The Brazilian Cliff Diver
"There is no bottom to this."
Kim Addonizio's "Flood"
He dove hard and fast,
unlike other men,
and found the deepest part
so quick it took her breath away.
Some things always last,
and some go very, very fast.
She knew him when she saw his eyes across the barroom
and in those eyes, that tender crust of salt and crayfish ooze
dried to a golden crystal;
just there, at the end of the bar,
drinking a white liqueur--sipping it almost--
she knew then, just what he could do.
Remembering his brown body as he stood
rigid, then like a salmon caught mid-leap
a flutter of movement, and then the jump
the cliff's edge falling away
the turn, the arch,
but not too much--
and then the penetration,
surfaces slide aside
like the opennings of fleshy gills
rhythmically contracting waves
as he disappears within
the waters
and then the wait.
What would he find there, once he was inside?
What would be there, in the silence
and the crabshell ooze?
More colors than a gutted trout?
More tastes than at Captain Nemo's last buffet?
More deepening pressure than the weight of Earth's first ocean?
Who can say,
but at that moment, finally, his body twisted, began the turn,
and rose up from the depths.
Up, up he rose, past the thickness of the silt,
past the lounge room of some lost Titanic,
past the long-lost condominiums of Atlantis,
past the crabs, with their pale diaphanous shells,
past the scaly sea-worts, scarred and burned,
past the Korean pool-boy's form-
fitted Speedos, lost once in the undertow.
Up, up,
past the sleeping fish
the cliff diver rose,
like a Japanese pearl diver coming up for air
and there she was--
he found her like a catfish flopping on a table
and nothing needed to be said.
Even though her Portuguese was faulty,
his English was broken, barely knew a word,
things passed between them, like electric eels,
and cunningly they learned.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Conversion
The Conversion
"Who seeks the other color...."
James Dickey's "Slave Quarters"
"Welcome to Vacation Bable School!" she said.
Our son fell in with the other little fellers,
and soon was taught the "Jeezus luvs me" song
along with others.
I knew what it meant. I had been this way before
like Bobby Frost, stopping in the winter wood to
see the snow fall. It was the inevitability of
the thing, growin' up in the Bable Belt,
to learn these songs.
What did it mean in the larger scheme of things
if little Tony came home, a sayin'
"Let's paint a picture for Jeezus" or
"Let's read a Bable story for Jeezus" or
"Let's find out what Billy, nex' door, is doin'
for Jeeeezus".....
Sometimes "Let's wash yer ears for Jeezus" worked
pretty well, I think. But soon I felt guilty
as Hell for usin' Jeezus to twist things my way.
I knew I was a minority of one,
but I was caught, like everyman in Georgia,
by the easy way it slips across your tongue:
"Let's do the dishes for Jeezus"
"Let's lose weight for Jeezus"
and even:
"Let's make a baby for Jeezus."
It got worse.
Soon my wife was sayin':
"Let's clean out the fridge for Jeezus"
"Let's take out the garbage for Jeezus"
"Let's change the oil in the car for Jeezus"
It seems like Jeezus has an awful lot of stuff He wants done--
at least Moses thought so--like votin' agin' Gun Control,
and Homos, and rubbers in the schools.
My wife & son & I got tired of doin' stuff for Jeezus.
And then, one day, the Church Elders came by the house.
They saw the scragglee yard filled with crabgrass,
They saw the debris of unburned bushes, they saw the
unknownly evil trees, the decaying leaves,
left behind here to pile up (I think) since before The Fall
And they judged me and found me wanting!
But all those things grew for Jeezus! I said to them.
I was called a heretic, a cynic, a humanist!
"TO THINK THAT THE GRASS GROWS FOR JEEZUS
OR THAT THE BUSHES BLOOM, OR THE LEAVES FALL--
ALL THIS HAPPENS FOR JEEZUS? NOT IN GEORGIA, IT DON'T!"
And then they left.
But who the Hell then makes all this stuff grow so fast
like this? I said to myself, and then, to my wife:
"Call the church and tell Jeezus to come over here
and rake up all these damn leaves of His
that He's let drop all over my yard!"
The wife sent me on a walk, to cool off she said and think about
committing my life a little less fully to Jeezus.
I walked downtown in the cold wintery day, past the old
railroad tracks, to a tired part of town that Jeezus
had let go downhill a bit. I got cold, and soon I was
standin' in front of an old theater marquee that said:
HEAT
So I paid my six dollars and went inside to get warm.
As I slipped into the worn velvet seat (the popcorn machine
was broke, they said) I let my eyes wander over the too
dark room, and saw the dozen or so fellow travelers
waiting in their seats--not tense so much as tensed
like springs that had been bent so much they broke.
Soon the projector light appeared and with it the muscular bodies
of young Italian men--a gangsta film I think it was
with mobsters and big-breasted molls--a Revenge Tragedy--it was,
some long lost descendent of Hamlet leached onto 35mm film.
The hero was a handsome Hispanic goodly fellow
who fell to his work like Jeezus Himself was
prodding him to action; or else Shakespeare who said:
"Screw your courage to the sticking place!"
and so screw he did, and all for Jeezus....
Soon I found myself saying, quietly, then louder:
"Squeeze it for Jeezus"
"Lick that fig for Jeezus"
"Ride 'em like a cowboy, Jeezus"
And then the theater owner, looking like Sargent Garcia,
Came to my seat and said,
"He is not Heysoos, his name is Stephen Saint Croix."
Apologizing, I soon returned to the show:
"Suck that bacuda, for Saint Croix"
"Lick that ol' conch, Saint Croix"
"Take it like a choir boy, for Saint Croix...."
And no sooner than the words sprung from my mouth
I knew: I had become a born-again cathar-lick!
Like Paul on the Road to Damascus
(not a Hope-Crosby film, by the way)
or Cardinal Newman, stopping to visit the Folies Bergere
on the road to Notre Dame, I was struck
down by my New Belief. Converted from my firm
adherence to the Jeezus of the gospels,
I was now transformed by a new renewal of faith!
No longer one of His Elect,
I chose to worship at the footstool of His truly Erect.
In that dark theater, among the old-maid popcorn kernels,
I fell to my knees and prayed to my beautiful Saint Croix,
and then & there
I was shot through & through
with the lightning of his sacred Thor-like hammer.
In the darkness I was anointed like a lover.
I was conceived from the beauty of her black belly.
As the brightness of her smile projected above me on the screen--
I was bathed in the whited charisma of his blessed tool.
Saint Croix is much less difficult and rigid taskmaster.
He is hard, but forgiving, too.
Like Saint Anthony and the blessed beasts,
I soon found forgiveness in the hardness of his holy rule.
And now each year we pilgrimage to the island of Saint Croix,
blessed with his name, washed with the warm caribbean winds,
and take his holy sacrament in this church by the sea.
Like the native Crucians, I embrace the holy cross.
Like the Rosy Crucians, I sunburn lightly as a penance.
Like the Virgin Islands, I am reborn each day at dawn. And
as one newly christened, with each new "maarn in"
I give good Jesus with the warmest latitude.
"Who seeks the other color...."
James Dickey's "Slave Quarters"
"Welcome to Vacation Bable School!" she said.
Our son fell in with the other little fellers,
and soon was taught the "Jeezus luvs me" song
along with others.
I knew what it meant. I had been this way before
like Bobby Frost, stopping in the winter wood to
see the snow fall. It was the inevitability of
the thing, growin' up in the Bable Belt,
to learn these songs.
What did it mean in the larger scheme of things
if little Tony came home, a sayin'
"Let's paint a picture for Jeezus" or
"Let's read a Bable story for Jeezus" or
"Let's find out what Billy, nex' door, is doin'
for Jeeeezus".....
Sometimes "Let's wash yer ears for Jeezus" worked
pretty well, I think. But soon I felt guilty
as Hell for usin' Jeezus to twist things my way.
I knew I was a minority of one,
but I was caught, like everyman in Georgia,
by the easy way it slips across your tongue:
"Let's do the dishes for Jeezus"
"Let's lose weight for Jeezus"
and even:
"Let's make a baby for Jeezus."
It got worse.
Soon my wife was sayin':
"Let's clean out the fridge for Jeezus"
"Let's take out the garbage for Jeezus"
"Let's change the oil in the car for Jeezus"
It seems like Jeezus has an awful lot of stuff He wants done--
at least Moses thought so--like votin' agin' Gun Control,
and Homos, and rubbers in the schools.
My wife & son & I got tired of doin' stuff for Jeezus.
And then, one day, the Church Elders came by the house.
They saw the scragglee yard filled with crabgrass,
They saw the debris of unburned bushes, they saw the
unknownly evil trees, the decaying leaves,
left behind here to pile up (I think) since before The Fall
And they judged me and found me wanting!
But all those things grew for Jeezus! I said to them.
I was called a heretic, a cynic, a humanist!
"TO THINK THAT THE GRASS GROWS FOR JEEZUS
OR THAT THE BUSHES BLOOM, OR THE LEAVES FALL--
ALL THIS HAPPENS FOR JEEZUS? NOT IN GEORGIA, IT DON'T!"
And then they left.
But who the Hell then makes all this stuff grow so fast
like this? I said to myself, and then, to my wife:
"Call the church and tell Jeezus to come over here
and rake up all these damn leaves of His
that He's let drop all over my yard!"
The wife sent me on a walk, to cool off she said and think about
committing my life a little less fully to Jeezus.
I walked downtown in the cold wintery day, past the old
railroad tracks, to a tired part of town that Jeezus
had let go downhill a bit. I got cold, and soon I was
standin' in front of an old theater marquee that said:
HEAT
So I paid my six dollars and went inside to get warm.
As I slipped into the worn velvet seat (the popcorn machine
was broke, they said) I let my eyes wander over the too
dark room, and saw the dozen or so fellow travelers
waiting in their seats--not tense so much as tensed
like springs that had been bent so much they broke.
Soon the projector light appeared and with it the muscular bodies
of young Italian men--a gangsta film I think it was
with mobsters and big-breasted molls--a Revenge Tragedy--it was,
some long lost descendent of Hamlet leached onto 35mm film.
The hero was a handsome Hispanic goodly fellow
who fell to his work like Jeezus Himself was
prodding him to action; or else Shakespeare who said:
"Screw your courage to the sticking place!"
and so screw he did, and all for Jeezus....
Soon I found myself saying, quietly, then louder:
"Squeeze it for Jeezus"
"Lick that fig for Jeezus"
"Ride 'em like a cowboy, Jeezus"
And then the theater owner, looking like Sargent Garcia,
Came to my seat and said,
"He is not Heysoos, his name is Stephen Saint Croix."
Apologizing, I soon returned to the show:
"Suck that bacuda, for Saint Croix"
"Lick that ol' conch, Saint Croix"
"Take it like a choir boy, for Saint Croix...."
And no sooner than the words sprung from my mouth
I knew: I had become a born-again cathar-lick!
Like Paul on the Road to Damascus
(not a Hope-Crosby film, by the way)
or Cardinal Newman, stopping to visit the Folies Bergere
on the road to Notre Dame, I was struck
down by my New Belief. Converted from my firm
adherence to the Jeezus of the gospels,
I was now transformed by a new renewal of faith!
No longer one of His Elect,
I chose to worship at the footstool of His truly Erect.
In that dark theater, among the old-maid popcorn kernels,
I fell to my knees and prayed to my beautiful Saint Croix,
and then & there
I was shot through & through
with the lightning of his sacred Thor-like hammer.
In the darkness I was anointed like a lover.
I was conceived from the beauty of her black belly.
As the brightness of her smile projected above me on the screen--
I was bathed in the whited charisma of his blessed tool.
Saint Croix is much less difficult and rigid taskmaster.
He is hard, but forgiving, too.
Like Saint Anthony and the blessed beasts,
I soon found forgiveness in the hardness of his holy rule.
And now each year we pilgrimage to the island of Saint Croix,
blessed with his name, washed with the warm caribbean winds,
and take his holy sacrament in this church by the sea.
Like the native Crucians, I embrace the holy cross.
Like the Rosy Crucians, I sunburn lightly as a penance.
Like the Virgin Islands, I am reborn each day at dawn. And
as one newly christened, with each new "maarn in"
I give good Jesus with the warmest latitude.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
The Breath of Life
The Breath of Life
"... and hold her / till she is awake again."
Eric Dutton's "Staying Married"
After church
we lie together on the narrow futon
and I am wrapped around you
like a thin tree snake holding a pregnant dove--
the look of peace in your eyes
is so gentle, your soul so clear that
the tears come to my eyes
again.
It must have been like this
the first time. It must have been
like this when the Preacher, standing
in the shallow waters, put his giant's
hand across your nose & mouth, and
lowered you into some rural southern
river. You looked up at him, through
the dark water, even though he said to "shut
your eyes" as he pushed you under.
When you were lifted up again, your
nipples were full and hard from
the cold water and the rush of blood
to the vital sacred parts, which washed
your sins away; and the rigor of mortality
transformed you into what you are today.
Your eyes are clear again.
The white shift you wear, for purity's sake,
is pushed up, just as my black shirt, belt &
pants are loose and twisted aside, so that
simple coitus is easy. It seems we have lain
this way for hours, maybe we have been
always joined this way as lovers.
You move, slightly, to show you are
ready again. Alert to your signal, my
body grows hard again inside you and
my righteous hand moves up to your face.
My left hand, beneath your head, wraps
itself in your long auburn hair and I brace
myself for the coming struggle. Your right arm
is pinioned helpless beneath my body and your left
is not strong enough to save you from what
is about to happen (and we both know
this already, from severe practice).
The scratches on my face prove this:
Death can be relentless in his love.
Your eyes have now gone hard & lost
the look of purity, and instead the gaze
of human lust has taken hold of your soul.
You must be punished this way,
again and again.
The missionary position seems
suited to this, for I am on a sacred mission
where my hard thrusts send you again and again
below the water's surface, like a witch
tied on a dunking pole. I sometimes feel
like a murderer pushing a corpse below
the water with a stick, as the dying
flesh gives way, again and again, to each
thrust of the stick.
My muscles, every sinew, goes hard
and taut, braced for this task. And your body
fights back against this cruel fate, the
ignorant lower reptilian brain struggles
for some tiny breath of life. The moments pass
and soon your eyes grow dim again, your voice
muffled from the struggle with my blunt hand.
Your body, wet with a cold sweat, goes
slack against my starched cotton shirt.
You feel dead against me, and the weakness
fills my eyes with tears for what is lost.
I remove my hand. Soon I feel the faint intake
of breath and the barely muffled sob.
As your eyes open again, I feel this
rush of joy, knowing that we will stay this
way forever. Yet, I do not leave you here
alone for more than a few days at a time
because I do not want you, desperate for absolution,
to try something like this without me.
Accidents happen. And sometimes
  without possibility of redemption.
"... and hold her / till she is awake again."
Eric Dutton's "Staying Married"
After church
we lie together on the narrow futon
and I am wrapped around you
like a thin tree snake holding a pregnant dove--
the look of peace in your eyes
is so gentle, your soul so clear that
the tears come to my eyes
again.
It must have been like this
the first time. It must have been
like this when the Preacher, standing
in the shallow waters, put his giant's
hand across your nose & mouth, and
lowered you into some rural southern
river. You looked up at him, through
the dark water, even though he said to "shut
your eyes" as he pushed you under.
When you were lifted up again, your
nipples were full and hard from
the cold water and the rush of blood
to the vital sacred parts, which washed
your sins away; and the rigor of mortality
transformed you into what you are today.
Your eyes are clear again.
The white shift you wear, for purity's sake,
is pushed up, just as my black shirt, belt &
pants are loose and twisted aside, so that
simple coitus is easy. It seems we have lain
this way for hours, maybe we have been
always joined this way as lovers.
You move, slightly, to show you are
ready again. Alert to your signal, my
body grows hard again inside you and
my righteous hand moves up to your face.
My left hand, beneath your head, wraps
itself in your long auburn hair and I brace
myself for the coming struggle. Your right arm
is pinioned helpless beneath my body and your left
is not strong enough to save you from what
is about to happen (and we both know
this already, from severe practice).
The scratches on my face prove this:
Death can be relentless in his love.
Your eyes have now gone hard & lost
the look of purity, and instead the gaze
of human lust has taken hold of your soul.
You must be punished this way,
again and again.
The missionary position seems
suited to this, for I am on a sacred mission
where my hard thrusts send you again and again
below the water's surface, like a witch
tied on a dunking pole. I sometimes feel
like a murderer pushing a corpse below
the water with a stick, as the dying
flesh gives way, again and again, to each
thrust of the stick.
My muscles, every sinew, goes hard
and taut, braced for this task. And your body
fights back against this cruel fate, the
ignorant lower reptilian brain struggles
for some tiny breath of life. The moments pass
and soon your eyes grow dim again, your voice
muffled from the struggle with my blunt hand.
Your body, wet with a cold sweat, goes
slack against my starched cotton shirt.
You feel dead against me, and the weakness
fills my eyes with tears for what is lost.
I remove my hand. Soon I feel the faint intake
of breath and the barely muffled sob.
As your eyes open again, I feel this
rush of joy, knowing that we will stay this
way forever. Yet, I do not leave you here
alone for more than a few days at a time
because I do not want you, desperate for absolution,
to try something like this without me.
Accidents happen. And sometimes
  without possibility of redemption.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Immense gains on frankfurt!
Recently I was invited to a reading of three
poets on three consecutive nights. Alice Fulton,
who has won numerous awards for her poetry
was the reader on the third night. After a
glowingly colorful introduction, Fulton launched into
her reading. I wish I could get that hour back.
As best I can tell, Fulton is a dictionary poet.
That means she takes the dictionary and looks
up words and then free associates to get her
verse (actually, she must use a philosophical
dictionary). I tried to write an actually parody
of her poetry, but the stuff is so empty that it
was hard to do that. So instead I’m creating
a “found poem” made up of text from emails.
This seems appropriate—text created by one
computer to fool another computer into thinking
that this is a real message. But it is, of course,
not a real message, but a simulation.
---------------------------------------------
Immense gains on frankfurt!
“the new moon is just a luminous zilch.”
Alice Fulton’s “Snow Kiln”
“If you will get banged
by your pennis with mistress?”
And they shall which he cometh with the ram for.
Then Afterward he would abound more of these chief, of the Lord that Died. Then came up to those who sought the words of God, It is unclean on all that ye therefore have dominion, The cave and aloes, and I thou and he hath given frozen: Higher. And sinful flesh that wicked children of Madon, and no peace and thou And the Lord grant you and wept sore broken brought unto thee neither Shall be not thou. And put their tents but O thou here we may write blessed is accomplished
No surprise that the signs of social fracture and growing dissatisfaction are plain to see. One in nine children is living with just one parent, relatives or a distant neighbour. Yet the sharp rift between left and right in France remains deep in the French psyche. Each day a child under the age of seven is abandoned in Moldova.
The result has been 25 years of meaningless hypocrisy. So at the moment there are 12 candidates, all of whom have won the written backing of 500 elected politicians in order to stand.
She has a small scrap of land where she grows vegetables to feed herself. Couple this with an economy that has been misfiring and it is easy to see why France is in such a deep hole, desperately looking for solutions. I often hear many negative comments about France and Europe. Who appeals most to ethnic minority voters? He was featured chatting, arguing at a factory gate with a couple of people and it worked as an engaging piece of TV.
I was channel-hopping when I came across a series of short, and quite snappy, party political broadcasts following one after the other. Mr Le Pen has rather simpler ideas on the far right - get rid of immigrants, and you get rid of the problem.
Laurie gave her a glance of filial respect and love as he replied. “you hate the thought of it?" said jack, as he was giving jill her early walk "oh, yes, pitch about like nutshells and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." nice to hide the scar on his forehead, eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among with satisfaction at the prospect before them.
¡¡i played at hot cockles, last petite redhaired girl banged two huge black cocks << tiny teen babe gets pounded !
poets on three consecutive nights. Alice Fulton,
who has won numerous awards for her poetry
was the reader on the third night. After a
glowingly colorful introduction, Fulton launched into
her reading. I wish I could get that hour back.
As best I can tell, Fulton is a dictionary poet.
That means she takes the dictionary and looks
up words and then free associates to get her
verse (actually, she must use a philosophical
dictionary). I tried to write an actually parody
of her poetry, but the stuff is so empty that it
was hard to do that. So instead I’m creating
a “found poem” made up of text from emails.
This seems appropriate—text created by one
computer to fool another computer into thinking
that this is a real message. But it is, of course,
not a real message, but a simulation.
---------------------------------------------
Immense gains on frankfurt!
“the new moon is just a luminous zilch.”
Alice Fulton’s “Snow Kiln”
“If you will get banged
by your pennis with mistress?”
And they shall which he cometh with the ram for.
Then Afterward he would abound more of these chief, of the Lord that Died. Then came up to those who sought the words of God, It is unclean on all that ye therefore have dominion, The cave and aloes, and I thou and he hath given frozen: Higher. And sinful flesh that wicked children of Madon, and no peace and thou And the Lord grant you and wept sore broken brought unto thee neither Shall be not thou. And put their tents but O thou here we may write blessed is accomplished
No surprise that the signs of social fracture and growing dissatisfaction are plain to see. One in nine children is living with just one parent, relatives or a distant neighbour. Yet the sharp rift between left and right in France remains deep in the French psyche. Each day a child under the age of seven is abandoned in Moldova.
The result has been 25 years of meaningless hypocrisy. So at the moment there are 12 candidates, all of whom have won the written backing of 500 elected politicians in order to stand.
She has a small scrap of land where she grows vegetables to feed herself. Couple this with an economy that has been misfiring and it is easy to see why France is in such a deep hole, desperately looking for solutions. I often hear many negative comments about France and Europe. Who appeals most to ethnic minority voters? He was featured chatting, arguing at a factory gate with a couple of people and it worked as an engaging piece of TV.
I was channel-hopping when I came across a series of short, and quite snappy, party political broadcasts following one after the other. Mr Le Pen has rather simpler ideas on the far right - get rid of immigrants, and you get rid of the problem.
Laurie gave her a glance of filial respect and love as he replied. “you hate the thought of it?" said jack, as he was giving jill her early walk "oh, yes, pitch about like nutshells and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." nice to hide the scar on his forehead, eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among with satisfaction at the prospect before them.
¡¡i played at hot cockles, last petite redhaired girl banged two huge black cocks << tiny teen babe gets pounded !
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
meet Bob Dole....
The Love Song of Bob Dole
& "The Greatest Generation"
"I was shy and tender...."
Allen Ginsberg's "You Know What I'm Saying?"
ashes to ashes, dicks to dust
it takes a pill to stoke our lust
& even if Libby gets skin like leather
all us old farts stick together
we fought the war again' the Nazi
and even beat the goddam Japanee
so we could wear coats made of pleather
that's why us old farts stick together
bald old heads & baggy old skin
cancerous prostate & saggy chin
wearing Ben-Gay in hot sticky weather
makes us old farts stick together
& when we go to His throne on Judgement Day
we'll all be singin' "i did it my waayyy...."
& "The Greatest Generation"
"I was shy and tender...."
Allen Ginsberg's "You Know What I'm Saying?"
ashes to ashes, dicks to dust
it takes a pill to stoke our lust
& even if Libby gets skin like leather
all us old farts stick together
we fought the war again' the Nazi
and even beat the goddam Japanee
so we could wear coats made of pleather
that's why us old farts stick together
bald old heads & baggy old skin
cancerous prostate & saggy chin
wearing Ben-Gay in hot sticky weather
makes us old farts stick together
& when we go to His throne on Judgement Day
we'll all be singin' "i did it my waayyy...."
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The Earl of Sandwich is a Glistening God
The Earl of Sandwich is a Glistening God
"We're in too deep...."
Jorie Graham's "Prayer"
I met two salmon once
in a motel room near Troy, Nebraska--
glimmering and slippery they were,
as tasty as the finest eels, brown and golden
in a frying pan.
The first lay upside down & backwards, while the other
stood beside the bed--patiently waiting--quick & glittering
from the wetness of my mind, where it had dipped into
and found my secret (as I knelt on the bed in prayer):
I have this great emptiness, deep within me,
which needs to be filled.
Nothing else matters.
They were not endangered, not by me at least;
I had never killed anything that way
(except perhaps that time I morally
wounded a dwarf mongoose in Rhode Island,
and I gagged once on an albino python in Montreal)
I hold within so many things--
one size fits all, but I am not unquenchable.
Plunging upwards, the upturned salmon swam against the stream
he found the running bitter waters
he found the deepest part, too sweet,
he found the quickening tissues of life's first ocean
and mouthed with his ovule lips the words, words, words
first spoken by The Serpent in The Garden
and felt the knot--a bit off from what he thought--
but truly there.
I felt his thirst unloosened by the in-betweeness
that I shared--I named the two salmon: Far Better
and Four Worse.
Deeper, deeper, into less and less--their minds unfastened
with a quickening gait.
The smooth surfaces of things split, rejoined, and split again
the timeless motions, the quickening, the race, ...
Too deep? he said,
like the bluebird's beak
lowering the early worm into the open gaping mouth--
like the yawning chick, my blindness was all peripheral
a matter of perspective, the immanent domain of trousers
snaking their way edgewise into the gullet of the opening maw,
like soiled clothes touching the edge of an overstuffed hamper.
Bluish and empurpled veins stand out on the salmon, too
tight skin, as my kisses land on every inch of the seeable
translucent self. Meanwhile, the upturned salmon, bare and bony,
feeds on small puddles of snowmelt, lapping up the miles.
With his endless inwardness, he disperses his sea-like
wetness in the uncoalescing openings.
I turn round to face the upturned salmon
resting my haunches on his tiny pelvis bone
and place the emptiness of my self-same stillness on his swelling brine-filled
forward motion, the tiny upliftings, the rise and falling of things
unseen, undreamt of, like the long red rays of the sun going (up &) down.
The other salmon moves closer, so that soon
in his approach he is not so much near me as in me
Glad to be in? No? So unprotected
from your rubbery glance, so plastic in your
stretched smile. He was
pointing out his full bodylength, like a gull's neck
Love big enough to hide in a breadbox--
all that is true, I carry inside me,
and out and in, this bodywidth of frailty.
My eyes fix on the singular redness of the thing
the unnatural thickening, just there, anticipating
the eruption of the present, the simultaneous emptying,
the undulations, the eager logic, the perplexed engines of desire....
The radio by the bed announced:
"... they were readied by forces she did not recognize ..."
at that last moment we moved, by prearranged signals
so that the one stood at my feet, above the glistening sheets
where my welcoming toes stand out, and the other moves
to my face where my bluest eye begs for his oblation.
the ending of things
all too certain--a shattering of selves into the rubble
and debris, like ancient Troy a shattering of statues into
unseemly piles of arms, and heads, and legs--the faces
worn away and wedged in between.
We lay there, as Paris, Menelaus & Helen lay--
bodies jumbled up as the shattered stone
our juices spilled for kings.
Even the ear, too, is finally satiated
and the window swallows these words:
"Wait! Did I say salmon? ... I meant salesmen."
"We're in too deep...."
Jorie Graham's "Prayer"
I met two salmon once
in a motel room near Troy, Nebraska--
glimmering and slippery they were,
as tasty as the finest eels, brown and golden
in a frying pan.
The first lay upside down & backwards, while the other
stood beside the bed--patiently waiting--quick & glittering
from the wetness of my mind, where it had dipped into
and found my secret (as I knelt on the bed in prayer):
I have this great emptiness, deep within me,
which needs to be filled.
Nothing else matters.
They were not endangered, not by me at least;
I had never killed anything that way
(except perhaps that time I morally
wounded a dwarf mongoose in Rhode Island,
and I gagged once on an albino python in Montreal)
I hold within so many things--
one size fits all, but I am not unquenchable.
Plunging upwards, the upturned salmon swam against the stream
he found the running bitter waters
he found the deepest part, too sweet,
he found the quickening tissues of life's first ocean
and mouthed with his ovule lips the words, words, words
first spoken by The Serpent in The Garden
and felt the knot--a bit off from what he thought--
but truly there.
I felt his thirst unloosened by the in-betweeness
that I shared--I named the two salmon: Far Better
and Four Worse.
Deeper, deeper, into less and less--their minds unfastened
with a quickening gait.
The smooth surfaces of things split, rejoined, and split again
the timeless motions, the quickening, the race, ...
Too deep? he said,
like the bluebird's beak
lowering the early worm into the open gaping mouth--
like the yawning chick, my blindness was all peripheral
a matter of perspective, the immanent domain of trousers
snaking their way edgewise into the gullet of the opening maw,
like soiled clothes touching the edge of an overstuffed hamper.
Bluish and empurpled veins stand out on the salmon, too
tight skin, as my kisses land on every inch of the seeable
translucent self. Meanwhile, the upturned salmon, bare and bony,
feeds on small puddles of snowmelt, lapping up the miles.
With his endless inwardness, he disperses his sea-like
wetness in the uncoalescing openings.
I turn round to face the upturned salmon
resting my haunches on his tiny pelvis bone
and place the emptiness of my self-same stillness on his swelling brine-filled
forward motion, the tiny upliftings, the rise and falling of things
unseen, undreamt of, like the long red rays of the sun going (up &) down.
The other salmon moves closer, so that soon
in his approach he is not so much near me as in me
Glad to be in? No? So unprotected
from your rubbery glance, so plastic in your
stretched smile. He was
pointing out his full bodylength, like a gull's neck
Love big enough to hide in a breadbox--
all that is true, I carry inside me,
and out and in, this bodywidth of frailty.
My eyes fix on the singular redness of the thing
the unnatural thickening, just there, anticipating
the eruption of the present, the simultaneous emptying,
the undulations, the eager logic, the perplexed engines of desire....
The radio by the bed announced:
"... they were readied by forces she did not recognize ..."
at that last moment we moved, by prearranged signals
so that the one stood at my feet, above the glistening sheets
where my welcoming toes stand out, and the other moves
to my face where my bluest eye begs for his oblation.
the ending of things
all too certain--a shattering of selves into the rubble
and debris, like ancient Troy a shattering of statues into
unseemly piles of arms, and heads, and legs--the faces
worn away and wedged in between.
We lay there, as Paris, Menelaus & Helen lay--
bodies jumbled up as the shattered stone
our juices spilled for kings.
Even the ear, too, is finally satiated
and the window swallows these words:
"Wait! Did I say salmon? ... I meant salesmen."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
"They can't separate probably...."
Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"
One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.
And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.
Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.
-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.
This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm
"They can't separate probably...."
Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"
One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.
And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.
Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.
-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.
This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm
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