I will have an unborn woman
when I am only print
MOROCCO
I brought a man his dinner
He did not wish to look into my eyes
He ate in peace
SONG FOR MY ASSASSIN
We were chosen, we were chosen
miles and miles apart:
I to love your kingdom
you to love my heart.
The love is intermittent
the discipline continues
I work on your spirit
you work on my sinews.
I watch myself from where you are:
do not be mistaken:
the spider web you see me through
is the view I’ve always taken.
Begin the ceremony now
that we have been preparing:
I’m tired of this marble floor
that we have both been sharing.
THE WRONG MAN
They locked up a man
who wanted to rule the world
The fools
They locked up the wrong man
ONE
One of the lizards
was blowing bubbles
as it did pushups on the tree trunk
I did pushups this morning
on the carpet
and I blew bubbles of Bazooka
last night in the car
I believe the mystics are right
when they say we are all One
THIS IS MY VOICE
This is my voice
but I am only whispering
The amazing vulgarity
of your style
invites men to think
of torturing you to death
but I am only whispering
The ocean is whispering
The junk-yard is whispering
We no longer wish to learn
what you know how to do
There is no envy left
If you understood this
you would begin to shiver
but I am only whispering
to my tomahawk
so that the image itself
may reduce you to scorn
and weaken you further
NEW SKIN FOR THE OLD CEREMONY
CHELSEA HOTEL
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were talking so brave and so sweet;
giving me head on the unmade bed,
while the limousines wait in the street.
And those were the reasons, and that was New York,
we were running for the money and the flesh;
and that was called love for the workers in song,
probably still is for those of them left.
But you got away, didn’t you, baby,
you just turned your back on the crowd.
You got away, I never once heard you say:
“I need you, I don’t need you,
I need you, I don’t need you,”—
and all of that jiving around.
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men,
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said: “Well, never mind,
we are ugly, but we have the music.”
But you got away, didn’t you, baby,
you just threw it all to the ground.
You got away, I never once heard you say:
“I need you, I don’t need you,
I need you, I don’t need you,”—
and all of that jiving around.
I don’t mean to suggest that I loved you the best;
I don’t keep track of each fallen robin.
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel —
that’s all, I don’t even think of you that often.
TAKE THIS LONGING
Many men have loved the bells
you fastened to the rain;
and everyone who wanted you,
they found what they
will always want again —
your beauty lost to you yourself,
just as it was lost to them —
Take this longing from my tongue,
all the useless things
my hands have done;
let me see your beauty broken down,
like you would do
for one you love.
Your body like a searchlight.
My poverty revealed.
I would like to try your charity,
until you cry:
“Now you must try my greed.”
And everything depends upon
how near you sleep to me —
Take this longing from my tongue,
all the lonely things
my hands have done;
let me see your beauty broken down,
like you would do
for one you love.
Hungry as an archway
through which the troops have passed,
I stand in ruins behind you
with your winter clothes,
your broken sandal strap.
But I love to see you naked there.
especially from the back —
Take this longing from my tongue,
whatever useless things
these hands have done;
untie for me your high blue gown,
like you would do
for one you love.
You’re faithful to the better man.
Well, I’m afraid that he left.
So let me judge your love affair
in this very room where I have
sentenced mine to death.
I’ll even wear these old laurel leaves
that he’s shaken from his head —
Take this longing from my tongue,
all the useless things
these hands have done;
let me see your beauty broken down,
like you would do
for one you love.
FIELD COMMANDER COHEN
Field Commander Cohen, he was our most important spy, wounded in the line of duty, parachuting acid into diplomatic cocktail parties, urging Fidel Castro to abandon fields and castles, leave it all, and, like a man, come back to nothing special, such as waiting rooms, and ticket lines, and silver bullet suicides, and messianic ocean tides, and racial roller-coaster rides, and other forms of boredom advertised as poetry. I know you need your sleep now, I know your life’s been hard, but many men are falling where you promised to stand guard.
I never asked but I heard you cast your lot along with the poor. How come I overheard your prayer that you be this and nothing more than just some grateful, faithful woman’s favourite singing millionaire, the patron saint of envy and the grocer of despair, working for the Yankee dollar? I know you need your sleep now, I know your life’s been hard, but many men are falling where you promised to stand guard.
Lover, come and lie with me, if my lover is who you are. And be your sweetest self a while, until I ask for more, my child. Then let the other selves be rung, yes, let them manifest and come ’til every taste is on the tongue, ’til love is pierced and love is hung, and every kind of freedom done, then oh my love, oh my love, oh my love, oh my love.
THERE IS A WAR
There is a war between the rich and poor, a war between the man and the woman. There is a war between the ones who say “there is a war” and the ones who say “there isn’t.” Why don’t you come on back to the war? It’s just beginning.
I live here with a woman and a child. The situation makes me kind of nervous. I rise up from her arms, she says, “I guess you
