OUT OF JUMBLE
Whatever mysteries were once in the heart have long since
moved along - open-heart surgery, perfected now, is so
commonplace. Nothing is seen except for what it is - that
paltry piece on the mantle, made of plaster or clay, no longer
even pretends at being marble. All things are. Details are
in the open; faint the memories of longing and deep want.
-
When we are fed, we have eaten - that's it. No hunger
any longer, just the hunger of a hundred places to choose
from for the meal - 'some chump change can get me that,
a few extra dollars, this.' Everything is simple, and the not
simple is forgotten - less is more, or however that went.
-
I promised never to talk about myself when writing : to
Hell with all that. I have a long face, made shorter by a
bushy beard. I have two brown eyes, though appearing
to see, which are each as blind as ever. I cannot hear but
the critical crap that pierces my vacant eardrum anew. I
grasp nothing; my fingers, unworkable, just hang. I am
lame and listless, as a poet with a broken hand. I refuse
- so as to witness for my art, which has no witness other -
to cut hair and trim face, my poker-lined countenance
shall wither first. I genuflect to your contusions.
-
When the first judge calls, I shall say I witnessed nothing.
When the second judge calls, I'll repeat that plea. They can
have me for contempt, as I've had already their wives and
daughters. They do not know. That's how Poetry is, how
the fame of Poetry grows; out of jumble, into greater things.
No comments:
Post a Comment