HEARTS OF MATTER
It is a vista of sure gold : we are
looking at the mountains, westward -
what they call them, anyway. An eastern
man's mountain amounts to not much by
a western man's standards - yet who really
cares? California and all those other meanings
pale by smoke and magic, and nothing is
ever called to account for itself.
-
Here, in a tiny Princeton villa, I am
overlooking subservience and the ritual
manner of fools with money. They pounce.
They retell their trips, they argue with the news
and they retell their doctor's views. Man makes
money based on the line he hews. Yes then, too,
oh my eyes bleed for their incessant shit.
-
I am so lost and alone - and only and only
someone like you can suffice : to hold my leaky
cup and saucer, to thank this world for being, to
harbor as well such Pound and Chaucer - or, as
Delmore said - to 'swallow his toad and study
his vomit.' Ah, poets too make me sick.
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