For Lorenzo and my father
Blam. Voices, bad lock,
a red sun going down.
The Fourth is a death
day again, anniversary
of a thing better felt
than sung most years.
Applause, like simple
insistence, might come
rigged, but not when
chosen as the word
to celebrate a birth
or made part of a skill
& then to pass it along
is a pleasure. His poems
being measured, sure,
enough to fend
for that mind's need
to make shapes on
more than one level
and so, anyone's.
I like their company
thinking about these
guys today. And to hear
lights exploding to make
plain a little age, a little
more at any rate
could almost fool me
as divine. Passing along
forms is surviving. Bodies
don't need to be present.
Fire escape slashes feet dude
But thanks for the intro to nudie
Mags & staying all day sitting
To be pointed in the direction
Of acid nail-biting and told to go
& to go, sad, away from the repeating
Myth straight to someone else's
Typewriter commanding you to get
It together and type up your hundreds
Of poems, argh. Who cares? Endless
Shrimp, for one. "The truth" that only
The disapproving understand so well
They can't begin to convey how hard
It is to be difficult around the appropriate
Children cook you broccoli though
And if scared at rented silence and big
Trash bags of blues tapes, defend that
Let me be after you're dead plus fuck
You plus I don't fucking electric lights
Scraping knowledge off the sky and love
It's toxic residue, bad skin, pork marriage
Who'll ever let me sit, whatever. Peter
Poking me in belly and asking about my
Cherry, some Naropa sicko predicting
Mother death, a junkie trying to mail me
A soccer ball and allowance made me less
Nice to you, meaning not speaking, than
I should have been, but I was what, thirteen?
So fuck it. Be looking for your star if the sky
Shows one anytime soon. Get me in for free.
I'd be walking down the street interviewing myself—questions felt, unspoken answers articulated with measure lifted from interviews I'd read—& I'd read the tonalities into my voices in my head. This was, and is, how I communicate with myself much of the time. Uninterrupted consciousness began at four, when I started reading. I was prepared for Ted's death, without a word to its possibility having ever been plainly spoken in my direction. I don't care to explain that, other than to say it wasn't special, and that I was probably so prepared because he himself was, and I received that through his general calm, being what I mainly felt in his presence other than the times he'd get mad if the fifth sandwich or the right kind of pastry wasn't coming. When Kate was killed I went blank for about a year-and-a-half, a state I couldn't recognize until three or four years after having moved out of it.
To manage the inevitable with aplomb
Tired of feeling crawled
upon. Put options signal
a crash, or several. Do I
argue for reality's under-
pinning to dissolve?
Is faith in stability
preferable to the truth?
Covered with bites and
a need to scratch. I'm
learning how to observe
little moments of stress.
O science of indifferent
self-assessment, have your
suave plastic strawberry
heads entering rain been
darkened by no conspiracy?