Two
Poems by Marc Pietrzykowski || Author's Links |
Ga Poor baby, lolling in a carriage trying to separate color, form, color When they come scuttling in from everywhere, Looming like a skyline, then bending as one, a chorus of coochie-coos peeling out From those pulled taught death-masks, eyes empty all the way to skulls' back-- This is why, when I see baby, I point and yell: go back! you fool! go back! but only To bother mother, and father too, those paunchy gatherings of flesh intent on cluttering up my space with more hands and feet and little round heads, The ones wearing phones and an orchard of numbers: the nursery school. the flash card outlet mall. the personal trainer, his and hers. rocketship reservations. The ones who care enough To stuff a childhood into babies' maw hour by crucial hour yet still dream of teeth falling from the sky. Poor baby. Your daddy and your mommy whisper their secrets, And already green is rising from between red and black and white. Soon you will even have a word for it, and then another, Until nothing matters but a baby of your own, and then the babies will become children, And the children will come like water, spilling out of hospitals and schools and choir practice with a sedentary gleam About the eyes, in malls and abandoned railcars and on camera, Always on camera shrieking or sullen, Obese, swelling with glandular fury, starved for grain And affection. Endless rivers of children. Poor, Poor baby. Beware those that touch, and beware, always, the coochie-coo. On the Fermentation Of Grains And Other Things Vodka. I'll tell you why the men Sleep in their boats, womenless men Whose pillows buoy the spot: the dreamed Spot: I'll tell you: vodka made Their houses come down before ever a timber was laid. There was a time daffodils and fruit-drowned cakes seemed To bow beneath them, the men With boyish lips pouting, now each a sot And sea-ridden. Womenless, cloying, sweet at the core In the worst of ways. The women, less from some kinder lot Than of fogs, never tell: there is no ocean anymore, There is no river, not Even the little water, not A single drop. But in their cups the men persist In a drunkenness untouched by drink While the women mutter and brandish Christ At the docks. There is no vodka, what you feel Is a dream--but even as the voice cracks, the words Enveloped by steam rising from a break in the real, They wake, stomp across the deck, herds Of men come occupy the earth or else to feel The hatred of a drunk woken mid-dream; They stray amongst mists that touch The hairs, the forearm, the need for a numb And raging love--each would become The sum-total of oceans: always clutch Your brother like salt to the tongue: and if what comes To greet you is you, then, by god, you've made a match. Not that it matters; what comes To fetch you at last will not invite itself in, All told; your womenlessness gone, manlessness Disappeared, success Masquerading as a good night's sleep, it lifts the latch, (A way of lifting), stands moist and, shaking, Begins To count the liars, start them waking: Vodka. Christ. Motion. Love in the way of simple towns. Make yourself comfortable, it says, thrash about. Dignity is how clowns Reproduce, so let out Your melon bursting biceps, your hair-shroud, Your face and dimples and eyes like a thirst; Make the universe something proud. Unless Of course You'd rather die a drunk, or a monk, or are they two; Unless Of course You've found water. Unless You've already been dispersed, and promise to return as dew. |
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