Monday, June 15, 2009

427. IRRATIONAL SPIRITS

IRRATIONAL SPIRITS
Out of mark, out of time, out
of place. The locus of the stage
is planted and steady - and my
feet-marks are measured by tape.
Places measured; where I should stand.
This scene, that scene. Where to be,
and where to move.
-
The black man, I am noticing,
Willy - my friend - is talking and
laughing loudly, in this great old
morning sun, in the most animated
fashion I have ever seen. All Amos
and Andy and Scatman Crothers combined.
Stepin' Fetchit got nothing on him!
-
Reading Hart Crane can sometimes seem
like nothing more than a gay dream. A
mistaken nomenclature of some bad science.
Every blade of grass within him, it seems,
wants to go back to Whitman - 'Crossing
Brooklyn Ferry' and all that. That's not a mark
I'd care to make - really - for myself.
After all, the gate to High Parnassus
was closed long, long ago.

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