PILLAGE
I am at my seventh year in a place called
gold; walking with Delmore Schwartz, lining
the pockets of others, perambulating through the
Princeton lanes and passages : campus trees
resounding with bells and lineage. To my one side,
Bellow winces while, at the other a guy names
Fitzgerald plays along. The Wilsonian dirge drags
on. World war sadness still lingers, and all those
shouting voices. Need I wonder why I am?
-
Intentions are sometimes vague things - I stand
aside and swallow hard. I have books galore, they
drip from my veins like the black-purple ink of a cheap
prison tattoo: self-inflicted, pressed by fear, etched
in a chapbook of both dread and doubt.
-
'Why sit still for madness', it reads. I have to squint,
as it too so quickly fades. Like a memory of some
hallowed deed - no one wants to forget, but no one
quite remembers right - I will walk around, a legend
only in my own feeble taxonomy. Grange the ground,
bring everything to a halt, stop the noisy charade. I
am the better for this, but no, no, I am better for that
as well. All this crazy shrillness keeps me going,
enjoying the pillage of others.
No comments:
Post a Comment