482. DIMANCHE

DIMANCHE
I held the teller in my arms;
kissing briefly, I asked about
the interest rate. 'Very high,' she
said - but I knew she was lying.
It was posted on the wall for
all to see; not worth a damn
and less than three: percent
that is. I wanted to ask
her opinion of 'premature
withdrawal' but found
I hadn't the
nerve.

481. THOSE GIRLS FROM NORWAY

THOSE GIRLS FROM NORWAY
Midnight forever sky makes daylight
in Summer last as the Sun doesn't set
nor rise, just moseys around with
time on its hands while the people
everywhere eat fish. I told her
'I like Grieg', but she didn't
hear me, just kept right on
talking.

480. THE OATHS OF MAGELLAN

THE OATHS OF MAGELLAN
'I swear the following are true :
To circumnavigate the globe, wear gloves.
White is not good in white outs or storms
at sea; wear black seal or gray canvas.
Boots are as good as their last salty shrink.
Scan the Heavens only with caution - astrolabe,
compass, and chore-boy will have to do.
Bring dogs on board only at your own peril.
They slip off deck eventually, and simply
cannot be retrieved. Thus, plan to grieve.
Everything you think is flat, is round.
Everything you think is round, is, in its
way, just as flat as that which is round.
God flies through the Heavens in a
chariot, knowing nothing of
water all the while.'

479. BLOATED RHETORIC LIKE INKY DOO

BLOATED RHETORIC
LIKE INKY DOO
This is a very vibrating life,
here where they stay, like
fiddler crabs in their
silly orchestra. Death Valley
to all who come here.
An aerie of figments
jesting as eagles.
-
The Vast Intensity Chemical
Club dips their fingers in
bloodied ink - a coagulated
goo from the Crimea, a mash
made of Russian saints.
-
That fourteenth kid on the
overhanging left: his name is
Fred and his mother's dead.
He said he was watching
baseball yet again the other
day and had to turn it off.
He suddenly realized, what he
said, was the following :
Every game, any, had all
been played before.
-
'No more, no more.'

478. KATE CAPESHAW : THE HANDLE ON MY PITCHER

KATE CAPESHAW:
THE HANDLE ON MY PITCHER
No one ever said you had to know
(dear reader see) what the Hell I
was talking about. The wind
blows the willows, the willows
blow what? This is (after all)
the shoreline where (it's said)
where some Jesus walked upon
the water. Peg-legged I guess he
wasn't. But, for a true believer,
(no?) that would just add to the
MIRACLE - mystery momentous
event. Oh, by the way, that
description just then ain't me.
-
Handstands in the air.
Cartwheels in a fire.
Sitting still at the very
end of the world - while
it crumbles, while it burns.
That's more my style.

477. THAT TROGLODYTE VINCENT VAN GOGH

THAT TROGLODYTE
VINCENT VAN GOGH
Cameron I can't tell you
how I tire so, of looking
at pictures by that troglodyte
Vincent Van Gogh. I tell you
this in confidence, of course,
and just so you know - they
really do, they bore me so.
All those tired swirly greens and
blues; what was he seeking to
say, trying to do?
-
The 'so-pathetic' individual
stance, by anyone, sends me
off. A fiery sky, that
starry, starry night.
What to do?
Where to go?
-
Oh, that troglodyte,
Vincent Van Gogh.

476. SPOONING

SPOONING:
I wouldn’t be spooning you huddling me

as we stretched between fabrics of

lightness and glee; and we find the gauze and

the businessman wise - with his silver delivery

bringing forth the book with the answers and

all of the notes that he took but his presentation

WE FIND lacks something special so there’s

nothing unique - and ‘we can buy windows

anywhere’ we reply sounding sleek and so

with that he leaves and we’re left feeling meek.

475. MONUMENTAL URGENCY

MONUMENTAL URGENCY
At a certain point. We
all listen. The mice are
within the wall.
-
Transubstantiation
itself was never like
this. Innocent III,
1215. Proclaims
'Transubstantiation'.
The word itself is
the key : 'Across
Substance'. Things
pass over, are not
what they seem.
-
Those mice again,
within the wall, with
a monumental urgency.

474. STALWART

STALWART
At the cookstove is my avenging angel, concocting
a rubble of stew; something, anything to serve
to the wayfaring stranger bound to show soon.
Washing tense silverware in the old oaken
bucket, she stands sideways to the light
and straight out to the wall. It's a picture-
perfect cave painting from some
filthy Lascaux of my mind.
-
Never more than tiny additions of dirt,
the piled-up mounds in the corner
led me to believe in the succor
to come. As if I could wait
forever, I stood in place
and just watched.

473. SEDGEWICK THE CRANIUM

SEDGEWICK THE CRANIUM
I have a head filled with something,
but ideas make me sick. Tossing and turning
like this tends to weaken my resistance. I
was thinking of you just this morning,
what a legend you'd become.
The face I saw on the postage stamp -
or was I perhaps dreaming?
-
There wasn't any malfeasance involved -
like the tree with its toner of shade and
the ripple of its leaves. I noticed something
amiss. A certain sadness or loss. It
was just for a moment, but there were
people too - lying about on the thick grass.
-
I don't like leisure crowds either.
All that hemming and hawing about nothing.
Shades and shadows, people and their drinks.
Everywhere something. Nobody thinks.

472. AS IF ALL OF ANOTHER LIFETIME

AS IF ALL OF
ANOTHER LIFETIME
My bonafide incidentals could never compensate
for the places you've gone : hammerhead sharks
'midst the logorrhea of doubt and desire,
storm-front passages and pages of fire.
Barcelona, Madrid and Mauritania too.
('that girl from Mauritania, I love her with a
mania'). All those shoes, and so well-polished.
-
I took a vacation in my mind, and let it all
blow away : into pages of clouds and dust,
with the blue sky breaking. I watched all the
moons and planets of my soul's imagining
linger until they were spent. I made love
under untold seasons with women I'd
only heard of. I ticketed the skies
with my own brands of fire.
-
It went on this way for (what seemed like)
eons - time, at that level, turns to a
watery film and just slips between
the fingers. Yes, just slips between
the fingers...as if all of
another lifetime.

471. ARTIFICIAL FIGURES AND FINGERS OF CURVES

ARTIFICIAL FIGURES AND
FINGERS OF CURVES
Some Anabaptist monster singing
orange songs was holding off the
water by the quay. His tipsy hat
was crooked, rakish as a raft, and he
leaned sideways just to try and stay
straight. Walking on ahead, he found
himself a'tizzy, falling backward, and
landing on his head. Getting back
up, with a quizzical leap, he fingered
his coat and said 'I'm the most int'risting
character you'll ever will meet. 'If I
fukkin' say so m'self, that it be!'
Yes, yes, but that was a long time ago,
and that episode is long ago gone.

470. KINETESCOPE

KINETESCOPE
The old doll was shaking her hands violently,
peeling the coating off the floorboards. Her
eyes raged, wide-opened and glaring.
For one brief instant I was certain I glimpsed
a nativity of sureness, the arrival of some
new form of Grace. Just then, someone
brought a dog in, on a chain. Its snaggly
face both growled and barked at the
same time. Lifting the gauze of Heaven,
like a wastrel child in a very old film,
both man and dog and woman
plunged into the depths of the
river - over the bulkhead, into
the deep. Some ancient East
River tugboat slowly
sliced by.

469. CHRIST THE STONE THAT SMITES THE IMAGE

CHRIST THE STONE
THAT SMITES THE IMAGE
I wasn't sure of any of this :
I'd read that phrase in a little book,
handed out by Man, or a man I
mistook for one, as if the one
could equal the many (or aren't
we all one race?). It said I 'COULD
be saved' but 'only by God's Grace' -
acceptable enough, as it went.
I sat down some more, to see if
this meant something special or
particular for me. It said 'Christ was a
Man in a hurry; He always spoke fast
and was always on His way - never staying,
never to tarry' - (in fact, I figured, never
to marry). I took a moment to gaze at the
sky - any clouds in the shape of some God,
a cross, a special shaft of light (perhaps
spelling 'Gary'). I saw nothing, stood up and,
sort in a hurry of my own, went along on my way.

468. GRANULATED OCEAN SANDS

GRANULATED OCEAN SANDS
Wedging the marsh flowers into a
crevice, two children ran sideways
along the beach. Sun in their eyes
was sand in their hair - all the same,
and awful as ever. They reveled on
their Earth like new starlings from a
tree; reasonably sure this would all
go on forever while endless waves
kept hitting the shore.

467. THE NEW NOTE OF TERTULLIAN

THE NEW NOTE
OF TERTULLIAN
I wrote two songs before the door
even opened - one about angels and
one about bears. The man with the hair
went to the bridge to sing them.
-
'Aria cantalava' was all I heard.
It was all really loud, but it went
over well and the crowd, restless as
usual, summoned me up for more.
-
I waved them off, with robes and
a dagger held high. From this perch
probably thousands could see me.

466. STARLETTO MONGRETTO

STARLETTO MONGRETTO
I salivated at your thought; took
the wrong turn right, left after going.
It was a canine, not an incisor, the dentist
said, laughing. He suddenly remembered me
from once before, swarming him with
leftover dollar bills and asking for more.
'The whole thing never left my mind' - he
said that grinning in a winning way.
I shuddered to think of his age and
his manners - all this tools and implements,
and no reason not to. Outside, a dusky
starlight was entering my mind.
Inside, I was looking for
whatever I could
find.

465. SOME SORT OF NEW (How a Writer Lives)

SOME SORT OF NEW...
Pummel the waters with your wave,
stinking crew of the old leaky scow -
you've been known to leave like this
before. Once becomes twice, the same
way as nothing soon becomes something.
And the story lines always lie. At every stop,
an inkwell is pressured to burst - gangly words
all drippy and wet, debark from the planks of
the deck. We squeeze out whatever we can,
eking this or stomping that. Ribald fun at
every shore-leave stop. They leave the lights
on, just for us, and all the willowy things are
waiting. Isn't this a charming life? Some
sort of new endeavor? It's like
that, how a writer lives.

464. SCAVENGER HUNT

SCAVENGER HUNT
Beastly portability, extravagant claims.
Such are the dreams of the huntsman at night :
deep, dark woods wherein the ogres reside,
coaxing dreams from daylight and extremes
from twilight; anxious animals hover near the
grate. I am listening with one ear to something
Sibelius wrote - a great northern suite, a tune
of Karelia, marked much without rhythm yet
harnessing a beat. It reminds me of evil and Hell.
All together, like this, some nightmare gathers
within the folds of my cloak.

463. I TINKERED WITH THE FORMULA

I TINKERED WITH
THE FORMULA
'I'd really like to break your head in two.'
Things like that disconcert old people, you know.
It's difficult, under the cover of living,
to tolerate force and remonstrance - especially
when every living moment can seem as if
it's your last. Last days upon the lordly Earth.
Final moments in the anteroom of whatever.
Hearing things, words and conversations, thrown
about carelessly, sometimes becomes rather
strange. The other morning I heard some
old coot saying 'I am still the full custodian
of my own rights.' And then, right after that,
one girl was telling another 'so here I am,
riding in the car with Pinocchio! Something
kept getting bigger, and it wasn't his nose!'
I guess she could have said 'but it wasn't his
nose' (instead of 'and'), but she didn't.

462. NOTHING I WOULD HAVE IMAGINED

NOTHING I WOULD

HAVE IMAGINED
A penchant for pain - such as it is - permeates
my space like the old candle-woman talking
harsh in my face : her cigarette smoke upon
garish yellow teeth, a haphazard manner of
posture and a wave of the hands. She has
nothing to say, of course, though attempting
to say - something and wherever and how.
-
I bow, at the last, to the least of her
good intentions. While reading a
book on absurdity (a notion all to
itself), I am brought to a halt.
Italian Futurists and avant-garde art -
all things we call by concept, though
nothing is really real. And then
I am brought to a start:
-
On this train, a conductor I always
see - working for the union,
to promote the citizenry's weal -
has tucked into his belt the book
he currently reads. Nothing I
would have imagined; it didn't
seem his mate. A book by V. I.
Lenin - 'Rebellion and the State.'

461. THE DEVIL IS SWEET

THE DEVIL IS SWEET
So it's a fine line we're given to walk,
one that's brokered by double hands on
the wheel : tokens of trade, sellers of solace.
The rub is the connection (whichever we feel)
of which hands are on the tiller and who's
steering that wheel.
-
And then I watch you walk in -
holding something hard, with an
infant strapped across your front.
I try to make my syllables work,
with the lining, the pure reason,
the thought of what we take.
-
Instead, I find myself once
more thinking of things to attach,
strap to my chest, haul on my back,
or drag by a chord.
-
(The Devil is hungry, the devil is sweet.
Gets you down on your back,
gets you back on your feet).

460. MY BRIGHT WHITE MORNING

MY BRIGHT WHITE MORNING
It seemed as if every tree was upside down:
reflecting a new sunlight somewhere. The angles,
the tone of each thing I saw, seemed different.
Holocaust charnel. Workmen smoking yellow
cigarettes, standing around, butts in their
mouths, contorted with laughter under
brand new skies. Someone kept a
tractor so sadly under control,
digging the earth for all it
was worth.

459. UNCLE JOSA

UNCLE JOSA
A World War I jacket hanging on the
wall might have been his - anyway, he
pointed as if it were. To be truth-seeking,
he'd have to be about 110 years old for that to
be so, and he wasn't. All along the mantle were
displayed old farm tools - hand implements, hammers,
chisels, mallets, even discs from a plow ('the only
kind they used to know'). He laughed at that -
a crusty, backspin laugh filled with ancient phlegm.
I watched it all cough up as he cupped it quickly
with a yellowed handkerchief. Truly, I wanted
to say, truly what a guy.

458. ANY GREAT RETURNS

ANY GREAT RETURNS
'We have to end the factotum and stop the
assault. I use lots of names anyway: one week
I'm Chloe Yarmulke and another maybe I'm
Celeste Murphy. Who matters, and who cares?'
With that, she heaved a fence around her shoulders
and walked off down the lane. I was certainly taken
by surprise by this one : a simple laundromat girl
doing someone else's laundry, or some coal-miner's
daughter (she'd said) seeking terms for a major
settlement - emphysema, black-lung, pleurisy
or something running in her family, but she'd been
thinking she could successfully blame the coal companies
for it and win some big money. I told her I really
wasn't that sure of anything and that my specialty
of late was complete Absurdity - and that it
really didn't bring forth any great returns.

457. ALL THE ACTIONS OF MY LIFE

ALL THE ACTIONS OF MY LIFE
Having reached your new place -
called Wit's End - I stepped inside.
Your previous decor was not so
attractive: the collection of samovars
on the light blue wall, with the antique
knives you showed in a bevelled
glass case, a tube full of oranges
and a map of old France
(as seen by mariners coming
in from the sea).

456. MY HERB RITTS PHOTOGRAPH

MY HERB RITTS PHOTOGRAPH
I want it.
Your impersonal momentary excellence
is like swinging from a guardrail over
the highway below. Yes, the bridge
would welcome a jump but - like
anything else - it is far beneath you.
-
I swear that crenelated steel and
the iron-bound I-beam together
make nothing; sports and a ball-field
stadium are a really dismal arena for
any thoughts to pass through.
-
Mind that, Porfirio.
Some nightmare like this
would have such markings
on the doorway, scraped -
in fact - into the very wood.

455. WE WANT/DO NOTHING

WE WANT/DO NOTHING
We grade the land, destroying its crop.
All I ever do is send these signals off to you -
while even the translator snoozes, getting each
word nearly incorrect in its retelling of each idea.
This old and brown land is flattened again.

454. FIRE IN THE LANCE

FIRE IN THE LANCE
Prolific how the many flowers bloom -
like decay after growth, their own future
beckons. We all must welcome something.
The tincture of the weed - a sadder sight indeed -
is measured only by the value the blooming
of precious flowers give it. High contrast, this
realization of seeing both ends of the very same
channel. I want to bow to Nature; Natura, the
crazed mistress of parks and boulevards and
graveyards and lakeside pavilions. All the same.
The power, the glory, the sadness, the pain.
Earthly glory, enraptured beauty, a passing
and momentary rapture we can feel.

453. LIAR LIAR

LIAR LIAR
Did my legs ever have anything to do with your steeplechase?
That, I never knew - nor could I figure any of it out
while you were away. Where was that again. Monte Carlo?
Uruguay? It really wouldn't matter but I need to have
something to say that's correct about you. For once.
I've already told a hundred tall tales about you to
any who'd listen. Your lips like butter, your heart
like steel - and those thighs and that other...well,
we needn't go there, it'd just get me in the slammer.
Oh, again. Or didn't I tell you I've been there before?

452. IVAN DURGIN, (1967)

IVAN DURGIN
(1967)
11th Street. 4pm. Oh Ivan, not you again.
Put your henhouse out to pasture, for
Tompkins Square Park is now in fashion.
I can hear your cymbals clashing, and all
that jewelry on your wife's closed face wants
to see the light of day. Let's go walking? Oh, OK.

451. THE RIBBING OF JUDAS ISCARIOT

THE RIBBING OF

JUDAS ISCARIOT
Like Judas Iscariot they went traipsing down
the road singing some miserable song about
angels, heads of pins and lightning pushing
fire through clouds. Everywhere one looked
they'd left their traces of Death and Misery.
Siamese twins entering Hell wouldn't have had it
any easier - getting away with the trickery,
getting away with the stealth. Murder was
nothing at all. All it took was nerve.
-
In the lane at the bottom of the hill,
the basket-weave lady was selling
her wares. Italian bags, Italian eyes,
Italian profit. Anything for nothing
and one for all. The little red car,
from the left, just then entered
the picture.
-
A man steps into the trattoria by
the fountain. 'Give me a drink',
he says. He looks around, points
to the small man at the end, and says
'Give me two of whatever he's having,
and one of what everyone else is drinking.'
He throws down some Italian coin and
refuses to go away.
-
Finally, Judas comes by.
He enters, sits right down,
pulls out a pistol, and
shoots himself in the brain.