6746. A ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING

A ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING

And swing low sweet chariot too and I can't say

a word about it : my legs are the sheriff's now and

this jail cell gots no key. You see. His car was big

and they pushed me in; chains on my hands now, not

that plastic crap. No real food two days on. My eyesight

got a blemish, I see black dots. As if robbing a wayside

liquor store wasn't enough, now the mailman says I stole

his change and his wallet  -  well, I did, but so what.

-

A man's got a perfect right to live and to do what he has

to to do so and I say to Hell with the law. There ain't none 

and shouldn't be none to cover that. And then like you know

when those Italian ladies go around say 'Madonna!' this

or that  -  they say it like an exclamation, like 'MaDon!'  -

they say it in the kitchen here all the time, food cart ladies

and the ones who feed the guards, I never know what is

meant. Good things? Bad things? They want something

for me, or from me? No one says, and I don't know.

-

So, just like that, if ignorance is bliss, and if I don't know

no better, then no one can expect anything from me. I don't

have to pretend even; I just really don't know. And the back

of my neck is hot, and sweaty. They throw me a filthy towel

and say 'pat yourself down, and shut up.' Damn again,

I wish I was free.

6745. LEMON TREE, ALABAMA

LEMON TREE, ALABAMA

The town  I was born in was Lemon

Tree, Alabama. One road ran through 

the center of town. I was born like that, just me,

 must'a been 1933. Last thing I did before I left town

was cut my daddy down from a tree. They 

was still hanging black folk back then, you see.

-

Get me a black car, driving fast and furious;

Sheriff said he'd have my neck. Should not

have stay around there no more, no more 

than that. Don't take much you see, lemon 

is tart, under the tongue. Lemon tree is bitter, 

got a acid taste. Ain't been back since, got

no inkling to go. Lemon Tree, Alabama, 

no, no, no. no.

6744. SOME SALACIOUS RUMBLE

SOME SALACIOUS RUMBLE

The cards are open and the deck is closed -   the

mystery of transference has already occurred. The

girls and guys around this table are now beginning

to take off their clothes. This stuff I can watch. And

predict too : she's wearing this, he's not wearing that;

her hips will be gracious, this fool is fat.

-

Adorned like ribbons on a Christmas Tree gift, the

lovelorn shock of this process can always amaze :

numbers, no names, a photo, just one, and a nod to

agree to meet, discreet. You call this discreet?

The Howie Jumble Club? With a name like 

that, what else can one expect.

6743. IF IT IS NOT THE FOLLOWERS

IF IT IS NOT 
THE FOLLOWERS

Some petty happenstance of ways and means 

have left these flowers here, and a prayer book 

and a guidance Bible for me to read. Though 

they forget I've already written one, I'll forgive. 

How's that for charity, generosity, mercy? 

Your pick; I've more to give.

6742. THE GENTLE NATION OF THIS WORLD

THE GENTLE NATION 

OF THIS WORLD

('and what have you done for me today?')
Here in the valley of the shadow of Death I will

fear no evil. And anyway I am stuck here until

I'm not  -  that rod and that staff, yes, still comfort.

Bring me more squalor to sing of : the broken-down

car in the gutter, in which two men are asleep; the

noise of the cat, swirling with its procreative urge

to further a cathood everywhere. I know that too, and

ride the same force-fields of power and want. On that

sideways porch the fat lady is sitting again with her

towel wet now and thrown around her neck. 'It's how

we stay cool in these parts,' she'd say, while two toddlers

spankingly nearby play. The kid with the can, kicking

around as if another time beckoned and truly without 

a mortal care in this world. Shades drawn, lights down.

6741. BIVOUAC

BIVOUAC

To awake with a blemish I sleep beneath stars -

in the open world my friends and brothers accompany.

My sisters, in turn, are the most beautiful stars and the

sounds which I hear are eternal. If this is restlessness,

then please, let me sleep on.

6740. IT'S ALWAYS JUST ANOTHER MOMENT

IT'S ALWAYS JUST 

ANOTHER MOMENT

The sea is wiser in more ways than one. It rules

the surface of the land  -  stretching forth its

watery hand to follow the times of tides and

the runnings of the course of the land: those

three-fingered signals in the mariner's eye, the

sextant, the compass, the rule by the stars.

I know of these things only by happenstance,

only by having been told. I'm entering here

my own, wide harbor of thought.

-

My proclamation thusly goes :  'Nothing Is!'

Take that you squeamish landlubbers, you

faithful churchmen grooming your graveyards,

you merchants and builders stuck on your

land. I don't believe in you. It's always

just another moment.

-

Your nod, your acquiescence. Your soft-shouldered

lunch on a parkside bench. These are items in my

notebook  -  as in an old Brooklyn, watching the poor enter

the in and out of their rancid apartment houses - I nod

to those I know, but embrace the ones I do not know.

Like a prodigal son, to me they are more important.

It's always just another moment.

6739. I'VE WON THE WILD MACABRE

I'VE WON THE 

WILD MACABRE

My legs are still locked around luck and  -  as

luck would have it  -  I purposely have nothing

to say. An errant constitution is okay. Much like

that Vietnam vet I know on a Staten Island beachfront,

right by the Alice Adams House, I too sit straddling

two worlds. Flags and jackets and weapons and chains;

memories of the ladle, dipping soup for others to taste.

If you get near the guy, he just goes on, starts talking, a

rant for five minutes and another lecture for an hour  -  

how his own country betrayed him and chopped him down;

how's he got nothing left but an old, mad mind; how they

send people out now to try and round him up, take him

in; except that's what he thought he fought for, the right 

to do this, live like that, be this way. He's dismayed.

I'm OK? What's the difference anyway? I can come 

and, I guess, but he's for free and I have to pay.

I've won the wild macabre, I live on a new

frontier, I count my blessings in a hand

of goodness and a suit of gold.

My legs are still locked

around luck.

6738. WHY DOESN'T EVERYTHING?

WHY DOESN'T EVERYTHING?

Why doesn't everything take my breath away, break

my heart in two, roil my mind like an Inquisition?

Why doesn't everything break my bones? Ten

year old wood dries out and curls, the butterfly

dies baked onto the radiator of a car somewhere, 

the mountain laurel is trimmed by those highway

thieves who cut and mow to endless degrees.

Why doesn't everything break my balls?

-

I can't stammer any longer but instead just have to

talk, or behead the statue of that saint with his birds,

or cut down some Jesus from his cross alone. I can

park my machine shop in the halls of the meadow, but 

I can't make it work. The ghost in the garden is the

voice of death : industrial-era production making

nothing at all. Jew-clerks selling pennies for money

to profit; books and cattle, paper and wine.

Why doesn't everything break my bones?
(Why don't I learn what I cannot say?)

6737. LOST MY TASTE FOR THE MATTACHINE

LOST MY TASTE FOR 

THE MATTACHINE

It isn't that I hardly understand, but more like

this : up early each day to shrug off another

lost day for work  -  I have to go, hang stringers

for those who buy books or pretend. Elicit winger's

responses to things proper and note. Stack the coiled

boxes, roll the foiled carts. Make the beggars eat.

-

Too long, and too long ago now too. I did all that

too long for no return at all : having to listen, pillar 

to post, having to shave identity, wax and wane and

write things down. Reports the shavings, count the

glue. Blend the time lost into something for a bank

to treasure  -  no, no, that never came; seven years,

all the same.

-

Now, in derogatory fashion, I roll new dice on open

waters : see what sinks, give no fuck nor care at all.

I know my people, know my guys and girls. I only 

need salute the real flag, the one which unfurls for 

Freedom's truth and real sincerity. I won't harp

on nothing any longer, and they can keep

their creepy pennies. I've lost my taste

for the Mattachine.

6736. IT'S LATE BUT LET ME WRITE

IT'S LATE BUT LET ME WRITE

The Carolina Parakeet is long ago extinct, just

like the passenger pigeon, which once coated 

America's skies with glee. A lot of what I love

is gone. My friend has the shakes, another has

constant headaches and a tumor. I don't know

what to do : I hear all this but nothing comes

knocking. Things get stored in the garage, and

other things seem given away. There's an

entourage, and many of them have new cars.

-

Usually it was on Saturday mornings when the

Jehovah's would come to call. When I was around,

they'd just pass by. When I was not home, they'd stop

to talk and say I scared them off. Down the street, 

at the corner, was their temple and this street was their

training strip for new recruits  -  to go walk and set out

their spiel, hand out Watchtowers, go on about their

absolute and freakish glimmerings of their own eternity.

Dressed like bankers and business-people. Why would

they even bother with that? I hear all this but nothing

comes knocking. I must have scared them off. Yes.

-

Tess was the farmer's daughter.  When I first met her,

she was clean as a hound's tooth  -  but I later learned

of all her hidden secrets. For hours in the hayloft, we'd

talk and go on, stay at it, never finish. It was a nearly

wonderful thing, for a long time too. Two years, I'd bet,

well, two Summers anyway. She was two years younger

than me, but she was only a kid. Enough of that.

-

There's always a mathematics hidden in the nighttime sky:

we fumble for ages over what it is  -  does the arc of a comet

reflect some cosmic turn, an equivalent number that can keep

the universe running? Does it all need to stay in tune? Does

this equation always work? Are we all okay? Never any

answer  -  I must have scared them off.

6735. SIMPLE DETAILS CARRY DEPTH

SIMPLE DETAILS 

CARRY DEPTH

The item is an orange on a table. The setting

is just outdoors, past the first range of the

eatery's doorway, where people pass and an

awning covers. To the right, strollers walk by

paying no heed. Eating on the street, as it were,

but not  -  that's the ambiance presented. When

you used to be able to smoke, people would sit

here for long periods, coffee after wine after

Campari, and smoke and talk large matters.

Now, nothing. People stare at screens maybe,

while I, in turn, just fidget. How'd I end up here?

-

My time is at a turning of the minor wheel; 

connected to nothing, no smaller cog turns off

of me, no reciprocal twist do I cause. Let's just

say I am not a cam. I lift nothing else in my

rotational journey. The item on the table is 

an orange, still  -  and a still orange at that.

6734. WHEN THE HEART LAST LEFT A MESSAGE

WHEN THE HEART 

LAST LEFT A MESSAGE

At some point, sometimes, I think it's just

like no one cares. The grass grows high 

between the trees, where no one walks,

I guess, even though you'd think that would

be where they walked, if anyone walked.

That gets confusing, and all these weeds

anyway make a mess.

-

And then I walked away, singing a Yankee tune,

'Love's lass gone a courtin'  -  someone told me

that was a favorite of Civil War guys tromping

through the fields.  Yeah, I guess. But then, 

not so many years later, Custer  -  who was a

Civil War guy too  -  he led all those guys to their

Indian death insisting upon some other tune, to

be played over and over  - Garryowen it was called,

or, alternately, 'Of Garry Owen in Glory'. It was

an old Irish Drinking Song. I wouldn't have minded.

-

I had a picture, back then, in my wallet, some scratchy

daguerreotype I had taken in New York City  -  you sat

for it  -  and that powder-shot flash thing went off,

 remember? I always liked it. Funny too, now there's

a bullet hole right through it. I didn't get hurt much, 

though I was shot. I'm betting maybe you saved me.

6733. POT-SMOKING NATIVES

POT-SMOKING NATIVES

'So, what do I go by? The center line is

straight, and I think that's the one, that 

counts. Right. Wow, yeah. Hey! Did you,

look at that, man. What? Yeah, hahaha.'

6732. RATCHET FREE SORRY WORLD

RATCHET FREE 

SORRY WORLD

...And get me gone from this awful pain; I

can't stand another minute. The oak tree

before me is turning willow in grief  -  I

sharpen these moments with my mind. 

Down at the yellow park, I stand before

the depression era monument to Labor

but don't know why. It's been re-done

now, and modernized to look brand-new.

What's the use? Lost all meaning now.

I once knew the girl whose grandfather

painted all those hideous figures  -  now

the restoration has skipped over all of

those contorted faces once there, almost

scary. The new ones now, if not blanked 

out, are generic and pallid and plain. Too

bad. Today's modern human is an idiot  -

can't take pain, can't understand a thing,

and just doesn't wish to deal. No scary

faces please, and no grotesque figurines

of which our small children may frighten.

6731. HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

Shuffle off to Buffalo, leave me not

behind. Think of me in retrospect,

and place my signature wallet

in the heart of your mind.

6730. AT THIS FARTHEST BASE

AT THIS FARTHEST BASE

The voodoo mama has jaundice; her cat squirms 

on the sea foam. The teak-wood carving she 

kept on the mantle has been sold to a dealer 

of tribal antiques. On her bed-pillow, I notice,

is a doll covered it seems with pins  -  10 to

15, at least  -  knee-joints, elbows, forehead,

eye. I wonder what that's about and why.

Storybook endings sometimes get jarred

by unexpected things  -  the trap you 

thought was about to spring, it stays

open instead and lets everything out.

Space, and space again, is the

infinite deity which surrounds

us and in which we are

ourselves contained.

6729. AND THEN THESE LAYERS OF JAZZ CAN TAKE ME HOME

AND THEN THESE LAYERS 

OF JAZZ CAN TAKE ME HOME

Give me more of that and I'll have another black.

Take the time to soak this moment : the constable

isn't due for three hours, and we can pay him off.

You got one tough lady there, by the way - I'd like

seeing her crease my fedora, know what I mean.

Put down that crush-barrel and lets start playing;

your midwife ways are wearisome. Run the scale

again and belt the scat, he'll blow the riff and I'll

rummy the horn. The 88's are already going, 

that cat don't stop for nobody.

6728. WORDS THAT STICK

WORDS THAT STICK

Yes, that's right; I'd wish the entire world

would remember every phrase here and 

never forget a word : like the saints and 

the sinners in some Billy Joel world, banging

that sound in the Garden  -  week after week

after week. Outside the entry, twisted little

flowers try to grow in a New York diminished

sunlit world. It seems everything's exaggerated,

yet sometimes there's little to get of what you

really need. Midnight oases are everywhere.

Drunken cabaret leaflets staggered like the

leaning ladies learning to drink and laugh

at once. Take then home, and then watch.

One time in Philadelphia instead of here, I

jumped in front of a street car and yelled,

determined as I was to have it run me down.

It jumped the tracks and made a left instead.

It seems everything's exaggerated, like I said.

6727. THE BASKET CATCH

THE BASKET CATCH

Japanese fisherman, not Willie Mays.

And how do I know the difference?

These days everything is pretty much alike,

under a thick, opaque haze of smoke and lies.

It's the illusion that batters the battering ram,

and not the other way around : sixteen medieval

marksmen, giving up their guns? No, I think not.

Here, instead, living high on the hog in Destitute

Manor, the apples are delivered already peeled;

but one needs to eat them quickly or they start

turning brown. Things are funny all over : the

apple, I just read, is now valued mostly for its 

'vigorous cleansing action on the teeth.' What

was that, and who? And the Impressionists, I

also just read, 'broke down color until everything

was white.' What was that? And who said that?

Oh man am I one bedeviled old guy, 

oh man, oh man am I.

6726. THE USE IS HEAVY WITH REPETITION

THE USE IS HEAVY 

WITH REPETITION

To take this very secular moment out of its apparent

timing, the film gets slanted and cut : Charlie Chaplin

winces, that funny hat falls off his head. The boat is 

reeling, and all the food goes sliding off the table.

-

On the other side of darkness is the black-eyed girl;

or, that's what we see her as anyway. No color sometimes

means just that. She's the one wishing she was his.

6725. ATHENS HAS FEW ALLIES LEFT

ATHENS HAS FEW 
ALLIES LEFT

And all Thrace is lost and what of it. The island

of Nimacros is in slumber and Abraxo now seems

withered. If I had a hat to carry a care in, perhaps I

would. Here it is deep night  -  the ledge of an approaching

morning not yet anywhere to be seen. When that first

glint and whisper of dawn appears. Yes, these Summer

birds start their noises while is still dark. That I like

and that I can understand  -  unroll me that carpet to

morning, open that new-day door. When I eight years 

old I'd sit in a big padded chair at my aunt's house  -  

everything deep and upholstered and quiet, not like

anywhere else  -  and view picture books of places

like that : Isles of Capri as if a hundred existed  -  placed

turquoise places and little vintage Greek hillside towns

and villas. I would dream away my young-kid's heart

with the forward-bearing thrust of life-blood surging.

And  now, even Athens has few allies left : things go

broke and people give up. Children starve as mothers

grow infertile. The only bridge left, these days, it now

seems is the heavily-trodden bridge to nowhere.

6724. MINISTRATIONS

MINISTRATIONS

All those cowboys coming 'round the bend

and it's not Easter time any more; even Fleet

Week has passed, yet there are hundreds at

the teeming shore. The short man is selling

hot dogs, and a pretzel cart sits nearby.

-

Indians and Pakistanis gather, those from

Sri Lanka stare. A few young girls are in the

light, looking about, their dresses sheer. Enough

for the light and the wind to meld my heart to

theirs  -  Texas, and those Shriners. Funny

people everywhere. I want to love the tourist.

-

Before capsizing, any one of these large boats

would yell for people: 'More!' I can hear it now,

all those boobs and their harbor cruises and Circle

Line Tours. A few buses are bunched like lions.

6723. MAY WINSTON

MAY WINSTON

If it comes to be then it

comes near me  -  arriving 

on a small train thriving. 

The battered glass is all

chipped and nicked  -  small

things flying in the midnight

air. We see as far as we can

and let the train's headlight

do the rest, as 'round each

bend we throttle.

6722. FLOG THE SIGNPOST

FLOG THE SIGNPOST

In the gutter are the remnants of an

overnight rain  -  the things that flow 

and stop. Once they hit an obstacle, that's

good enough for them. Other items go around

and the silt and soil amass. The world erodes,

simply, like a little finger in a pencil sharpener.

The signpost, not as nimble, becomes a dam.

Things are buttressed by other things.

-

My only usual abandon is the anarchy of self :

I too can walk until I hit that wall, and then let

the rest around me swirl : a knock on the head,

a moment of dizzy-feel. These are different 

items in a different world, but oh well, it

cannot be like Christmas every day.

Things are butttressed in

other ways.

6721. NEARING TOWSON STREET

NEARING TOWSON STREET

Each yard has its garden spot and they're all

a'bloom  -  with a fire of abandoned growth.

Crazy shoots and flying claws. Plants

with tendrils everywhere. Small moments

of a Princeton morning walk. I used to walk

these terms every morning, like a lawyer

still writing his brief  -  the case was over,

the arguments closed  -  but the words still

had a fight to finish. Now it's over, and

already so long ago I forget the way

each morning used to end.

6720. WHEN HEAVEN NEARS HAILING

WHEN HEAVEN 

NEARS HAILING

We wring out the rag to help it dry, to

speed along the process. In the same 

way we cleanse our soul to squeeze 

it along; removing a spoil here and 

a spoil there. You'll never get to 

Heaven if you break 

my heart.

6719. ARTEMIS

ARTEMIS

(my mad history)
There are just too many things I don't understand :

I want to talk fast but I can only talk slow; I want 

to stay in place but things keep moving. The house

at Pendicott Lane they tore down today, after last

week all week shredding the yard to smithereens,

one-hundred-fifty year old trees mean nothing to the

bastards who deal. History is a smokescreen for lies  -  

It was told to me that the guy who had this built,

in 1897, was a small-scale steel-mill owner in

nearby South Plainfield  -  Harris Structural Steel  -  

the place is still there. No one ever steps in to stop 

  anything  - just now the usual Historical Society geeks

will have something new to wilt and wallow about as

they review how 'things have changed.'  What's the good

of any of that, ladies? What's the good? You used to use

a rag-to-be-laundered for your monthly terms; was that

good too? Things have changed. Mao said 'change comes

out of the barrel of a gun.' I think I knew what he meant,

and I like it better. My little red book is bleeding too.

-

There no sickening bottom to this sickening mess, and I

only get angrier with age. Sand-blasted fake stucco homes

with grandiose entryways to nothing at all and a flat-screen,

large-screen you can see from the street. Your false-blue-light

doesn't beckon me. Interesting immigrants don't happen around 

here. They build and they mow and that's that and that's there.

-
The National Anthem is embroidered on the towels

with the Fires of Freedom pictures engraved on the porch. 
Experimental permafrost, doctors with sutures where noses

should be, the she-men mount the he-she's in the gloaming.

Oh it's so sweet, sure it is. Give me Liberty, or give me crystal 
meth. It's all the same, it's really all the same, and my little 
red book is bleeding and this land is down for the count.
-
I am green with macadamia nuts and furious with envy.
I have two dozen suitcases filled with my love, two dozen
buckets filled my blood, and I am heading without fail to
that place at the corner where I can be myself. This is a
new world for a new land and a new language. I am speaking
to the world : I am at large, the criminal you never imagined
the good person your mother never warned you about, seeding
the ringlets of dawn with my passion for living and saving.
-
Just today at the corner of Park at the Avenel Street light
with ten layers of instructions about when and when not to turn 
and how, I waited and Avenel's own mad woman came screaming
 up to my open car window. Surprised in turn by the face of my
dog, she stopped short and then came forward still - astounded
by eye contact and yelling shrill, to me she said these words
as if said from Park Steeple : 'It's all about saving the 
people, it's all about the people!'
-
I pulled her aside right close to me and said : 'First things first
when you get to the moon; and the future ain't all it was
cracked up to be anyway.' That put a damper on that.
I wondered if she had a love life
and went along on my way.

6718. SCENTING THE ROGERS' STREET

SCENTING THE 

ROGERS' STREET

The way my mild-mannered dog sleeps is beyond

any form or function. Just out. Behold. she rolled.

And then, in a flash, she's up and about when some

new smell comes to the fore  -  to check that window 

ledge, that door, originate that smell. Turns out, half

a block off someone's walking their dog. Never fails.

-

We don't have those alarms within us, but we do have

perfumes  -  I'd guess derived from the same impulse,

but less to identify than to pounce. The rank of sex,

the odor of distinction? Who knows what it is.

-

Trees drop things, but they don't drop colors; odors only

a little. Cars have to fight with themselves over these

internals, the hanging pine tree at the mirror, or the 

fine-mist spray of vanilla, butterscotch. A racket.

6817. LEAVING EVERYONE HAPPY

LEAVING EVERYONE HAPPY

The way a love story tries to be true

to every facet of its understanding, 

that's the way I go about within this 

world. Notifying myself of any

quickened alterations, and then

making sure that everything fits.

-

It's better than walking in clogs and

tripping on steel  -  I have nothing to say

but what I say, and anyone who wants to

interpret that may. Love stories sometimes

do end in a tragic plight. So here that may

be  -  but the other option I still hold out :

to leave everyone happy.

6816. ARIDITY

ARIDITY

They've tied up all the trees; nothing can

breathe and the waters have grown solid.

In every direction, the race of Man has

foolishly made concrete of oases. All this

illusion, once past its point, bears no longer

any meaning to trace. We are, where we stand:

a disgusting race, with a disgusting face.

6815. SORTING THROUGH METAL

SORTING THROUGH METAL

The duration of time here is like a sheet that's

flimsy over things  -  covering furniture and the

legs of chairs. I know what's beneath it all, but it

stays well hid : a loading dock with two Spanish

guys laughing, the ductwork of a new building coming

down off a truck. The workers splurge their time in a

happiness and a merriment of mirth  -  loud noise,

laughter, donuts and coffee. I watch enough to see it

all. The model shop, one over, still closed this early

morning, displays its planes and boats and cars. Each

so nicely done : perfect gluing, no splatter or overflow,

smooth painted finishes and all the decals just right.

It takes an old-line Hobby God to do all that. No one

works intensely any more. The Inspector, with his

clipboard  -  and his hardhat on  -  is looking up,

with a scanner of some sort in his other hand.

I wonder what he sees. I wonder what he

is looking for. All this metal. I wonder,

are we as dull as sheets?

6814. AND SO TODAY

AND SO TODAY

Today I'll be the dumb, farm hobo  -  kicking

a can down the dirt road, 'cept it's full and soon

enough hurts my foot. Teasing that pasture horse

but forgetting it can kick. I'll sit out, late, under

the open stars,  just looking up at things.

-

By morning, I'll have forgotten all my sorrows;

be awake again and ready for more  -  barnyard

boots, cow-towel in my belt, work-gloves at the

ready. The ancient John Deere, ten whole minutes

getting it to start. My sister's girlfriend turns over

quicker than that.

6813. THE GREAT CONGRUENCE

THE GREAT CONGRUENCE

(what else to pass the time?)

Flatly, and without swearing, that voice was

solid and soft  -  he stood near the barn doorway,

his pants unbuttoned, but nothing more. He was like

that, forgetful as a mole that never came up for light.

He'd just pee'd in the milk-stall corner. 'What's you do

that for, Michael, there's an outhouse at the toolshed."

He said, with a bald-face, "I, I couldn't no more wait,

I jest had to go." It was like that sometimes; he got away

with stuff, the retarded barn-hand. "Aw, it's okay; cow

piss, your piss, all the drain, what's it matter. Maybe next

time ask me, we can catch it early. It's better that way."

I smiled, and walked off. Too much to do, too bothered

to care. If it wasn't for his sister, he wouldn't be here.

-

He just stood there, staring. Or gaping; I never knew. Little

patience for kids like him, but I hold my tongue. She's fine

and she's nice, and what am I gonna' do? Everything else she

does does makes a man feel at home, her taking care, me

working  -  and the kid, her kid brother, the super-slow one.

The feeling's good though; I like them around.

-

There's an old Mercury out on the other side of the barn;

two of them, actually. They've been there, broken down

and sagging, for over ten years. That's what we call them,

actually  -  'Broken Down' and 'Sagging'. When me and the

kid are plunking cans and bottles off the roofs. We set 'em up,

and we have our 22-caliber pistols and just shoot. 'Green bottle

on Broken Down', BAM! 'Third can, left, on Sagging' BAM!

We shoot, we keep score. It's fun. A crazy retarded kid, and

me, with a gun. Each  -  can you maybe imagine a more

dangerous scene? She lets it go, but she's never happy.

-

I guess anything can go wrong. Ricochet, bad shot,

jammed gun, explosive misfire, whatever. Maybe

she's right, and I'm wrong for the kid, showing him

this stuff, but what else am I gonna' do? I ask you,

what else to pass the time?

6812. CUCURKUMA

CUCURKUMA

I'm just about broken now. My

alphabet is gone, and my concrete

shoes are drawing me down. Hand

signals won't work, and a flotation

collar is out of the question for sure.

Give me a smoke before I die; it won't

matter now to start a habit. I'm tired

but I'm lucid. I'm rabid but not insane.

-

Running from everything  -  the guardians

of Istanbul, the dining room dishes of Orhan

Pamuk, the heights of old Cucurkuma.

Bring me back home, please.

6811. LEVEL

LEVEL

I have a level head,

and when it's not broken

it's on straight enough.

6810. JUST THIS

JUST THIS

(Brigadier-General Doyle Cemetery, Wrightstown, NJ)

I beseech the friends of the lamb to stop the shearing;

his eyes will pop, his fear is palpable. The days of

long sacrifice are over  -  even without the blood.

-

Today, over 5000 acres of field I saw at least 5000

flags of the dead and the buried. Tiny, little stakes,

colored rags, fluttering in a moist and rainy wind.

6809. REASONS TO

REASONS TO

Meticulous creation, flowers in a setting, the still-life

in that drunken man's head, the painter with the withered

hand : these are the carnival things of this life's longing,

the patterns and the fissures where the world is formed.

I cannot look glumly at a broken world; just want 

instead to take it in and hold it.

-

The child of me watches the road fade and disappear;

the magic of the receding line, the flow of distance,

going away. The present man I am, peering dense, sees

another world more plainly than that  -  passing abreast,

swiftly alongside, at speed as it blurs. Between to two,

and somehow, was the rest of my life. There are reasons

to remember, and reasons as well to not.