January 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
Dialogue begins. after dark
-I think you are back to showing what you are really made of.
Mother, what does that mean?
I call you up and tell you not to be proud, I hadn’t earned it.
Mother what does that mean.
force my gaze out of the window in order to see this is a train
high sky already, but low sun,
can it be low?
trees beginning to stand taller.
I wish someone would agree to a conversation about good and evil.
If we are, some of us, born less good and must become good.
if we differ originally upon the scale.
Yes, the sun has just come up, you are going for your run, it may be low.
I want to quit forcing my personality down your throat.
six a.m. and I wake four ways barred by wet,
a sweat I do not understand.
My ribs wet through my skin.
Last night there was a man who used to be a bookseller, but in a shop that was here before this, quite different. The counter stretched up on the opposite wall and he had once, he said, punched a fellow who leapt up on the books, trampling the paperbacks… He was so thin, and I put it by for age but, so thin. Couldn’t find his wallet, new coat, and I watched frozen as he patted legs that disappeared as he searched them and a torso that flattened too.
in spite of poetry
I’m throwing names out now and I know it,
the old man, Ben Lerner, John Steinbeck
John? I don’t tend to think of him with the first name attached.
I’m reading your East of Eden, and I think I understand it too well. No doubt I miss a great deal, I hope so.
Christmas is one month old and my sensibility reeling.
Why do you tolerate me, my teacher?
Pity, amusement, incomprehension?