new poems (7 page)

 

top hat stetson and cowboy boots

 

then there was a banquet
seven thousand pounds of beef were consumed
(the old world will feel the effects in a few years
or a few days)
five and a half thousand pounds of ham
(this bodes no good either)
sixty thousand giant shrimp

 

the former president once again
bid farewell to the nation
once again apologized
to the district attorney and the nation
that he had lied that he had put his finger
where he shouldn't have
the finger from the atomic button
(don't put your finger in the door!)
he promised he'd give back the chairs
and flew off

 

the sky wept the earth wept
the lands and oceans trembled
diplomats and generals
wiped their noses
(the cardinals smiled)

 

I wept too
as I read the papers
then I laughed through my tears
as I listened to the radio

she would gaze upon her features
innocent and so attractive
in the mirror every morning
and at night before retiring
she would gaze upon her features
oval white
and appetizing
as a slice of bread and butter

 

once she looked in a pier glass
(an heirloom from an aunt or grandmother)
and saw herself
full length
from head to foot

 

she turned her head with winsome grace
and she saw her other face
or rather her coin's alternate
side
in the mirror magnified

 

she gazed upon the face
of an angel
which changed
in eyes mirrors
till many years later
in a star-filled
(one- or maybe four-star) hotel
her eyes to the ceiling directed
found her body reflected
as in a sheet of water

 

she read “rip van winkle”
noticed that she herself had no
winkle
the pier glass came to mind again
she took another look
sharp wordless and then
after in the bath she sought
herself and her identity
drank Kafka with cream
invoked Potter's assistance
climbed up on Pegasus
and winged in this manner
sat down (on her backside)
to compose an auto
biographical novel
“building the tower of bauble”
her patron was kundera
and the thoughts of Haripoter
Chagall's flying cows
she read the daily lama
dipped into ulysses
found her grandfather's roots
became an unmarried mother
but wrote on like no other

 

“Building the Tower of Bauble”
on the way for the heck of it
she scribbled some poems
“rose without thorns”
and “thorn with no rose though it grows”

 

she won prizes
was a huge hit
in magazines you'd find
pictures
of a ravishing
behind

 

she took an interest in noah's ark

 

and wrote on like no other

 

“The Tower of Bauble” has reached the sky
so maybe it's time
to bid it goodbye–she thought–

 

because it'll make a hole in the sky

 

or maybe there's still time
to fill the hole with the kama sutra
Adolf Hitler and the brahmaputra
Stalin and bill clinton's finger
all the stops
must be pulled out!
so she knuckles down and buckles down
writing like no other no other
throws it all into the sack
cloning and genes and infestations
wives' and mothers' obligations
and the intern's vestmentations
a great big bang
tummy upset
porno on the internet
c-section and a quadruplet

 

she writes like no other
writes like no other
all asweat . . .

 

Mutter fleht: Sandra
bitte stell Dich! . . . and my
mama fukuyama . . . doesn't
get a Thing . . .

. . .

 

 

white isn't sad
or happy
just white

 

I keep
telling it
it's white

 

but white doesn't listen
it's blind
deaf

 

it's perfect
and oh so slowly
it becomes
whiter

this poem
should be put to sleep

 

before it starts
to philosophize
before it starts

 

to cast about
for compliments

 

summoned to life
in a forgetful moment

 

attuned to words
to glances
it seeks deliverance
from the philosopher's
stone
passerby walk on
don't lift the stone

 

under it a tiny white poem
naked
is turning
to ash

 

words have been used up
chewed up like gum
by lovely young mouths
have been turned into white
balloons bubbles

 

diminished by politicians
they're used for whitening
teeth
and for the rinsing out
of mouths

 

in my childhood
words could be
applied to a wound
could be given
to the one you loved

 

now
diminished
wrapped in newspaper
they still contaminate still reek
they still hurt

 

hidden in heads
hidden in hearts
hidden under the gowns
of young women
hidden in holy books
they burst out
they kill

 

we've been struck by a landslide
of rocks stones pebbles

 

you could say that the poets
have stoned poetry to death
with words

 

only the stuttering
Demosthenes made good
use of pebbles
turning them
in his mouth
till he bled
he became one of the greatest
orators
in the world

 

PS
I too stumbled on a stone
at the very start of my journey

the avalanche of angels
brought about
by inspired poets
artists priests
and American
movie directors
is infinitely more foolish
than the one brought about
by Romantic poets

 

the products
of the dream factory
–the “holy wood”–
are sugary white
like the cotton candy
young children
adore

 

my Guardian Angel who
is 83 years old
and remembers all
my misdeeds
flew to me in consternation
and told me he was
being pestered
by salesmen
pedophiles sodomites
from commercial public
and religious TV
to endorse “angel's milk” custard
with little wings
dance hip-hop with seniors
and sell
sanitary napkins with wings
and without

 

they gave him
a gold watch with no time
a depilator a vibrator
a cell phone a garden gnome a paid
trip to Babylon

 

another empty vessel
offered him
the post of Angel of Europe
and guardian angel of the euro

 

my good old Guardian Angel
hid his face in his wing
and wept
“don't cry” I said–
O heavenly angel guardian mine
Stand beside me all the
time! Morning noon and in the night
always keep me in your sight
from all evil keep me far
at this point my Guardian Devil
flew up on the
black wings
sprouting from his heels

 

my Guardian Angel and my Guardian Devil
began to fight
for my little soul

since awakening
I've been having black thoughts

 

black thoughts?

 

try perhaps to describe
their form their substance

 

how do you know they're black

 

maybe they're square
or red
or golden

 

that's it!

 

golden thoughts

 

golden flakes in a dead sea
of tired language

 

those from Gogol for instance
“nothing reassures
like history”
or
“humor is no laughing matter”

 

and one other thought
that should be contemplated
by young people
and those “in the prime of life”

 

“it would be a poor world
without old people”

 

PS
there'd be no one to give your
seat to in the streetcar
and what use is life
without good deeds

in dreams I see a crowd
moving toward me

 

in dreams
I see ever more people
talking shouting

 

while in life nothing
rouses me any more

 

in dreams they speak to me
the dead the living
word after word
falls apart

 

flowers push in
through empty eyes
earth pushes in
through sockets

 

I brush off stars with my eyelids
I hear the heart of the bell
crack

 

I hear Wawel rocking to and fro
putting the nation to sleep

he wakes
looks about
something should remain
of the things of this world
but what?

 

the angels have departed

 

Tipsy
on sleep on wine
sated with gall
and vinegar
the old poet
strives to remember
which of the things of this world
were supposed to remain

 

poetry and love
or maybe poetry and goodness
he chews the words toothlessly
goodness I think it was goodness
and beauty?
or perhaps compassion?

 

he steps back
to better see Warsaw

 

The other one was beautiful and evil
her “sister” ugly and good

 

such is the master
playing while he spurns
obscuring so as to explain

 

he closes his eyes sees two
nailed feet

 

they fly from the planet

my legs were numb
I woke
from a long
uncomfortable
sleep

 

into a pure world

 

into a light
newly born
into Bethlehem or perhaps
another “lowly” town

 

where no one murdered
children
or cats
or Jews or Palestinians
or water or trees
or air

 

there was no past
and no future

 

I held hands
with mommy and daddy
in other words God

 

and I felt so good
it was as if
I didn't exist

 

 

 

. . .

 

 

Dostoevsky said
if he had to choose
between Jesus and the truth
he would choose Jesus

 

I'm beginning to understand
Dostoevsky

 

the birth life death
resurrection of Jesus
are a huge scandal
in the universe

 

without Jesus
our little planet
is devoid of consequence

 

this Man
son of God
if he died

 

rises again
each day at dawn
in anyone
who emulates him

 

the mouth of truth
is closed

 

a finger to the lips
tells us
the time has come

 

for silence

 

no one will answer
the question
about what truth is

 

the one who knew
the one who was truth
is gone

instead of answering
my question
you put a finger to your lips

 

said Jerzy

 

does it mean
that you won't
that you can't answer

 

it's my reply
to your question
“what meaning does life possess
if I have to die?”

 

placing a finger on my lips
I answered you in my thoughts
“life possesses meaning only because
we have to die”

 

eternal life
life without end
is existence without meaning
light without shadow
echo without sound

 

 

. . .

 

 

ever since the “little”
pope
smiled at me
the world has been a tad better

 

lord! What was his name

 

Luciano
or Luciani
that's it
Albino Luciani

 

He was like a child
he asked
what had happened
at the Ambrosiano
bank

 

when that little pope
smiled at the world
the “grown-ups”
took offense

 

Children would ask him
if they could call
God
mommy and daddy
he answered
yes
yes you can
God may contain
more of the Mother than the Father
(at which Cardinal B. made a face)

 

Naive as a child
though wise as an owl
he sought to know
the mysteries of banks and accounts
and money laundering
he died of a heart attack

 

they took some papers from his hands
and gave him a book on Emulating
Jesus
he emulated him well
he tried to drive the merchants from the temple

 

he left behind some worn slippers
eyeglasses and a smile
that illuminates
our depths