With what deep murmurs through time’ s silent stealth
Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat’ ry wealth
Here flowing fall,
And chide, and call,
As if his liquid, loose retinue stay’ d
Ling’ ring, and were of this steep place afraid;
The common pass
Where, clear as glass,
All must descend
Not to an end,
But quicken’ d by this deep and rocky grave,
As if anyone has the desire ...
Vickey trailed off, pouring another lager
There'll be nothing left
But fur and bone, as my lawyer once explained
To my ex, she resumed, tapping a long cigarette
On the bar. My, you're a bit snarky tonight
Said Luther. Maybe you need a change of venue,
A beach with your breath on it
Oh, she replied, nodding towards the far corner booth,
These writers are so obnoxious
I wish they'd find a new place to complain.
Ha, said Hillary, they wouldn't know a good story
Open the gates — the gates of the Temple,
Swift to Thy sons, who Thy truths have displayed.
Open the gates — the gates that are hidden,
Swift to Thy sons, who Thy Law have obeyed.
Open the gates — of the coveted Temple,
Swift to Thy sons who confess and seek grace.
Open the gates — of the armies celestial,
Swift to Thy sons, Judah’ s tearful-eyed race.
Open the gates — the radiant portals,
Swift to Thy sons who are lovely and pure.
Open the gates — of the crown of fidelity,
Swift to Thy sons who in God rest secure.
I
You say, as one who shapes a life,
That you will never be a wife,
And, laughing lightly, ask my aid
To paint your future as a maid.
This is the portrait; and I take
The softest colors for your sake:
The springtime of your soul is dead,
And forty years have bent your head;
The lines are firmer round your mouth,
But still its smile is like the South.
Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad,
Yet never more than gravely glad;
The pianist Joe Sullivan,
jamming sound against idea
hard as it can go
florid and dangerous
slams at the beat, or hovers,
drumming, along its spikes;
in his time almost the only
one of them to ignore
the chance of easing down,
walking it leisurely,
he’ ll strut, with gambling shapes,
underpinning by James P.,
amble, and stride over
gulfs of his own leaving, perilously
toppling octaves down to where
the chords grow fat again
The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.
The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.
The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.
And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.
The old Roman sow
Bears a new litter now
To fatten for a while
On the same imperial swill.
The cannibal wolf will dig
And root out Spanish bones beside the pig.
Germany has reared
A rare ugly bird
To screech a sour song
In the German tongue:
Tell me if there be
A sparrowhawk for such birds as he?
Amarantha sweet and fair
Ah braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfin’ d
As its calm ravisher, the wind,
Who hath left his darling th’ East,
To wanton o’ er that spicy nest.
When the man behind the counter said, “You pay
by the orifice,” what could we do but purchase them all?
Ah, Sandy, you were clearly the deluxe doll, modish and pert
in your plastic nurse whites, official hostess to our halcyon days,
where you bobbed in the doorway of our dishabille apartment,
a block downwind from the stockyards. Holding court on
the corroded balcony, K. and I passed hash brownies, collecting
change for the building’ s monthly pool to predict which balcony
Once upon a time
I caught a little rhyme
I set it on the floor
but it ran right out the door
I chased it on my bicycle
but it melted to an icicle
I scooped it up in my hat
but it turned into a cat
I caught it by the tail
but it stretched into a whale
I followed it in a boat
but it changed into a goat
When I fed it tin and paper
it became a tall skyscraper
Then it grew into a kite
and flew far out of sight...
