Part 3 (2/2)

A meeting to straighten up your f.u.c.king life.

I laugh! In bitterness that shakes my intestines, I laugh!

Another hillbilly man Has lifted his head above the rest--a foot up from the jug-- And has blown his breath into the air Which 'naps another young and fragmented one To the call of being holy.

But before you arise You turn the gleaming card of number four-- Your eyes in a more motionless trance than before.

New England Was.h.i.+ng (Mental Account, Some day of Gorbechev, 1987)

Another hour.

There is no circulation Beneath the steering wheel for my feet.

Outside myself There is the last of the sun at dusk But like the conquering Hsuing-Nu Pus.h.i.+ng themselves beyond a Great Wall and through an eternal Gathering, it is hardly felt.

There is nothing great to trouble me And nothing substantial descends on my senses, Giving me thoughts other than the fact I'm thinking nothing: Only A flock of birds in the corner of my left eye Blend down with the grey skies As if the fence barricading The farm land does not pertain to them; Thoughts of the center line And not going over it.

Days of Gorbechev, the radio speaks of, But not his nights--where, one time He may have smashed A big, red cigarette in an ashtray With an action stiff and slow; And as he stood up the mattress of his bed may have Raised to touch his rear, again, Like a quick and soothing give-me-five handshake; And opening a window of the emba.s.sy To escape the stuffy dryness Of electric heat to his suite, He may have let the cool American air Attack him with the smells and sights Of its diplomatic car exhausts, Grey and orange from street lamps And store lights...and how The nation breathed for once as it moved.

The third: road; cows, like islanders; Multi-tinted bladed fields broken by acres Of forests and pastures; a black-sun scene with Car lights; a vision blurred and pebbled Through the winds.h.i.+eld-- A truck pa.s.ses my pinto; Muddy water slapping its face; Its stick eyes smoothing it To a duller complexion.

It isn't yet Christmas And I am going home.

My parents one day drooped In front of all, and were old-- We should be having much to say...

I, thinking like them, with The mind of the world, And us smiling unhappily And speaking none of that: But a lot will be said.

I am a b.u.m.

One of their hearts shall give in And their marriage will be a farce...

Even in car accidents the married Die separately. And then the widowed Mother, smoking the cigars of her husband, And coughing them as the husband had done But in the apartment of the son, might Visit away her life: I would Bring her there, thanking G.o.d for a reason Not to try hiding all of me in some p.u.s.s.y As in daylight the main part Goes into underwear.

This is their town Far from trays with saucers And plates and spoons and forks (Sometimes hardened in scalloped potatoes Or bent) and knives and gla.s.ses (Gla.s.ses sometime with folded bread inside)...

But forever coming down the belt for the Dumping and was.h.i.+ng...the trays that disappear In a square hole and come out clean Will continue regardless if I am there.

Men f.u.c.k virgins; a child-worker Is born and all is holy.

There is nothing great to trouble me: The rains that drop and drift next To streets in gutters, take away Smashed Pepsi cups and beer cans Without intent, bound G.o.d knows where, But out of sight.

The San Franciscan's Night Meditations

When I am at a dead-lock In your rear and the language of my body Will not come from The third element of the soul, What am I to say?-- 'ALL BUT ONE DEAD: Mexican immigrants celebrating the Stowing away on a 120 degree boxcar With urine in their stomachs, Acknowledging capitalistic thirsts...

Sigue sobre pagina”..

Double hubble The peso is in trouble And to Mars America plans Jumping over the moon, And all this has disturbed me!”

The night is full of impulses To live and to run and seep heavily Into its dark robes of Silence and morbid rightness; And as I, again, try to thrust on dryly-- A log without a river traveling it To the product of lumber-- and hope to create love in The smackings of night, Like anyone else, I know that soon I am to apologize for lack Of an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, And will promise to have a counselor Tame me to the exclusion of All but work and l.u.s.t.

Sounds of people Kicking around the Night of early morning Beneath my lover's window; And I withdraw under the sheet, lying flat with the dead moonlight.

The Philosophy Of Rita And Herb

Staring fixed at the rows Of flowered Wallpaper a pale gray In the dark efficiency-- The three walls still absent To her consciousness As a shadow of silver lightning Fades the greyness Of one portion in her view-- The ”schitzophrenic” lifts up a cigarette hidden behind An ashtray and the flat ground Of ashes on the table, which Skid and resurface with her Hot breathing. She thinks they are Continents drifting, and herself Upon them.

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