TWO KINDS

the poem that prevents you

from going to bed is

by definition 

a bad one

being a perfectionist

good ones

however unfinished

will come to bed with you

they don't care

BUT IT IS NOT YET TIME

Had they made as good provision for their names, as they have done for their Reliques, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and be but Pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in duration. 

Sir Thomas Browne, Hydrotaphia, or Urne Buriall

now more than ever seems it rich to die

and be an everlasting mummy

and in a gorgeous manner

to rule over cats in the dark

and crocodiles stuffed with papyrus

forever

bathed in the deep, blind un-gleaming gold

that sleeps with me

to ride the narrow boat of sleep

on sweet moonlit waters

to drink wine and eat strange drugs

and keep my guts in separate jars

and to forget

and let the world forget 

one's worthless name

that accident of syllables

that metrical shipwreck

that jackal's cry

whatever it was 

its obliteration

will be no error

fame in any case is fleeting

while obscurity lasts forever

i've already forgotten my address

my brain has been carefully

removed from my head

already i am talking

the nonsense talk of the dead

SASSY

She comes out of nowhere to stop me

doing that I came for.

her whims 

destroy all scholarship

and poetry 

and peace 

in the form of a small

woodland rodent

lies mangled on the floor

she is neither an ordinary cat

nor an ordinary demon

I don't know what she is

but there is no place to hide

from her relentless lifestyle

not even in sleep

which is always a violent scene:

i've got fictional aureate poets

knifing each other

in my dreams

then standing on my chest

screaming for food

            and love 

DICTATION

take dictation please

the savage loop in which we find ourselves

strike that

the hellish cavity in which we

no strike that

the molten clusterfuck that is our state of affairs

and from which it is necessary to all parties

that we extricate ourselves has I need not tell you

been a plague of frogs and toads

and toxic worms and big white

subterranean

strike that

subcutaneous worms

strike that vermin

and tentacular ghosts

and burning ashen skies

this letter is to alert you

therefore that should you continue not 

to budge from your present position

I will be forced on behalf of everyone’s welfare

including ultimately your own

to take measures that very soon

will cause you

the utmost damned astonishment

signed, etc.,

THE MONSTER CALLS ME TO JOIN HIM

My braine is brief
my vision is long
my ears
scream

SHUT UP
while I finish my song

 

incredible results from cyberspace
peace is gone
and in its place
an endless loop
of colorful amnesia
the gods
have severed understanding
from the mind 

abandoned it
to the sensual chaos
of creation

and the body’s many storms


so let us strike now

while we possess a little discipline

FULL MOON

coyotes from the outer darkness

tonight

came to the perimeter

their piercing

infantile voices

from out beyond the fence line

Argos and Willow are so indignant

they have become partly divine

Willow is in her first youth 

watching Argos though

i saw the years fall away

the old man wanted to tear down the whole forest

with his teeth 

and he would have

if the coyotes hadn't 

suddenly gone quiet

which was also

a goddamn unforgivable

slap in the face

the moon was not kidding around either

the glow got down into 

their shaggy white fur

until crisscrossing the forest

they themselves were shining

like burning spirits 

which of course they are

we walked back to the farmhouse together

I loved it

 but you know

coyote-song is hard to shake

it's a cold shot 

and the dogs will grumble all night

as well they should

because

fucking coyotes

NOT ALL

has all joy been erased from the world?

no

but enough to make random things

extremely poignant

NO POEM

 

I am not one of those poets

who write about mulch

neither its acquisition

nor its application

and certainly not

its many toxic effects

so

there will be no poem today

TYCHE

The goddess of chance is generous

but can be appealed to

only for present needs

that is, do not

seek to extend her kindness

at all into the future:

death's frenzy is as far ahead as she can think 

my advice?

ask her only for useless things

things that vanish

as soon as the stars come out

or when you sneeze:

if she grants it, great

if not, even better

 

then you'll have a friend for life

EVERYTHING

 

children (and this

will break your heart)

understand

everything

the everybody-dog

 

I used to love

everybody I loved

like a big stupid

dog

it made every day exciting

but it hurt a lot

anyway I am trying

to get back 

to that

IDEA

summer: brutalized by the Roman sun

reduced to weird circles 

out and back again

with badly-planned groceries

    my books are sleepy

    my head is hot and dry

like Keats and Shelley before I die

(though I do hate

to repeat myself) it would be nice

to sing unselfconsciously 

like some kind of bird:

that is the exact idea

if not the most precision wording

but I’m talking about freedom goddammit

freedom to be obscure

and from within that obscurity

to rob empires

emphatically not talking about those freedoms

always referenced by Americans

as having been died for

by soldiers

listen:

as we are learning now

those were always very low-utility freedoms

but you, Laura, with your medical knowledge

with your fresh laurel

di Padova se non erro

and delicate hands

if you could just kill me, perform the operation,

then bring me back

such that 

some kind of bird

like that one I often heard

in the Protestant Cemetery

(I’m willing to fly to Rome

for this;

we'll do it in the graveyard)

might rise from the chaos

just to hang out

and be itself

...I bet you anything

it would work

could you read up on that?

I think we should try it

THE TRUE LOVER

 for Molly

Ovid says

is not quite right in the head

also lovers find clothes too restricting

and are happier in underwear and hosiery

Cercamon says he is

both luxurious and sick

and ‘my sickness hath a wonderful appearance’

according to Wyatt he's all about

long small arms 

and pallid thighs

naked feet and imperious looks

all in the aftermath 

of a pleasant guise

for Housman he's a melancholy corpse

whistling so softly

you can barely hear

you'll taste before you see the blood

that drips from his throat

which like enough is slit from ear to ear

That is a pretty scary picture isn’t it

maybe it will give you a nightmare

and if it does I hope 

with all my heart

I'll see you there

'SPELLBOUND'

'Spellbound' runs

through unresisting brain

around and around

like getting stoned

with Molly and Lisa

or drinking that tea

de Quincey switched to

but I forget

my watch is ticking all by itself somewhere

in the dark

raging

deprived

berserk

I hear and I am sorry for it

 

horns drive

through unresisting body

train horns

hornsmoke

cry of Dandelion the one-horned goat

knowing it will soon

be pushed though a very small opening:

death

I hear and I am sorry

being far from innocent 

in the matter of Dandelion

 

a shudder runs though unresisting bed

it's a cave-in all right:

a collapse somewhere in the deep

spreading quakes

around inside the planet's terrible head

which will not stop

absorbing its food

 

from everything

everything

an electrical ghost it

runs right through

neurons

passages

of infinitely binding

narrowness 

and beatings

by which I never fail to be entraunced

NO TELLING

 

Suddenly I do not know

what cruelties 'our leaders' 

are not 

poised to commit

wolves and jackals do not

in the least

            overthink

    their remit

INFESTUS MAXIMUS

 

the demos is fucking

infested 

with lazy bloated infants

who think the sun rises and sets

on their doughy asses

    all righteously powdered

    and fed to perfection

while all around them 

nature 

is

screaming

            "i feel like a hot dog!"

when you call them on it

they look at you like:

"I am sternly following the market

how dare you"

MEDEA

AEGEUS: The dramaturgical 

        unlikelihood 

of the dragons that draw her chariot 

touches not her

Medea’s overturned bags

of horror

she comes with toxic surprises

yes she gives them to everyone

Thus clarified

are age-old questions of right

and redress

for, you know, of fractions she hath 

a breathtaking command

the which she hath imparted to the kids

Now she bears her meteoric car

abruptly into sylvan marshes

her gaping jaws

are a thing of terror

to the creatures living there

It is a season

of death and disfigurement

all around

    particle damage

    brain damage

    damage control

but let her come

I am the bitch-absorber

PERICULUM

Solitary divergence on a point

of physical law

is nothing on which to found

a theory of liberty

but maybe it is

not all experiments

know they are experiments:

some of them think

they are the happening itself

and furthermore

that it's a success

and good for them!

go, little swerve

sail on, silver bear

IT’S COOL, THO

I can’t hear Chet Baker in Tokyo

    (whose deathward drift

    by ‘Funny Valentine’

    is well underway)

    over Francesca’s

helium-voiced europop

whose rabid cheer 

opens a wound in my braine

from which billows out

a literary night

to cover the earth

contaminate the whole horizon

or else coagulate a gulf

wheels of confusion

are all in motion

no airbrake’s got a purchase

on that

a contagion of letters

in an access of decay

a scun

of sunshine

chucked in the window

tied to a rock

a swivet

a stab

of retrograde caution

against a mob of communicants

you should know by now, professor:

you can’t fight Francesca’s europop 

        with Chet

that

is an errand 

for Sabbath.

WHAT IS A BONE-PENCIL?

 

OK we’ve got problems

politics problems

hardware problems

software problems

GARBAGE problems

and water problems

vocabulary problems

dream problems

and waking problems: massacres

and genocides

we’ve got

murder problems all right

and problems we can only forget

with stacks of comics

and satan movies

all night long

which themselves

also have problems

 

also problems

bone-pencil

summers-day

imperial

psychic

overload

 

plus in the university

administrative oFermŌd

 

but…

these are practically our

ONLY problems!

THE BRINK OF DOPE

Elderly demons always seem

slightly taller than you

and it takes them forever to leave

they talk so much

since they have a surplus of heads

(however many is too many, says I)

it is people like that

rudely congregating

always talking, belaboring the obvious

that leave you standing

on the brink of dope

THE SECRET POETRY OF EVERYDAY LIFE

The secret poetry of everyday life

is not undone by indifference

to its total continuity

and infinitely suspended punchline

in expectation whereof

we toil dividedly but I digress

!

the secret poetry of everyday life

bears its odds and ends

lightly

look

some of your own stuff is going by

there it goes

NOSTOS

Don’t be so impatient to get home.

Everything you remember

is waiting to destroy you

the moment you return

that’s why you need a really 

killer boat-song:

like ‘The Sea-Farer’ or 

Columba’s Rhine-poem

or the Bunnymen: 'Ocean Rain'

(But not like Caesar’s 

lost (thank god) poem ‘Iter.’)

Because whatever it is

you think you remember,

the magic is different now.

Don’t be in such a hurry to check your 

messages

either.

SOPHOKLES, AJAX, ll. 646-647

At every pass

time, vast and measureless,

brings strange and unexpected things about

while everything that's obvious

is plunged into doubt

SPACE VOMIT

 

where does this strange new vomit

come from?

deeper than stomach

deeper than bowels

it rises up

from more abysmal depths

than body

can possess

 

it comes from hell

no!

it comes from space

 

as if on purpose

to eat your face