OUT OF MIND
The boy with leaden shoes has nowhere to
grow but up. An unfound ground of hope
to beckon - he is tight but he is growing,
and I am sound asleep. I am, in fact,
sleepwalking, to find children knowing
children's things, alterations where no
things have changed and conversations
where no one has spoken.
-
The sound is all around - like to
that of marbles clacking, all boy's
thumbs as they flick the orbs, the
cat's eyes hitting one another. That
will be the story I want to go by -
and all the boy's future is already
set; growing nowhere but up,
something will always call.
-
I am a cool cat : my single cigarette
dangling at my one Martini glass,
my suave entrails spread out upon
the antique table for all to see - a
Glenlivet, brocade, Chivas Regal,
Lincoln Continental, grim brigade.
-
The museum opens at ten to show
the spot where a Kennedy died,
where any of the miserable cloaks
of this meager nation died - they
are all the same. If they want to
talk about me, I shall let them, I
shall let the nation cackle on.
-
"Stanhope Hotel April second
nineteen fifty-three, fifty-five,
whatever, Charles the First
origin of cotton meat flour
alcohol sugar tobacco corn.
I am a black cutout against a
captive blue sky pivoting nude
so the paying audience can view
my naked buttocks. Through
Charles Parker J. Michael
Basquiat meet Sylvia Plath -
dead here in my arms with
the boy with leaden shoes -
she who said 'I eat
men like air.'"
No comments:
Post a Comment