It stormed. Thunder rolled
& lightning cracked sporadically,
illuminating the room like strobe lights
with a short circuit.

The sounds of war.

I welcomed the pounding
relentless rain. Gunfire in the night.
I hated the rain. I hoped
it would last all day.

One glass, a bottle of wine,
dusty record albums.

Ironic that it should be
Beaujolais Jadot, vintage 1967,
and sacrilegious that I
should be drinking alone.

Coffee can be savored
in solitude; wine was created
to share.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
the dynamic, the soulful, the greatest
blues-soul-jazz artist of the 60’s . . .

Dedicate the wine to the 60’s,
memories, private wars,
and Mr. Lou Rawls.
Once, he sang to me personally, alone,
in front of 1500 people.

There was a party afterward,
of course. In those days, there was
always a party. Afterward.

Lazlo was jealous, but pretended
amusement.

He was a Master of Pretense.

It rained.

It rained all over the world,
but it never rained in the
Golan Heights.

The war lasted six days; the battles
a lifetime.

Stormy Monday. Tuesday just
as bad. Wednesday
worse.

And in the background of my life
like the soundtrack from a B movie,
the voice of Lou Rawls.

Lazlo delighted in signing my name
on church registers
and the clergy came to call.

The Baptists were the worst.

They came in masks, but Lazlo always
knew what closet doors to open.

He was clever, A practical joker. . .

He was a son of a bitch

St. James Infirmary. . .
stretched out on a long slab, so bare,
so cold, so dead.
So what?

Gunfire. Thunder. Guanabacao prison,
Castro’s chamber of horrors.

Three Corvettes in the driveway
and some damn doctor from the Bahamas.
Dynamite and Tobacco Road.
Was he really a doctor?

The cabdriver wasn’t a cabdriver.
The priest wasn’t a priest.

Are we all just a network of secrets and lies?

Dancing close together
in the dark. No dust on the albums then.
Drinking Jamaican rum, dark,
less refined.

Playing gin near a window
when it rained, and on the patio
when it didn’t.

Quiet expressions of love.

Anything but the ballet.
The ballet reminded Lazlo too much
of Stalin. Some Hungarians
fight private wars.

There were nuns on the bus . . .
hovering. They never had to go to
the bathroom. They never wasted time
looking for Coke machines.
They adored Maria.

Everyone, it seems, adored Maria.
“Machine-gun Maria,”
radiant, virginal Maria with magnificent,
innocent eyes.

Too bad about the eleven men in the alley.
Where was the machine-gun now?

Maria, white, pure, and very bitter,
like cocaine. But twice
as lethal.

Lazlo was captivated by innocent eyes
and sensuous lips.
He called me jealous.

Poor Lazlo.
Destroyed by eyes that held secrets
and lips that told lies.

How touching, laying a bouquet of white
roses at the feet of the Virgin Mary.

Will the real padre please stand up.

Perfidio, perfidio.

I’d rather drink muddy water,
dark and murky like that
last night in Havana.

It rained.
It always rained except in the Golan Heights.
Maybe it was riskier. But then,
it was so much safer.

The tears stopped. The rain stopped.
The bullets stopped.

If Lazlo were here now, he’d be in San Salvador.

I’ll go to a Catholic church
and light candles.

I could eat at Wendy’s.

Nobody gets out of life alive
anyway . . .

and revolutionaries make lousy lovers.

NOTE: “RAIN, sometime” belongs to Carol Surrena. It is her words,
her attitude in the piece that I like a lot. I edited it somewhat, and
spaced out its presentation for publication as a Pangborn booklet
in 1983. I include it in this collection with her permission.
— Frank Polite