(A note from the author scrawled on the next page of the journal
where the following heretofore unpublished poem was found) --
“Oh, dear lord! I wrote this deranged and careless thing
last night. Shows what a bad job even I can make of things while under the
influence of too much Schnapps. Is it of some worth, though? Lord, I do hope
not. I write this under a hangover’s last dull nail hammered into the jagged
and coarse walls of my skull, and perhaps I am too weary and etiolated to care
for such things in this state. I think, though, that I will not burn it. I
think that it may be of some use to somebody in the future: an ex-butler
perhaps, a rodeo clown on vacation, the victim of a dune-buggy strike, or a
scholar of the indecent minutiae of once famous scribblers. But for the moment,
oh dear lord, what have I done? I do hope that nobody ever reads this.”
Last Train To Oblivion by Frank O’Hara
Who speaks of rhinoceroses in silver weather?
Is there an adman free to sell me serviceable parts of
modus operandi,
one to install megaphones in my rotary capability, ad
nauseum?
Cease all questioning, madam.
Cease all moans and crane-operated smiles.
Cease dumbfounded coddling and fortunetellers who only tell
of the present.
Oneirism is my weak suit.
I’d say more, baby,
but your drift is too light upstairs.
Capable of drafting squared circles for mediocrity’s role
call,
I’m in the boom of crush, and liked by seagulls.
Serendipity’s moss has grown dead,
yet keeps spreading its fun-sucking tendrils.
Sandy Koufax might as well be a goner
as the days’ pitch count ups the ante’s fury for another
winter,
for another off season of poorly executed distaste and warm
beer.
I am intrepid and loved by pelicans.
I am as dull as fallen leaves crushed under the foot of a
wayward child.
Nobody spills their goods like I do,
into the gutter and mealy with wine-dark dares.
Who sprints along with horses in cinnamon weather?
Who feigns hunger at the soup kitchen?
I am altered and adulterated to live in sumptuous poverty,
and I am willing to give out or in,
depending on the tact of situational living.
Call me Ishtar.
Call me Calvin Coolidge The Third.
Call me Early For Breakfast.
These self-service fads are just waves like chips of
chocolate to pummel my radioed-in nature.
I cannot wait for patience to come on like an ulcer
or a slice of death.
There are buffalos in the basement treading the tepid
floodwater of existence.
We do not have names for them,
yet.
Who runs crazy octagons in the geometry of night’s illicit
chamber?
Who exercises?
Pause and peruse, I say.
And just in time too.
Because…
Shit.
Line,
please.
my father was führer of mean by ee cummings
my father was führer of mean
in nice lands of try
through fat to had
plush with fail and lost
my father cussed from haves of not
and strutted away spring with dust
while i slipped on joy
and killed kind’s rule
with wingless nights
my sleep troubled none but flies
as cooled creeps tied old scores
in sunk weather’s ruin
clear-skied with closed doors
my father who chomped ice
and betrayed love for tits
made laughs scatter to bits
well beyond scraps of fun
grossly judged just
my only meter of right
courted ire through might
in coats of ill-done
wronged with scars and
slightly less care
than falling petals take
from up’s down-there
to be booted dreamy towards give
with razor-stained wrists
i was give-long and light
to pawn courage’s fists
and crash because
into another because
my father
you see
that emperor of scorn
made salt out of water
and never sailed sadly
beyond regret’s shallow tacking
or jibed brave in now’s past
and if a want gives way
to a grip’s iron brand
or is belted to halt
with a buckle’s last word
then to lesser worlds than a lash
go all yeses to no
and pluck’s degraded
in a jackknife’s splash
that soaks all leaving
into one final go
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