streets of Paris, summer

alone with only one book,

one T.S. Eliot, strangely selected

for company.

 18

“Smoothed by long fingers” I will write you a little

letter from Paris, in hope

that you will follow me here. just a note. it will say

dear Angel, or my love,

I can’t wait— and I’m sorry, but— all this

and a blank bit of page, the age of this

Rhône wine goes right for my head.

  19

“These fragments I have shored against my ruins” I have been observing necks, and

cold, and it seems I must find myself a scarf, Angel.

I imagine it could be crimson for you,

and long. what could be warmer? or will it billow blue and be a match

for all the broad sky beyond these scudding

clouds? its silk will not be white or anything like. for white silk

adds no heat; it is a memory of new snow.

we both know April snow melts shortly after it succumbs to soot.

 20

“The endless cycle of idea and action” dear Angel,

you asked me to explain myself, to explain why I am here. perhaps,

why the streets are so empty and the buildings are so uniformly grey. perhaps

you do not remember. there are eight stories to every one, and every one

begins, it is Sunday. for now it is Sunday and the cafés are closed.

four men in chartreuse coveralls hose down sidewalks. cigarettes and stones shine in June almost

as if it were cold. and it is. for once a fireplace makes sense— from this cracked leather chair I look back

and forth between the soot on bricks and the ink—both feel warmer than clouds. or water that plummets

piece by piece. the movement of hands over paper provides a bit of

  21

relief, like rubbing tombstones in winter, but a less eloquent form

of friction. less true than a thousand twisted scarves. all blue. Angel, I am here to write

this perfect cerulean, yes, and to speak only to you of this and these. these clouds and these leaden roofs

and geese and their river sliding by the Ile Saint Louis like photosynthetic oil. no one else swims here, and could I

blame them? even their ghosts would freeze, perhaps sink, clean of such slimy bodies. weeks

later the bouquinistes along the quays would wipe some residue of splashing rain from their plywood stalls.

and it would also be green, written that way just for you.

 22

from the market:

TP. laundry detergent. milk.

  23

“I know the voices dying with a dying fall” Miss Stein claimed

Guillaume was never the same after bandages. so the story goes, there is no

lever to enlarge a broken bell. it clamors

constantly off the cobblestones. or not at all. this bicycle

is bent nearly in half from the rust of old accidents. this bicycle is silent otherwise. a wheeze when stopping,

so the story goes

on, engraved in brass plaques, sunlight, names, and clutter on buildings left

and right. Joyce.

Stein. Fitzgerald. Barnes sipped coffee two blocks down.

Eliot Pound Miller Nin. Beach. Hemingway.

Hemingway.

Hemingway. Hemingway.

when he liberated the Ritz Bar

 24

he ordered Seventy-eight dry martinis, so the story goes,

and not one tarte tatin. that was Paris during the war.

this bicycle’s brakes clench with the trees; it slows

into the quiet breeze and chestnuts

linger more.

I say

Guillaume was never the same after wind. and one day, Ernest

bought a shotgun. so the story goes.

  25

“In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust” Notre Dame, Our

Lady, she rings her manic bell. I cannot tell

who answers her from this alley. I must go out

to the river first. I must go see the bright quays

and whoever goes there walking, and whatever

Sky is trying to keep unseen.

 26

from the market:

two bottles of red wine. one bottle of white. madeleines.

  27

“Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening” dear Angel, now I found the nights may be an electric lonely fan, 220 volts, but they’ll be in the white cupboard. cooler, too.

 28

“The sickle motion from the thighs” prop the glass doors open at

Café Panis. shine the brass to spite the drizzle not-so-hidden in a summer day. prop a trapezoid of slate on the wet

tile and wait. [enter the scarf] beyond all hopes of chalk scribbling, the scarf enters. and is he cobalt

like some remembered sky hung midway between the quays? he takes five long steps, dent to dent

to the zinc bar, orders a café noir. one euro, he clinks change. he sips to his reflection in a gilt mirror. this

is the age of the slow walk, Angel. for this I give you the river, the hydrangea, and the cast- iron bridge. I give you this patchwork

blanket of noon light on the page—a tipped hat to the deep blue that peeps between green fingers of trees. this light is not mine, even though

it shines in lines. I’ll steal it for you, steal this one today and stitch it into the shape of mulberry leaves with strands of ink and Chinese

silk. I’ll stitch words for you to climb. for you always upwards into my

  29

wandering avenue, a view of a river whose soft bed is longer than any

shadows that might shroud the limp of a lonely afternoon. make no mistake,

a woolen scarf is not for show. it warms my leg in a cold and otherwise empty bed.

 30

“I have not made this show purposelessly” dear Angel, I had every

intention of an early night, but your eyelashes

appear everywhere. lampposts, trees. come here,

now, come to me, kiss me

in the cool grass

of evening, or on the gravel— just kiss

me, now, like you mean it,

pressed together from shoulders to knees.

your hand in

my hair. so deep it curls my ears

to the back of my head.

then finally I can sleep.

  31

from the market:

four croissants— two chocolate, two almond.

 32

“Departed, have left no addresses” five steps

from the curb, horns sound. five hours from

noon, a jacket hangs off his arm,

battered briefcase from one gnarled hand.

is it divine purpose or a

madness older than trees, Angel,

that prods this lone human to stride

into traffic again.

  33

“After the dooryards and the sunsets and the sprinkled streets”

my dear Angel, and I choose you

for my own, I want to visit so many other Sundays

with you. they built fine benches here, and a fountain with walls such that ducklings might

never leave. that they might never challenge blue flowers in rows.

but you can come to me between

hydrangeas, and sit. here I have and here

you can pour out a river of blood from your mouth. just like the saint’s,

it is a solemn promise— like throwing bread to the young.

 34

“The wind under the door” distant Angel,

heat and heat. I have opened all the windows on the night. no breeze, but Paris is coming in crowds of smoke in darkness, in drums, and this chorus of green bottles thrown as trash against concrete. in midnight’s ash.

  35

“Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed” I lost my self in the

festival’s thousands. and what does that mean, to lose

all self? I heard many hard notes, and different on every block. I saw

hundreds of hands stretch in the air. I felt the dark

behind the dancing, more than mere night. in the Place

St. Michel one ancient woman ate pistachio ice cream and even her

scuffed shoes looked happy. but then, it is only those

who cannot dance who get naked. three drop their clothes in mounds as they climb in

the fountain. here’s a bent

photograph for you, my love, and handful of glass:

only half of it is green. the rest is fresh as all water falls on marble.

 36

“I think we are in rat’s alley”

night-borne Angel,

shards of wine bottles embedded themselves in my boot soles, the same for smoke in my hair. and well, I’ve been dancing on the shells of these shining streets since sunlight sputtered out.

  37

from the market:

antacid. a brillo pad.

 38

“Past the Isle of Dogs” Angel, if only mad dogs and Englishmen, then which am I? I who plods the ridiculous.

the white sand. and sweat dribbles off my neck in tiny lenses that magnify the sun. that collect dust. I have

no fear of rivers. but try as I might, with my fountains and books, in this lush garden—this

afternoon, this hill— as the light strikes olives from green to grey, like Eliot, I am no Englishman.