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Page 8


  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

  And when I do get there, I will put on your grave

  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