WON’T YOU GIVE UP THIS POEM TO SOMEONE WHO NEEDS IT?
Remember what I told you about purgatory?
Limbo? How all that’s happening now is just
this waiting around till the big cheese makes up
her mind about you? She makes you the way
you are and then decides if it panned out; for
every ten half-baked cookies there’s a gem
&, you know, just maybe you’re one of those.
Then there’s those take her name in vain—
whaddya call them?—the religious moralists;
she don’t much cotton to them, not when
they try to take away a woman’s right to choose
or bad-mouth folks almost as queer as she is.
Well, everyone makes mistakes. That’s what
purgatory’s for. Sometimes it happens that
while you wait you see what’s what—start
accepting you’re in a long queue for God
only knows what. And neither of you has
any idea what the hell the matter is or what
to do about it.
THE MOST FREQUENT WORDS IN GIRLY MAN
the
is
of
to
in
and
like
you
that
it
on
for
but
with
not
as
war
no
or
are
this
my
we
at
be
just
what
me
your
all
by
from
have
say
has
if
was
so
more
out
don’t
when
one
there
they
up
then
let’s
never
now
were
who
its
than
can
poem
way
into
only
been
time
bricklayer’s
every
get
our
before
over
arms
after
go
I’m
which
will
even
other
going
people
right
see
would
can’t
how
know
about
any
back
first
his
man
still
I’ve
nothing
off
world
had
long
oh
without
again
always
do
down
he
here
make
take
these
think
day
end
two
us
where
away
come
heart
lost
nor
their
those
till
am
face
line
part
same
thought
could
her
life
many
name
things
wrong
between
blue
home
painting
red
around
find
got
left
mean
own
show
some
something
song
them
yet
you’re
another
art
becomes
call
each
hold
human
moment
much
new
place
there’s
too
well
while
against
almost
also
behind
better
give
heaven
middle
mistake
money
next
seems
street
truth
water
work
being
bird
days
door
double
fire
form
green
hard
hope
look
love
may
orange
should
that’s
word
break
change
else
eyes
girl
girly
hand
horse
inside
keep
let
men
mind
must
near
old
promise
she
subject
touch
turn
under
want
why
action
anything
didn’t
fear
feel
getting
great
guy
head
hey
hiding
house
light
made
most
myself
neither
once
person
reality
says
school
shadow
shot
sky
such
through
today
told
TV
walking
accident
anyway
boat
book
bridge
center
comes
cry
did
eating
ever
further
God
good
ground
Jew
least
lighter
little
live
maybe
mother
night
poetry
put
said
side
social
someone
stand
start
stop
tears
used
what’s
woman
won’t
years
across
because
beyond
boy
contemporary
cut
death
doesn’t
edge
enough
far
feeling
few
fog
frame
hear
hidden
image
isn’t
it’s
&
nbsp; liberty
lose
making
meaning
morning
please
poems
point
political
possible
rather
read
reading
real
rights
saying
shadows
sign
sing
state
sure
understand
until
very
west
year
ago
air
allowed
beauty
become
beginning
big
blank
borders
brighter
broken
came
cannot
child
color
count
course
dance
dead
dear
everyone
everything
extension
fall
feelings
fighting
final
forest
four
full
goes
greatest
gurly
hit
ill
language
later
less
looking
loss
matter
mine
need
notice
ocean
outside
parts
perhaps
publisher
road
shop
shows
silence
sleep
small
smell
station
stealing
sun
sway
taken
takes
taking
talk
they’re
thing
though
three
took
totally
trade
trying
violence
voice
walk
wave
working
wouldn’t
write
yourself
DEATH ON A PALE HORSE
Circumstance guards way before
Targets long out of reach but forever
Emblazoned on mind’s horizon.
Like phase or water without wetness
Sheer incline to other slope
So that shibboleth becomes
Token of last year’s dope
Or cagey proportion not quite sized
For the next reason. How completely
Dandy, doing dithers in slivered
Solicitude or postcoital entropics.
Seize the tone or time’ll
Trick every last one of you, it’s
That close, that final.
UP HIGH DOWN LOW TOO SLOW (2)
Look up in the sky, it’s a
mercurial representation
of things in themselves, the
action not the doing,
the done not the lunge.
Dr. Kildaire in his mythopoetic
struggle with Ben Casey;
the crown tools; shop
shock. Killer patois bisects
nominalization ratio at too
frequent a clip. Vividly
vacuous—though you probably
think that’s something to aspire
to. Glow don’t gorge, except
on alternate news days. There
are floats in them harbingers.
Bust a truss.
CHARON’S BOAT
Unsealed in its concealing, the I
Merrily rolls its r’s and minds its
Q’s, a ways away from falderal
That names a place in line for
Godliness of views. The sump
Pump’s low on expiating power
As all the shimmers parlay bets
That blank’ll blight the probe of
Next week’s trenchant, pensive
Slump. Stubble along pleats &
Stumbled plies of done done that
(don’t do that). Nickel’s worth of
IF YOU SAY SOMETHING, SEE SOMETHING
for Emma
It didn’t happen that fast
clobbered by the silt of mineral movement
tempted to board the welter
of inspecific media capture
burnt like leers on the sprain.
Cajole me into oblivion if not
obliviousness, clotted clearings that
jam like slate. I didn’t
mean to do it—intention
doesn’t even enter the equilibrations.
Send me away, I’ve never been there.
10 December 2008
[“TOMORROW, DAWN . . .”]
Tomorrow, dawn, when the countryside’s almost white
I’ll depart. You see, I know you’re waiting for me.
I will go by the mountains, I’ll go by the woods.
I can’t be faraway from you anymore.
I will be walking with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Without looking around, without hearing a sound,
Alone and unknown, with back bent, with my hands crossed,
Sad, and the day for me will be like the night.
Then I won’t look at the golden evening, so grave
Nor at the faraway sails veering toward Harfleur
A green holly bouquet and flowering heather.
3 September 1847
Victor Hugo, Les Contemplations XIV
TODAY IS THE LAST DAY OF YOUR LIFE ’TIL NOW
I was the luckiest father in the world
until I turned unluckiest.
They shoot horses, don’t they?
In the mountains, the air is so
Thin you can scarcely say your
name. I dreamt I was a drum.
In the dream, I dreamt I was a
school boy afraid of school. I dreamt
I was drowning. Far away, the
crush of snow refracted the still muted
light. As if punishment was not
punishment enough.
14 January 2009
TIME SERVED
Honor her voice in me. Where
want knows neither hope nor deceit.
Flown, as if bent in place or
smacked into temporary adjust
filter after total system flush,
revamped by best-in-view anchorage.
Just salty enough, goes
on where the instigations to
instantiation are plumb zero,
bearish on fate, bullfrog
of a guy, no spills. Argument
ages past warrant. Funhouse
carbonization. Folded into lore.
Honor her voice in me. And still
a searing can be seen. Under adequate
convocation, the apparatus collapses on
cue. Far more than would be
impingement. I grieve, in tow,
untie by stalling, as honor
lives by two, habits accent
by holding steady, a lifeboat to
nearly everything. Bridges buckle
weathered to their climate. I
feel as if the days done gone
and left me in this
lone and fearsome blind.
SYNCHRONICITY ALL OVER AGAIN
It would always begin by not
being there, hiding behind the lot
that just sold for twice the reserve—
as in echo will get you bounce,
pouncing to the growl of faded
tunics flayed on the pia
no by
old-time losses and newly garnered
spools. I put this disc on before
but it never sounded like this,
sounded like you cared, sounded
like the ache in artichoke or the
service at a schul. Don’t even go
there, we’ve been over that
a trillion times, and I still don’t
see how this connects, how
you expect that I would
understand, or even go full
fathom for your lugubrious
form of wit. It would always
begin that way, as if you’d
heard it without listening,
somewhere in the inner spaces
of your disattention, the only
place paradise has been known
to coalesce, just moments before
the rent is dew.
LE PONT MIRABEAU
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine
And our love
Comes back to memory again
Where always joy came after pain
Comes night, the hours sound
Days go round in which to drown
Hand in hand, face to face
While underneath
The bridge of our embrace
Eternal gazes, weary waves
Comes night, the hours sound
Days go round in which to drown
Love goes away like the water flows
Love goes away
Like life is slow
And like Hopefulness is violent
Comes night, the hours sound
Days go round in which to drown
Pass the days, pass the nights
Neither time past
Nor love comes back
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine
Comes night, the hours sound
Days go round in which to drown
Apollinaire, Alcools (1913)
MORALITY
so what
so what
so what I’m
what I’m saying
so what I’m
so what I’m saying
I’m
I’m
I’m saying
it’s
it’s
it’s
it’s your
it’s
it’s
it’s
it’s your fucking
it’s your fucking
it’s your fucking fault
fault
it’s your fucking
your fucking fault
fucking fault
I
I
I
I don’t
I
I don’t
I
I don’t need
don’t need to hear
hear
I don’t need to hear
don’t need to
don’t need to hear
to hear
hear all
all
all
all
that
all that
don’t need to hear
all that extra
all that extra stuff
stuff
I don’t need to hear
all that extra
all that extra
all that extra
all that extra
all that extra stuff
stuff
all that
extra stuff
so that’s
that
so that’s
that’s
so that’s
so that’s it
it
that’s it
so that’s it
it
that’s it
so that’s it
I don’t
I