Sonnets by Michael Gregory Stephens || Author's Links |
for Susanna Banana Sightings Did you hear the owl? That's a dove, my love. Rembrandt I am not so much concerned with the faces that the old master painted, but the dark around the faces that draws me into them like a black hole sucking matter out of existence and into the darkness beyond kingdom come. In that sense, nearly every painting that the old master did was a theological statement about the world beyond this knowable universe in which we all find ourselves. Perhaps the only thing that grinds me down more than the master's sense of darkness are the carbuncles on the noses, chilblained skin, the ruddiness beyond the seasons. In Memory of Annie Hopkins I look for your face in all the faces of Mayo and the streets of Westport, but you're a Hopkins from Castlebar, really Snugboro, just outside of that old town. Yet as I walk along a privet row, I first see it like it was homecoming. Because I have spent my life dreaming about this greeny hill near a meadow, the lone tree in a nearby field reminds me that you came and went in the blink of an eye, and when I drove from Westport to that home where you had once lived, I no longer was alone. You seemed to guide me along the hedgerow where your girlhood unfolded so long ago. Inishmore When I looked up, I saw her face up there, almost as if it were another moon or planet maybe or perhaps a second coming, or like I were on Inishmore, Aran Islands' largest stony, damp outcropping, facing back toward land and the great hills of Connemara, only this was her there, and me looking up through her body, belly like the sea, breasts Connemara, and I am licking salt air from my lips as the groan of ships at anchor calls out in the dark like a bird calling for help. Everything undersea, here wave is all. Lift, sea, with salt-life, wind-drift, and roil. Revealing I. If you peel away layers of onion, you will come to its core, and once that is done, there is nothing, not even essence of what once was the onion. Peer Gynt led such a life. He peeled away the layers of his existence, hoping to discover his essence, but he found nothing, or worse than nothingness, he found the empty center of the human dilemma, a moment that was filled with terror, not unlike the old Jews, some of whom, it was claimed, stared at the face of God, and were horrified. Whom did you expect, Alec Baldwin? Was it written God had to be handsome? II. I had to excavate self from myself, and that meant I had to dig and dig, and peel away the layers like a stinking onion on the kitchen table, rotting from disuse and neglect. Who was I when I took away the "I," and left nothing but this essence of humanity, this shell of what I had once been? I prayed to God for help because I was as helpless as a naked baby on that kitchen table where the onion once had been. Illusion had become self delusion, this sea of despond, this misery of self, centered in fear and weighted down by it forever. III. No one ever said that God's face had to look good, did they? No one ever claimed God looked like a moviestar. All I had to do was to peel away the layers of self from myself, almost like peeling paint from a wall with a putty knife. Easy, I thought. But it was more like stripping old wallpaper from an old wall in an old house. It was an archeology of the self, and I had to become, a saint in my pursuit of this history, judging nothing, praising or damning nothing but stripping away the layers like an old floozie, kidding herself in the mirror. IV. She showed her old rump, exposed her old breast, and gulled herself into believing it was all still there, only none of it was there anymore. Instead, the paint scraping, the filing away, the chipping and peeling showed what was underneath everything, the old architect's first intention, and near the doorways it was old wood, as a poet friend turned carpenter once discovered in his own apartment on the Upper West Side, birdseye maple, a wood of such fine beauty. That is what finally is revealed: old wood, fine maple, birdseye. You see yourself as yourself, eye to eye. Flowering Cherry Blossoms in December Cherry blossoms flower in December: pale pink bud in the gray of day, sky dull overcast and rain expected by noon, only joggers and dog walkers out this early in the morning, mountain bikers also out riding and homeless and crazies hiding in corners, behind trees, the ground in Riverside Park muddy and slippery, and two aberrant cherry trees, one in blossom, the other just expired. I remember Korean cherry blossoms and snow falling on the ground in wintry Seoul, so I guess there is a cherry tree that blossoms in winter, even in New York. Scarlet Tanager Near Clay Courts I return from tooling around the park and doing miscellaneous errands (really this is an errant ride without destination to speak of), though I may have a weak cappuccino with a friend before heading back home from Riverside Park, anything to avoid sitting down and writing once again, and again blank pages, blank verses, blank walls and blank doors without door knobs, not to mention door-frames without doors, so that to speak of this day as miscellaneous is to miscount the blessings, mistaken facts for a bird. Was it really a scarlet tanager? Fallen White Birch by Stillwater Pond Up-gutted from the earth, its roots taken to the air: Danger Thin Ice, the sign says, but there is no ice, no water even only mudflats and aftermath of storm, neither blizzard nor hurricane, "freakish meteorological occurrence" of lows and nor'easters, killing all trees, and whipping people through the park ninety miles-an-hour a few days ago, though what remains now of the storm of '92 are the uprooted trees, broken branches on the ground and the look of wonder on the faces of the joggers and walkers, and listen how quiet are the talkers. Mike the Butcher I. Mike the Butcher talks about Descartes and all of the life of the mind when he works in the slaughterhouses of New Jersey or in the rare kitchens of the Palisades, severing arteries and boning chickens for meals at four-star hotels. Sometimes, when I see Mike the Butcher, I am reminded of Prince Wen Hui's cook who practiced the Tao of cutting up an ox, not just by mass but by distinctions, as he said. Finally, he saw nothing with his eyes. The cleaver found its own way by instinct, if not of the steel blade and wood handle, then the intuition of the butcher. II. Other cooks needed a new cleaver once a year when the blade became dull with hacks made at the sinews and bones from oxen. Not Wen Hui's cook who had the same cleaver for nineteen years. Cook slaughtered a thousand oxen with that Taoist cleaver, you know. The secret: look for the spaces between the joints. When tough joints came, he felt them, slowed down, sensed where an opening occurred, and went right for those sinews. Meat fell away like a plot of earth breaking in the cracked hands. He withdrew the blade from the ox. He let pleasure of the moment slip over him, wiping bloody cleaver on white apron. Weeping CHerry Tree Blossoming in April In that little courtyard on Broadway near 115th Street by the side entrance to Columbia, this startling pink blossoming tree weeps, its branches hang over a fence and onto the concrete streets of the city in Morningside Heights. I imagine her to be as pink and red and full of life as this tree is round, and as heartbreakingly beautiful, too, cork-screws of tendrils falling from her head like trestles in an arbor. At least, that is how her boyfriend saw it as he weeps for her there, letting his life be wrapped up in the cascade of Columbia's pink branches. Chuang Tzu's Monkeys I. Yes, there were nine children I grew up with, but years later I asked my mother how many children she had, including those who died in infancy or right out of the womb, and she paused before answering, then mom asked her literary son, "Are you going to write another story of us?" and I said, no, but I was lying, and so she told me then, "Sixteen in all." Back when there were only seven of us, we had to share one giant-sized bed, and so my father let us sleep in shifts of three at a time in the bed, and later the last four got their turn. But they balked. II. So my father, usually a man who had no sense of compromise, even though he had gone to Georgetown for a year to study to be a diplomat, came up with a novel idea of letting the four sleep first, and the other three children last. The four complainers, though still four to the bed, never complained again, and the three others waited, if not patiently, they waited and waited, until it was their turn to sleep, sometimes falling off asleep standing up, homework falling all about the bare wood floors of our little old house, and no one stirred, except a fat old mouse. Letter from a Model Minority "I went up the long wooden stairwell to the top floor of the dormitory where I hoped to look at the winter sky, the heavens, and many stars on this clear night, but when I got up to the top floor, the door was locked, and instead of stars and the vault of heaven, I saw clear ceiling, the glass ceiling that allowed me to go no further than I had come until now. I am lost about what to do in the land of the slam-dunk and McDonald's, Kentucky Fried chicken and burritos, go home or stay, knowing that where I have come to is as far as I am to go." KO'd in the First I. I didn't come out jabbing, didn't listen to my corner (Jesus, Joe and all the rest warning me to keep moving), and I didn't use the angles--in fact, I was artless and open for the knockout, treating it like a walk in the woods--and I forgot the last warning from the referee to "protect yourself at all times," but instead I waltzed out to the middle of the ring as if it were a picnic, I never thought of it as a fight or even as a blood sport, and instead wanted to give my opponent roses and talk about how're you, family, how's your corner? II. I knew how to slip and slide, knew the drill about ducking the jabs and slipping the power, and never dreamed it would be a sucker punch that deadened my senses and made me cockeyed like Popeye after Bluto ran off with Olive Oil. They say that the punch you never saw is the one that will get you, will floor you, turn you all around, and they are right about that one. I never saw it coming, thought this dance would go on forever and a day, but this guy danced me into a corner, then he hit me with a kidney punch that put me on Christopher Street, lights going out. III. My head was full of flickering black light and my head full of black lights, flickering, I told myself later, you should have seen it coming, everyone saw it but you, the angles, the deception, the sly tip- toeing, pitty-pat of those graceful feet, the dreamy sweet nothings, everything one big fix, you big shmuck, the cornermen shouting. How could you not see it coming? The roundhouse to the head, the short body punches, hard and painful, to the liver. The heart punch stopped your heart from its beating. His two-punch combination to the head stopped me from ever thinking again, friend. Crazy Salad This mesclun, so colorful and healthy, reminds me of hallucinatory days of my youth when mescaline also was so colorful but so unhealthy, at least, being crazy, it never helped me to understand myself or the world around me, but only bred a kind of insolent grandiosity fueled by low self-esteem and great paranoia. Crazy, isn't it? It reminds me of listening to Van Morrison's "Crazy Love" or reading Yeats' Crazy Jane poems. All this explained the violent moods, said I. Or it was something in the salad. Dear Friend This is not like passing ships in the night, but rather it has become like random neighbors passing in the halls, the random electrical current unmistakably sensuous and unmanageable. I'm not exactly berserk with love, only anxious as if I were about to step onto a stage and perform. Love is a nail in the head, a friend once said, and I laughed at his exaggeration, telling him that love was not war, was as soft and kind as a warm blanket on a cold night, which made him laugh scornfully, calling me naive. What makes the relationship out of sync? Tin-Knockers on Church Steeple in Spring I. Some tin-knockers hang from the church steeple of Holy Name on 96th Street near Broadway, shouting insults to one another on this the second day of spring and all. "Tonio, dumb-shit, where is my hammer?" and Tonio, the first in command of the tin-knockers, what a brilliant man, answers, "In your fuckn tool belt, Shorty." But Shorty, perhaps the most challenged academically, tin-knockered, asks: "Where did I leave my tool belt, dirty shit?" Mother of God, you wouldn't believe the words That the head of the tin-knockers unleashed upon the head of his challenged partner! II. Yet it is remiss not to recount the face of Tonio, a Sistine angel. And this angelic man tells his good friend: "You're wearing the fuckn thing, Shorty." Ah, but spring is in the air by the sound of their tin-nail hammering, yammering voices everywhere, and rain forecasted by afternoon, so they need to argue less and work faster, because the steeple of Holy Name leaks, and there will be Hell to pay with the Franciscans, if they don't get the work finished soon, or at least before the next great deluge that may encompass the steeple and the tin-knockers up there. The Day Before That is the First Day of Spring Quick! I've only hours left to write a poem to welcome the new season, equinox this and that, and just this morning, after running at daybreak in Central Park, ice on ground like a thin membrane around a flower, snow on around the trees, hardly a glimpse of it, spring, I mean. But later in the morning, I heard a pretty young woman, oh the shoots burst upward at the sight of her, who talked of the first daffodils in her yard, poking through the canker of snow in her city garden, and her cat purred by window, dreaming of mice and summer. Now the Earth's crust needs to melt away fast. Homecoming If we live, just live a life, we become heroes and heroines, just living life, because to be human is a tragic condition, the hero and the heroine need to suffer to achieve the glow of recognition, the illuminating moment at which their lives become lives of significance, so that death turns even one's enemies into good people. Am I right about that or am I kidding myself? Aren't there exceptions to this rule always, some villainous cad who warrants no grace or respite from the awful deeds they did? Repeat: living life is heroic enough. Meditation Before Medication I raised my hand and was called on, and so I asked the therapist this question from my seat in the back of the long room: if prayer is speaking to God, and we say that meditation is listening to Him, I wanted to know what they called it if this Higher Power--oh Great Spirit!-- spoke back to us. What was that response called? I thought of statues in a Franciscan monastery on the Hudson River where I had gone for a spiritual retreat, and how I was so anxious I thought they might speak to me then and there. A patient called out: "Schizophrenia!" Air Guitar Virtuoso I. If you listen to Aaron Neville sing just about anything from bayou stuff to Ave Maria, you understand that our envy of birds is not because they are able to fly, but their singing. For this reason, I have always fallen for--in love, flat on my face from--women who were singers. In fact, I often have fallen for them in the act of singing, before that crystal moment being either indifferent or simply taken with them, but not sure why, until their vocal chords vibrated, and then I was gone. I flew. I married a singer, though I shouldn't have. II. (Lyric coloratura soprano...) Today, I still fall in love with the song because of the singer. And I'm able to forgive Frank Sinatra his politics because his voice is so good, but as I told William Kennedy in a letter once, I prefer Tony Bennett to Frank, Chekhov to his Tolstoy, and Kennedy, a lover of song himself, told me I was nuts. I am. He was right. I am nuts. Often music is what makes me less so, crazy, I mean, just as it is music which makes me calm. Music is not sound then, like Wallace Stevens said, but feeling too, or only just that. It is life itself. III. Life itself: you could tear out my brown eyes, stuff my mouth with dead leaves, and leave me for dead on the roadside with my hands sliced off, but if there were a song on the radio, if I had a rhythm inside the head, or if my mood had its own hard cadence, and I still had a beat left in my heart, I would hum along with it, being a poor singer myself, though people often have said that I had a musical way with words, but for the life of me, I don't know what the hell they mean by that, I am so talentless when it comes to real music. Life is music and music is life, friend. What Eve Said I am tired, Eve said, I am oh so tired of these plums, Adam, and Adam said to Eve, Then what is it you want, woman? and she told him, I want, I oh so want something different, and he asked, Like what? Like, like, no more plums, Eve said. Okay, Adam answered, No more plums, but what else do you want, my dear? and she said, Tired of plums, want apples, Adam, want them, these apples, oh so badly I can taste them on the tip of my tongue, Eve told her significant other. She said: Tired of plums, want apples, want apples, want apples. Tired of plums, want apples, want apples. Thanksgiving Landscape burnt umber and amber and brown, winter in the air, but not snow on ground yet. Sky pearly. November in New York. Destitutes cold and edgy, hungry and lonely. Lose your mind on the crystal train. Light a candle in the skull. Remind you of Norman Rockwell, does it? Kind of feel like a Hallmark greeting card, the hollow eyes of the poor following your coattails? If only Charlie Chaplin were here to render it into cinematic art. Umber and amber and somber and brown. Maybe Walt Disney has some mistletoe. Even the white people look miserable. Homelessness I. "If I don't hate the homeless, I hate that word 'homeless,' and I really hate it when the very homeless refer to themselves as 'homeless.' That's really hopeless, isn't it? Seems to have more to do with being a dope-fiend than a homeless person, you ask me. But who's asking me as I'm one of them these days, begging for food and coins you can spare or shelter anywhere but the shelter itself which isn't that safe. I am not going to bullshit you, though. If you give me money, chances are I am going to use it to buy drugs and alcohol, not food or shelter or help." II. "Stated another way, it makes all and everyone feel bad for our own bad attitudes, blaming everyone for where we are, which is on the street, and where they are, which is on their fat asses, life of assets in the bank, big car, fancy home, on top of the world, without a care, and certainly not giving a shit about me or anyone else out on the street, who are only waiting for enough scratch to get a bag of dope or a rock of cocaine, that old crack. I lived on the street without a home for close to ten years, back when, charming my way into their bedrooms." III. "I slept from one girlfriend's place to another, charming my way into dinners and beds. Free love, some might call it. Others might say it was a free lunch. I still am not sure if I ever was free of anything, certainly not the fleas and mites, bughouse visions on wine. Then I settled down with one person, then with another, I settled into a domestic life, living years in one place, I married and even raised a child. Went to college, got some degrees, and even worked full-time teaching at a university. By the nineties, I was homeless once again, back on the bum." IV. "I was back to being what my father used to call a bum. I had no work to speak of. I had not been employed for years. All I had were my books and papers which I had to put in storage or sell, I couldn't keep them with me on the street or at my friends' apartments, though I had less and less friends as time went by, so I became a street person once again, begging for meals, shelter, booze, and drugs. I wrote great books in my head. I solved all the world's problems. I made great speeches to the United Nations, and came up with solutions to war and famine everywhere. None cared." V. "Technically, I was not homeless, just broke and without a place to live. Cash flow, I think they call it. No visible means. But I was sober, and had not had a drink in years. My marriage broke up, people stopped talking to me, I lost my teeth and all my books and papers, and started to talk to myself alone. I thought I was King Lear or someone majestic, tragic, and misunderstood. A great singular light, a beacon of humanity amid these callous, inhuman inhabitants of the urban world, and I recalled the time I charmed people out of their socks." VI. "I would tell some young student who stopped to talk with me out of compassion or curiosity another out of the experience of talking to a homeless person, I would tell them, I once was a teacher, a writer, too, oh I published volumes of poetry and prose, even got a bunch of reviews, journals and little magazines, and once in a blue moon in the New York Times. Really, I did. Then I fell on these hard, hard times. Marriage ended, couldn't find work, contracts dried up, and even though I hadn't drunk, I lived on the street again, like a bum." VII. "Sleeping in the doorway of old churches, I waited for my meals on the soup-line. I told whoever would listen my hard- luck story--social workers, passersby, priests, students, professors--I spoke to all and any who might listen to my tale, my sorry-assed narrative about my life. Most listened politely, then moved on. There but for the grace of God, I muttered, and then moved on when the police told me to get moving, looking for new places. I told myself to be kind to the unkind. They suggest that I go to a shelter, I kindly suggest that they go to hell." Sonnetto Lefty, I wish that you and Paulie and me were taken, as if by sorcery, and put on a ship, that with every wind sailed upon the sea at our whims. Seeking fortune, even in adverse weather, nothing would stop us now from leaving home. Also, living always by our wits alone, we'd believe that decision to be together. And that woman Dolores, or that other one Trish, and the one who lives at number thirty (What a dish!): Such enchantment would be ours. Each of us would be happy for hours. And there would be reason to love; moreover, I believe we would be happy and beloved forever. The Hat-Gray Mice Out jogging in Riverside Park, sun not yet up, chill in the air, I run until I come to the viaduct, and then go back around Grant's Tomb, jogging through the wet leaves and old scumbags and broken beer bottles, crack vials and wet girlie mags, and then before going into the park, I notice a mouse-gray fedora, probably blown off a head because the wind around the park near Riverside Church can be awesome, and I realize that a colony of mice resides inside the hat, little mice the color of a fedora, mice as gray as the hat which they have made a household. The False Dane O flaxen hair, o curly wheat-straw hair, o legs like a girlie-show in Toulouse Lautrec's paintings of the green Paris night: I can't sing, can't paint, can't drink, can't call. So I shout to your spirit, your lips of crystals, your tongue of northern legends, o dame, no, no, I did not call you Dane, but rather a gatherer of reindeer, o ass of magnificent curves. The o of your joining legs, o and the bulging calves, the hands and feet so delicate, o dame, no, I did not call you a Dane, and know that you are not Ophelia or even Hamlet in drag, but rather flaxen and wheat-straw. The Lazzi of the Weeping Crackhead I. How cruel we have become in this season! I walk past the weeping man on the corner as if he were a gargoyle on the side of a building. Yet I have passed him too many times this winter, and he's always weeping like that, deeply and sickly pathetic, his voice lunging at you as you pass, begging and weeping, please, please, please he says, just a morsel, just a crumb, just a penny, I'm starving, I have no food, not eaten in days, I have not slept in a bed in weeks, I have fallen on bad times. Promise: I'll get back on my feet soon. II. The college students usually fall for him once or at most twice, but lately I've noticed that even they walk past, looking the other way as they go by, indifferent to his routine, his shtick, his comedy, this commedia of the wailing homeless man, his little bit of comic business, a lazzo of the weeping drug addict, and once he has enough money in hand, he goes down the block, where he does not buy food but drugs, and then he whistles, smiling and saying hello to everyone who knows him on Amsterdam. Bravo! I want to shout. Encore! Encore! Do it again! III. He is like Harlequin, only better, and he is like the Cooks and Servants, a kind of poor man's Pagliacci, he sings for a bit of rock, though, instead of tears that cry out, Figaro! Figaro! he sings for crack, a bit of rock, some crystals in a plastic vial with a colorful top, the street littered with the vials, and he becomes, once again, strung out, and he goes back to Broadway to weep and cry, "Help me, help me, don't walk by and ignore me! Where is your sense of humanity? I am a human being. I am not a dog or a rat. I'm like you, only for me it's bad times." Word-Flesh When you go, I am not down, I am not down on the world, and I'm up on you, so when you finish, I'll go down, too. Waking in the morning with a huge hard-on and putting it right inside of you, but not moving, rotating it or thrusting about, but simply being there in that warm space inside of you. That's like heaven itself. Finally, what is the third best choice in these intimate matters between lovers would be a letter from you, a couple of poems (I don't care how lousy or good, just write them). I'd die and go to heaven. Haunted Tonight is the night ghosts come out of their cracks in the walls to hool and gravel down long stumbling empty alleys with chains following after them. But I am not haunted by ghosts, but dark, wild memories; it is the living who spook me, woman who is there and not there, who flits in and out of shadows in my life as if she were a ghost. Still, it is not unpleasant, this evanescence of spirit, how I am captured and released, pulled close and then flung out into the cruel universe, like a, well, almost like a human yo-yo. All week I think of her, not letting go. The Bell Curve I. The world is an evil place, said Batman to Robin, and since both of them were strung out on drugs and alcohol, it seemed to be a truism of the comic-book trade. All their love's in vain. Professors in loden coats and new corduroy pants with smart penny loafers on their feet agree: born poor, born black, you might as well kiss your ass goodbye. Yet I know a guy who sails through the sky on Amsterdam Avenue in Goat Park, backward dunking in ways that Michael Jordan never imagined. Love is in vain, though. But that's not the point, is it? I have friends to contradict it. II. I have a friend in New Jersey, quiet, smart, creative as all hell, a black man, yes, he's black all right, a professor and a writer, a wonderful man and friend, he is going to be surprised to learn what Professor Murray has to say of his chances of getting ahead, even having a head on his shoulders in this terrible, white world. Then, too, I put my arm around a person I know, touching the exquisite curve of the body where the hip rolls, not solid muscle but all love. All my love's in vain. Oh, love, careless love. Chivalry and Chives Lady, the old heart still has a few beats left, and right in front of you this carcass pulses with dirty thoughts, and with sins of word and deed as well as those of commission and omission, not to mention actions from the pelvis (oh, Elvis!), a fraction of which is reserved for you as is the greater bulk, wholesale or retail, I'll come through the mail or into your female kingdom (gender specific pig, hungry to eat you good), oh fair damsel, this damn windowsill is stuck. I bought cream cheese but forgot to ask for chives. I know that is not chivalrous of me, but there you go. "The popular Southern Weekend newspaper now carries a regular column on sex, which this month posed the question: 'What do women need from sex?' In Mandarin, the answer is a 'high tide,' or orgasm." from the New York Times High Tide -The next wave is another high tide I. Shanghai: sex is in the air in the streets. Sex is in the air tonight, and I am going through the streets of Shanghai with smells of sex in the air and my love down the street in her tiny hovel standing over a pot of squid and an old rice cooker anticipating my arrival with flowers and poems, condoms and conundrums, for this is the new China, not like the old China where only Chairman Mao was allowed to get laid and spread herpes. This is the new China where all of us may give and receive communicable diseases and get laid when we damn please. II. Goddamnit comrade, we can even frig ourselves into high tide because it is all right, okay, Confucius is back, and he walks around the Middle Kingdom with a Sony Walkman in his ears and he snaps his fingers to the sound of Lao Tsu rapping about the here and now or Ice Cube damning the white race into Hell for all eternity for their sins of commission in that Gold Mountain outpost known as Los Angeles, land of the free and the brave while the ghost of a courtesan past checks e-mail on a Compaq laptop which she bought for a cheap song in Gwangdong. January Fifteenth I. City shuts down for Dr. King, fallen black leader and American saint, equal to Elizabeth Seton, equal to any of our heroes, Lincoln, Washington, Walt Whitman. Dr. King was a leader and a great orator, but I come here to celebrate my mother, Rose Frances Drew, born and raised in Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, high yeller and haughty as if she came from the Mayflower, not Brooklyn, not the outer borough, really nowhere, except it was home for her, and us, too, all of her sixteen children, though I was the only one not born in St. Mary's. II. The hospital in Bedford-Stuyvesant, St. Mary's, though I was born in D.C., right in downtown Washington, Providence hospital, the only one in my family not born in Brooklyn, in the old ghetto. Dr. King, my mother loves living into old age, well into her eighties, spending her blue days in Clearwater, Florida, counting her blessings, not her losses, please set her free, set her free, Martin, set her loose in the universe, for my mother slaved over her children, suffering her own hazardous life with alcohol (gin and wine), and so pray for her sobriety. III. Dr. King, you and my mother were born on January 15th, and she has lived deep into old age, and you were cut short in this life, though I know your spirit lives forever on in peace in heaven, because you were a saint, and my mother was called a saint, only she was only very humble, very human, but like you, she was a decent human being, and I'm not just saying that because she is my mother, though she is my mother. Like yourself, my mother had a dream, too. She dreamed that all her living nine children might live humbly in peace and serenity. True Romance I. When she went out the door and left him for good, he had no idea it had ended, thinking instead--oh vanity that is called a man--how nice it had been or close they were with each other, and even that the way they had made love that evening was more special than any time he had made love in his life ever, and though she was not his wife, he thought of her as the closest human being on this earth, comparing her legs to his own, her shoulders to his, and even dream off that their breasts matched and fit perfectly. But then she went out the door, and he's free. II. When she went out the door and left him there, she left for good and ever, and was never seen or heard from again. There is a moral to this tale, only I have not fathomed what it might be or mean. Some days you win all the monkeys in the barrel; some days the monkeys are all dead in the stagnant water, flopped over each other like coats in a room on a bed at an all-night wild party. If I said, I never want to see that woman for as long as I live, you know and I know that I am not telling the truth, in fact, I am lying, and yet that is just what I said, sweet sting. III. Of course, she is no better off; she heard voices in her head, castigate and be- rate her esteem, calling down her easy behavior. After all, she was not a married woman but did live with another man, and that man loved her dearly, sweetly, or so she claimed to her ex-lover in a protracted telephone talk with him. To hell with you, he thought, saying that she was nothing special, just another woman. I never want to see that one again for the rest of my life, let me (Thing! Slur! Nuisance! Slut!), before I, yet worse, have to lay eyes on her again, die first. IV. Saying good-night to her poet, she dreams herself the victim of a violent crime, and all her life scrawled across the news, tabloid headlines and on court tv, too, unfaithful, two-timing, a bitch, a cunt, a fucking whore, the fair-haired adult turned adulteress, her own kind of cartoon, Jessica Rabbit, let's say, only loon- ier. It was at lunch with a troubled colleague that she confessed to this new friend from the old desk across from hers at work where they administer for a real turd of a guy, indiscretions with another man, and instead of sympathy got snookered. V. Her co-workers vilified her with names, calling her disloyal to her good beau, and immmoral, and a lunatic dame. That is when she called him up, not speaking to him directly, calling his voice mail to tell him, not that they never would see each other ever again or that she never never wanted to talk to him for the rest of her natural life, but that she herself did not want to have sex with him from that time forward, and instead they now would be good friends, even cohorts, confidantes, only he walked around at weird hours for a month, a neutered housecat. VI. And each time he called he felt more and more like a second cousin bothering her for her precious time. That's when he decided that, like her, enough was enough, he could make ultimatums and proclamations, this one having to do with the fact that he never wanted to talk with her for-- if not forever, then a long, long time-- and that is where it stands right now, my love, he wears his gloves and hat to leave for now, and keeps thinking, maybe, maybe, she'll change her web of inaction, though nothing more --and him there with ideas about courage-- than these feeble old words to hide his rage. Dark Green Monday in a Blue Holler I'm so sick of hearing about Mondays that are blue that I've declared this a green one, though if that doesn't work for you, let's make it a yellow Monday, in turn to be followed by red Tuesday, then a blue Wednesday, because I'm always bluer in the middle of the week then at the start of it, bluer in media res than at the start of week when my mood turns fatigue or an Impressionist's loden, moody and shimmering with ambiguity. If I'm feeling blue, don't know what to do, it's really Sunday, my baby left me, head hung low, shuffling, humming a blues. Study with Joggers A bright extinction of magnolias after the early precipitate freeze bred havoc among the romantics, the west side, uptown, this side of river, where joggers infuse the landscape with new vitality and life as prolix as adverbs. Nights get chilly around seven o'clock. The scribe orders pizza with some peppers. Magnolia blossoms shrivel and turn black. Romantics hover over the fire in a discarded oil drum. Dawn turns fog into chalk. People move through it, jogging. The pizza-maker orders some books to read in the prolix blue night air. Out Walking on Sunday Morning I was out walking on Sunday morning when I heard someone whistling, not just whistling, but doing it beautifully, and when I turned to look who was doing it, I saw an old white-haired man on a tandem bicycle, first with an older woman who wore a bonnet, and later along Broadway, him alone, whistling, not like a maniac, but like a consummate musician, really the most beautiful whistling I ever heard, and him slowly moving up Broadway on his tandem bicycle, only now alone, whistling and moving slowly along, I saw and heard and felt him as I walked. Raptor on Winthrop Street I was to meet Richard at the Chinese restaurant on Mass Ave off Harvard Square, and I'd just come from the noon meeting at the Lutheran church. This was not Eliot's midwinter thaw, but a ravaging winter day in January, wet, raw, and cold. Snow mounds piled sky high, I heard a peep, then an incredible silence, its wing passed over me, and I looked out of the edge of my vision, and I saw a raptor, small but tough, snatch a sparrow in its claws, talons like hooks, and then glide through backyards and behind apartment houses, flying away to eat. I was hungry now, too. Crazy in America I. I thought that W. B. Yeats was insane over Maud Gonne, but I was young then, and did not know what a crazy old fox he really was, saying to myself that I would not be so nutty for a woman-- until I met you. You were different. You were not a spaced, wacked out type politico like the Irish poet obsessed about. But when you stood there naked before me, I wept for joy in that empty room which did not belong to either one of us, and yet was like home, its gray light a beacon of hopefulness, the gray walls not obscuring its beauty. II. You were not a spaced, wacked out type politico like Yeats, great Irish poet, obsessed about. You were different. (I thought that old W.B. was insane over Maud Gonne, but I was young then, and did not know what a crazy old fox he really was, saying to myself that I would not be so nutty for a woman-- until I met you.) When you stood there naked before me, I wept for joy in that empty room which did not belong to either one of us, and yet was like home, its gray light a beacon of hopefulness, the gray walls not obscuring its beauty. Bottom and Titania Dance in Spring The forgeries of jealousy, Titania thinks, are nothing compared to the smell of this ass, fart-filled, mechanical, blooming like a rose. The smell of him makes me weep aloud for joy, she says, O stable-scented Bottom, come to your fairy queen, make me want to cry out loud for the ecstasy in my thighs, with Bottom on top, Titania on the bottom, though under him, Bottom, that is, oh Bottom, she says, she moans, grasping for his donkey ears, his braying-breath a heaven-scented lozenge. Oh, fart in my face, beast, say it is you, the joiner, the one who puts us together, low-life hardon on this summer's dream. The Hoffman House on Gladstone Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts This house of wood and nails and love and pain, This house of rice and bread and oil and eggs, Of jam and tears and cheese and red onions, Of blinds and chairs and tables and rules and cares, This house of trees and bricks and bugs and rulers, Of barbecues, Susie Q's, cue tips, bikes, Of books, manuscripts and notebooks, more books, And even more, this house of spirit, sprites, Earthly delights, wild nights, calm days, after Noons under the trees in the backyard shade, This house of wood floors, of showers and towels, Of oatmeal and dry cereal and toast, Coffee in the morning, coffee at noon, This house of drama and love in June. Stoned What I want, I want when I want it, want it even sooner than that, I want it yesterday or the day before it is, faster and in larger quantities, heaped in mounds on my doorstep, bundles of love, oh thing of beauty, whore of eternity. Meanwhile, back in the world, life goes onward, oblivious to the point of my need, this dry heave, this night sweat, this hollow ache at the center of my being, lovely rose petal of snot, and misfortune's child goes ever onward in a downward way. The person I was will always be drunk, the one I am today did not yet drink. Prehistory of My Ancestry I. I've left the dirty Irish bars, furtive lit with slantwise faces in the dusty mirrors behind the bartender, tender light of New Jersey calling me home to the sleazy motels that seem better than these memorable saloons, shot and a beer joints, or I am dreaming of wind off the Atlantic, and Brighton Beach's shore off the old boardwalk filled with Russians reminiscing about Primorsky, their home far off in Siberia, even if half their lives are spent already, who cares about tomorrow, for tomorrow will never come, so let's dance, my friend, let's dance. II. What I have left then is a life, not a half-life even if more than half my life has been spent and even wasted, though each breath I take is precipitated on inalienable assumptions that everything from here out is a gift and nothing more nor less, simply a tiny miracle grown vast in my eyes and head and even some days in my heart, so that the light I crave is inward, air I breathe is outside, the friends I make are free of the old plague of booze stalking us like a cloaked and hooded assassin. The romance is not about booze but you. III. What you don't understand--and what I am trying to say--is that the romance is not for alcohol anymore but for us people in the world who meet each other face to face and find a real dialogue with another human being, not the shapeless, faceless Zeitgeist of kingdom come, and maybe that's all this craving for booze was, a low-grade search for human links, not another party, but an end to the party forever and again to make this connection at the cellular level, and end the awful terror of the night. |
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