Something precedes it
And how it breaks my heart
That
what I don't have
Doesn't have me.
I'm applying for a job in
eternity.
The hours are terrible but the duties are
light
And only the furniture and love
Lean on your
molecules.
Oh, the embitterment
Oh, the tears cried for a
birthday
And the endless waiting.
But it is mostly a
trick
Done to the kind of seizures
That accompany the
holidays
A portrait of salamanders on wood and
glass.
Forgive me, kind teacher,
For my awful Spanish
My
references to globules
Both stout and slim.
You put them
there anyway
Just to confuse me
(Thought's honesty so
abrasive)
I ought to just leave, and I do, and I will.
Just
one moment!
2.
Finally there's someone to give to
And there's so
much to give, I'm scared.
A simple decision...oh, that
word!
I'm tired of it and also of the
punctuation,
The pronunciation, light for light and dark for
dark.
I'm exhausted, black against white, horrible
screams,
White against yellow, brown against brown.
Who
determines these things? Don't they listen?
A poet is a voice
from the gutter,
A blubbering, terrified, lonely child.
How
I gape.
How I stare and let my eyes grow large,
How
impatient she is, in her crying,
How patient and
The men
accuse me, whispering and laughing,
Two pants legs, what a
riot.
Voices, and more voices, Stimmen und
drang.
Noise isn't what's destroying those maracas.
It's
sobbing.
3.
They put me in jail and expect me to talk.
Who's
kidding who?
Who is the therapist and who the artist?
This
one you can never shut up
And the other won't start
talking.
Dialogue is impossible, better to use
A wet nurse
and a television set.
4.
If they use the word "transference" one more
time
I'm going to start screaming.
5.
"Resistance." What a laugh.
It's like trying to
make a
Non-site out of bronze.
They eat chocolates
instead,
They peel them from pages of Freud
And nibble. No
one even stops in the hallway.
Art walks around in here
Like
a neglected "borderline."
Isn't anybody else sick of
words?
6.
Bite the hand that feeds you.
*
Non-narrative
Being a Pongeian exposition of the
word
for B.W. and C.H.
Narrative is one step back: I look
into
a mirror and what I see is
what I intended. But beyond
all this
you don't have to hang yourself to
prove that the
rope is strong. Such as:
a softie cannot be a heavy. Limit a
world
becomes more than one text. The before has
died — they
were in earnest. What does
it mean to mention an interval
(squeeze
that one in — "after awhile, you want to
follow it
— the power of a name.") Close
quotes. On separate ground. A
vast
portrait of the American flag — such as
"the poem" and
not "the poetry= a vast
proving ground." Un etage. M
returns.
An elaborate trick to hold the floor. This
time we
are laughing and holding our sides.
The moon in a furor —
"Racing With
The Moon"= a tracing, a blank space.
Young and
old, a wild spelling +
a cold. "Mean it" inhabits. The
text
glows with aplomb (Valorization
Principle becomes "words make
their own
things.") Everybody played a hand and
beat me so
evidently this put me out of
the game — different kind of
Bridge, but
the game could form a
bridge to who is
being addressed there —
racing with the Alfred Ryder
moon.