That was not the summer of aspic
and cold veal. It was so hot
the car seat stung my thighs
and the rearview mirror swam
with mirage. In the back seat
the leather grip was noosed by twine.
We were not poor but we had
the troubles of the poor.
She who had been that soft snore
beside the Nytol, open-mouthed,
was gone, somewhere, somewhere
there was a bay, there was a boat,
Today I heard a rich and hungry boy verbatim quote
all last night’ s infomercials — an anorectic son
who bought with Daddy’ s Amex black card
the Bowflex machine and Abdomenizer,
plus a steak knife that doth slice
the inner skin of his starving arms.
Poor broken child of Eve myself,
to me, the flightless fly,
the listing, blistered, scalded.
I am the rod to their lightning.
Mine is the earhole their stories pierce.
At my altar the blouse is torn open
and the buttons sailed across
1
As so-called quarks, so atoms before and through
And after molecules, which too
Constitute us awhile, pluming
Through our slowly changing shapes
Like beachscapes
Through a duneless sandglass, say
(I said, once) — all these
So utterly forgetful, wiped clean
As numbers with each new use, lint-free.
How not so words, which pass our minds
And mouths and ears from hind-
Most elsewhere, on their way to elsewhere — why
You have lived six decades and you have lived none
You have loved many and you have loved no one
You wedded three wives but you lie in your cold bed alone
You sired four children but they cannot forgive you
My shadow followed me to San Diego
silently, she never complained.
No green card, no identity pass,
she is wedded to my fate.
The moon is a drunk and anorectic,
constantly reeling, changing weight.
My shadow dances grotesquely,
resentful she can't leave me.
The moon mourns his unwritten novels,
cries naked into the trees and fades.
Tomorrow, he'll return to beat me
blue — again, again and again.
for my love, Charles (1938-2000)
Say: 言
❖
A hundred red fire ants scouring, scouring the white peony
❖
Fallen plum blossoms return to the branch, you sleep, then
harden again
❖
Cuttlefish in my palm stiffens with rigor mortis, boy toys can't
love
❖
Neighbor's barn: grass mat, crickets, Blue Boy, trowel handle,
dress soaked in mud
❖
Iron-headed mace; double-studded halberd slice into emptiness
❖
I am the man
Whose name is mud
But what’ s in a name
To shame one who knows
Mud does not stain
Clay he’ s made of
Dust Adam became —
The dust he was —
Was he his name
The statue, that cast
Of my solitude
Has found its niche
In this kitchen
Where I do not eat
Where the bathtub stands
Upon cat feet —
I did not advance
I cannot retreat
1
Is this writing mine
Whose name is this
Did I underline
What I was to miss?
2
An upheaval of leaves
Enlightens the tree
Rooted it receives
Gusts on a spree
3
Beauty makes me sad
Makes me grieve
I see what I must leave
4
Scaffold, gallows
Do whose will
Who hallows wood
To build, kill
