I kneel between the legs of the moon
in a vehicle of perfect stuttering
and you dare to interview me on the matter
of your loathsome destinies
you poor boobies of the north
who have set out for heaven with your mouths on fire
Surrender now surrender to each other
your loveliest useless aspects
and live with me in this and other voices
like the wind harps you were meant to be
Come and sleep in the mother tongue
and be awakened by a virgin
(O dead-hearted turds of particular speech)
be awakened by a virgin
into a sovereign state of common grace
O WIFE UNMASKED
O wife unmasked
O body of my plunder
foundation of my waiting
unforgivable
and continually alluring
Some witness loves you
as you blunder through
the webs of my sleeping spirit
Some witness points at our bed
like a monument to romance and song
and gets another crowd to wonder
O juices and fragrance
and inhospitable warmth
O last remains of dignity
O shadow brood of hatred love remorse
O ribbons and trajectories
annulling distances
O wires and rays and chains
What channels of intense air
trembling to a signal
What alloys of eyesore and starlight
What sad bureaucracy of luck
to be with you and you alone
muddling through the Day of Judgement
THE WINDOW
A blond boy wearing thick glasses just looked in my window, or rather at my window, for he used it as a mirror in which he confirmed his coiffure and his expression. I was afraid he might catch sight of me behind his reflection but he quit his work unaware of the self-centred host of this sunken room, and I did not have to confront him in the midst of his vanity.
YOUR DEATH
You are a dead man
writing me a letter
Your sunglasses are beside you
on the square table
on the green felt
You write carefully
sentence after sentence
to make your meaning clear
The meaning is
that you are dead
dead with hope
dead with spring
dead with the blurred hummingbird
dead with the longing
to shine again
in details of the past
And you are tied to your death
with hope
with the hope of sliding out
from under your death
and then to stand
and brandish a scar
in the palm of your hand
like an invitation to the next ordeal
You pass the night
with the source of your death
trying to praise it
trying to sell it
trying to touch it
Your death is fine with me
It has given you
the beautiful head you wanted
the face with good lines
and even though
you cannot inhabit this skull
I can and I do
and I thank you
for the deep heroism
of your useless correspondence
PETITIONS
The blind man loves you with his eyes, the deaf man with his music. The hospital, the battlefield, the torture room, serve you with numberless petitions. On this most ordinary night, so bearable, so plentiful in grave distractions, touch this worthless ink, this work of shame. Inform me from the great height of your beauty.
THE REBELLION
It was a terrible rebellion
I rebelled against a sentence
between her legs
I punished myself with a holiday
I took a ghost to bed
and caught the seed in the palm of my hand
Her green cotton dress was pulled up
She sat on my face all night long
She dragged me to Jerusalem
and married me over and over
while the silver star of Bethlehem
coughed and spat
in a smoker’s reveille
and the priesthood forced me to resume
my old domestic conversation
THE PRICE OF THIS BOOK
I had high hopes for this book. I used to be thin, too. I thought I might live in one place and know one woman. I walked through the starlight this morning. I made my way through the lambs to the slanted concrete floor. I had on my red apron and I had the woman I loved. I wanted to end it, but it would not end: my life in art. I had pledged my deepest health to work this out. The working was way beyond this book. I see this now. I am ashamed to ask for your money. Not that you have not paid more for less. You have. You do. But I need it to keep my different lives apart. Otherwise I will be crushed when they join, and I will end my life in art, which a terror will not let me do.
ROSHI
Roshi poured me a glass of Courvoisier. We were in the cabin on Mt. Baldy, summer of 1977 We were listening to the crickets.
— Kone, Roshi said, you should write cricket poem.
— I’ve already written a cricket poem. It was in this cabin two years ago.
— Oh.
Roshi fried some sliced pork in sunflower oil and boiled a three-minute noodle soup. We finished one bottle of Courvoisier and opened another.
— Yah, Kone, you should write cricket poem.
— That is a very Japanese idea, Roshi.
— So.
We listened to the crickets a while longer. Then we closed the light so we could open the door and get the breeze without the flies coming in.
— Yah. Cricket.
— Roshi, give me your idea of a cricket poem.
— Ha, ha. Okay:
dark night (said Roshi)
cricket sound break out
cricket girlfriend listening
— That’s pretty good, Roshi.
— dark night (Roshi began again)
walking on the path
suddenly break out cricket sound
where is my lover?
— I don’t like that one.
— cricket! cricket! (Roshi cried)
you are my lover
now I am walking path by alone
but I am not lonely with you
— I’m afraid not, Roshi. The first one was good.
Then the crickets stopped for a while and Roshi poured the Courvoisier into our glasses. It was a peaceful night.
— Yah, Kone, said Roshi very softly. You should write more sad.
THIS WRETCH
I’m fucking the dead people now
not you with your breast on fire
not you with your blouse on the floor
Why do you ring the bell in the night
as if we lived in a town
as if the infant were born
as if the Mystery survived
I’m fucking the dead people now
I don’t have to try for a song
I don’t have to count up to ten
Why did you let your fingers grow
Why do you wear your jeans so round
There’s snow on your eye. Your underwear
is cold especially the rim
Not waiting for a parachute
Don’t want to scrape off the moon
Try to die on your stomach
I’m fucking the dead people now
HURRY TO YOUR DINNER
Hurry to your dinner.
