MAPPAMUNDI I

When an inexpensive star fell on the Russian autobahn

The first time, the landscape sighed, the Russian trees'

Roots knotted in the soil, and passers-by felt

For their guns. Then, in Austria, another star fell, too near

The tracks, all trains at a dead standstill. Again,

In Paris, a boy, asleep at the wheel of a 1920's kiddie-car,

Was grazed in the Tuileries; and, in London, two housewives,

Downstairs on a double-decker Green Line bus, had stars

In their eyes. In Omaha, a banker's daughter found such a star

In her bed; and the captain of a streamlined steamship

In mid-Pacific wired: I HAVE A SHOWER OF STARS IN MY HEAD.

MAPPAMUNDI II

Some say it began in Paris, when a certain Daphne

Dubois, fresh from sleep at a wooden inlaid table,

Devoured three mint toothpicks and the front page

Of Le Temps Perdu—they had to saw her loose from her chair.

Next, in München, Günter Holz shed six tense brown leaves;

And, in South Brooklyn, Hyman Nussbaum, on the way to work,

By subway, spilled a bushelful of walnuts out of his hair.

Two weeks later, a grandson of Firbank sent pine-cones

And needles to the Queen; and, at last, Felicity Wood,

In Kansas, became a cedar. The trees took revenge:

An elm became a Congressman; a linden ein Lehrer;

And seventy-five fairfaced Mulberry trees set fires

In nations where laboring silkworms were in prison.

MAPPAMUNDI III

You might, as we did, live in a bisexual brothel

Next door to the Chargé d'Affaires. Of course the news

Spills over: we got their Blanc de Blancs white papers;

They got our rouge souvenirs. Il y a danger de mort

A ouvrir les portières de la rose.

Or try une chambre noire, as we did this winter,

Near a shut-down plage on the Black Sea. Sex, there,

Is a pompes funèbres, and often, at night, you hear

Sighs from la tour abolie. Il y a danger de mort

A ouvrir les portières de la nuit.

But best, une dimanche quelconque, as we will tomorrow,

Go home—à mon seul désir. The little bees

Expect you and le port du temps is there.

Hurry, allons, allons! Il y a danger de mort

Avant l'arrêt complet du train.

MAPPAMUNDI IV

Look, children, over there, are giraffes and an Arab —

All peeing against the muro of that schloss. And there

Is a palazzo where Henry or Frederick the Something stabbed

His mother in the womb. And, there, near the Duomo

Is a tomb where Somebody is buried. And this,

A capped well badly damaged by the War, acqua

Non potabile. And, here, is landscape: palms, new-plowed

Fields, vines and orchards, volcanoes, historic

And pre-historic. Careful now of fingers, watch out

For the prod of that Brahmin coaxing his sacred cow

And listen to the tintinabulations of the Vesper Bell.

Our guide book says that in this museum is the famous

Sicilian Hermaphrodite—please do not touch her penis—

And that a Prince of England got his rocks off in this hotel.

MAPPAMUNDI V

A wistful house wife from Upper Urbandale outside

Des Moines, platinum blonde, brunette, black, silver-

Streaked by turns, tired of combs and ribbons, put,

One day, volcanoes in her hair. First Popocatepetl

Like a wild Iowa rose she arranged in her

Permanent waves, the mirror erupting in her hands.

Emboldened, she plucked Mount Etna—the perfect

Perfume—lilac, and Fujiyama, morning glory,

A Heavenly Blue. Half-crazy, sulphurous La Soufrière

In a bouquet she tied on a fillet with the lily

Vesuvius, and a garlanded queen, set forth

Shopping for dinner. She became famous

In history: the Goths admired her; the Romans

Adored; the wisest Greeks consulted this oracle;

And, in the beginning, all Egypt proclaimed her a god.

MAPPAMUNDI VI

It is the devil in me: I touch-tone at random

And reach one Margarite in Singapore; I just

Happened to be drinking Singapore Slings (gin,

Orange juice and grenadine). Random again,

I reach Siena; I happen to feel like dancing

On the duomo's floor. Next Chichen Itzá

The High Priest; I happened to think of hearts—

Bleeding hearts and heart surgery.

This phone

Is fun; I can call anywhere, anytime—the whole

World is at my fingertips. But the devil says:

"Sooner or later, O immortal soul, you must

Pay the bill."

It is midnight and snowing here,

Sub-zero, and I feel like calling somewhere where

The weather is better, some seashore hot as hell.