Ivan Argüelles



Jumping jackques folly a flash or flashier than most, or joking jock Foley the no you won’t catch him sniffing politely the Muse’s quim, him big tapdancing dream stepping Irish of a load of a fella, him Big Talk hunkering midst the ferns of joy and rename, chorusing hummingbirds beside his bedwife a beak of thing She too, how’s it you nivver heard stalk or beam of him nowise? Ah but I got to see him first a nightrain of yore when he was a eeny weeny bit of a rare unknown yawning and yawping the darks of a cine-beat in revery of some depth of a mystery twice as wide as breath is long from the groves of Academe, twisting and slapping with some uncanny lore the myth of spoken Horrors, a speech at a time, all the broadway of light from Homer to the idiolect of next door jimbo the lungwage moor. Ah there he was flush with penknife and grip with meter roaring a miltonian pentameter far as moon as the scrims would take him celeste phrase and liddle biddies all! Could that size of a man be a Poet as well? Ah but sure as jazz was invited into a telephone and noons could bear no more the sweat and weltering fiction, ah no more but to rap back and forth across a table of tine and glass the muchabout Her the mostabout Her you ever could, and still have light to breathe! Was it a twin his mind was set beside, was it mere apropos the finest underhosies and ivy could compare with eglantine the troubadour his jaunty trapping style?

Well the truth is margins have no fail, all is a token of insanity and spearheaded by blood and ivory the slippery road it takes being the Poet he is, the jamming junk flash of a Bard, ah the wrap of his voice around any syllable is enuff to make Achilles out of an anthill, dint you know how ably kenned he was just making dark out of the brick? When was it ever a laird of lore such as him stalked this buggered earth of hours? He was much more than about and no simpering flesh of a degree in holy antics his was and remains the Reel Thing, the mastery of misery in a toothsome Dream of a dress named Death as beautiful as any Inspiration that has telegraphed home about her whore, supplied and reinvented by him, muster Murk the muddlesome irritant of the airwave, the clambering ringing stiff of a Rave.

Ah but more, he’s the walking mouth and mound of History, the peripatetic gad goading on the fly the reminiscences of young and bolt, the ghost author of a galaxy of poeticks a sublime sempiternal joshing on about from Blake to Lamantia all the grit that’s music to one’s Ears for fear it should all pass from memory’s blinkered view. Should we speak profanely in wise of his unmounded girth of humor for every passing skirt that waves its youth of colors high but old tusker the Jack of Fools is there to renarrate how from Porter’s coal to the link between Joyce and Olson fares river rewinding down each and hovering trough of unconscious abode ‘til limelight us finds hunkering in Eva’s tide swept away ah ivver slept a wave, aweigh! Adrift! For ‘tis of voices and his Voice true he sings the multilateral person of his -ality the nose bridge betwixt harsh and suffering the softest too the sweetest what ever was, for doth Love complain of a finer companion, how?

If to leave his impression on clay or earth the tongue of tales retold his is the greater for its sum like air and wind rewove into what platonic fix, do the ancients rally round the shade of his towering Mind? Ah such myth Ye foils of Jungian round tables as to dispel the cloudy day’s choked emotion, for here midst his patter of jongleur’s turk and adamantine find Ye muses the wealth of riddle and charm, suave his bait, but never sure the lurking mystery Unrevealed. What is to compare him to, a rain of light or sleeping the switches that darkness matters?

          —Ivan Argüelles