Chinese Whispers: Poems (6 page)

meaning if I came along it’d

already be too late.

Some of the swans are swarming.

The spring has gone under—it wasn’t

supposed to be like this.

Now they watch him and cringe.

Who are they? Who is he?

We decided to fly Chinese.

The food wasn’t that good.

And oh Erwin did I tell you

that man—the one—I didn’t

know if I was supposed to or not.

He crawled back listlessly,

holding a bunch of divas.

It’s hard work getting these out,

but so’s any thing you’re entitled to do:

classes to attend.

The morning of school.

Evening almost over,

they bend the security rules.

It’s time for another fog bomb.

Lookit the way they all roost.

Poor souls clashed together

until almost the root’s roof

separates us from our beginning.

We slew many giants in our day,

burned many libraries.

Roundabouts, swings,

it was all one piece of luck to us.

Now we’re washed up it’s almost cold.

Not bad enough to put up a stand.

Out of that longing we built a paean.

Now everyone who crosses this bridge is wiser.

It doesn’t tilt much.

Look, the shore is arriving laterally.

Some people literally think they know a lot,

gets ’em in trouble, we must rake out

cafés looking for rats and exploded babies.

There was one too many last week.

I don’t know if you’re coding.

The cop pulled us over

in a shawl. Why do you want to go around me

when there are other circulars

to be had for the looking?

I never thought about being grounded forever.

This is Mademoiselle. Take your hat off.

There’s no need, I was here last Thursday.

All the best creatures are thwarted

for their pains. He removed my chains deftly,

processed my passport with gunk.

Now two times five geese fly across

the crescent moon, it is time to get down to

facts, in the tiny park.

There were priests posing as nuns,

quinces and stuff.

Tilt me a little more to the sun,

I want to see it one last time. There,

that’s just fine. I’ve seen it.

You can roll me inside. On wings of what perturbation?

He came for the julep.

He was gone in an instant.

We cry too much over

drowned dogs.

He came in last week too.

Said he knew you or somebody else.

It’s the pain just of replying

that makes so many of them take up different lines.

Too many goods—we are spoiled indeed.

Had we learned to subsist on less

the changing of the world might be different,

earth come to greet us. I say, the chairs have grown back.

The couple sat in the dish drainer

pondering an uncertain future.

The kitchen had never looked bleaker

except for two chinchillas near the stove, a beaker

of mulled claret, shaving soap smelling

so fresh and new, like smoke, almost.

He says leave it here,

that he comes here.

OK harness the DeSoto,

we’ll have other plans

for newness, for a renewing, kind of—

picnics in the individual cells

so no one falls asleep for it, dreams

she is a viola, instrument of care, of sorts.

You should have seen him when we got back.

He was absolutely wild. Hadn’t wanted us to go

to the picture show. But in a way it was all over,

we were back, the harm had been done.

Gradually he came to realize this

over a period of many years, spanning

two world wars and a major depression.

After that it was time to get up and go,

but who had the get up and go? A child’s

party, painted paper hats, bowlfuls of lemonade,

no more at the lemonade stand, it sold out.

That was cheerful. A man came right up behind you,

he had two tickets to the door.

We need starve no more

but religion is elastic too—

might want some at some future date—

if so you’ll find it here.

We have to hurry in now,

hurry away, it’s the same thing

she said as rain came and stole the king.

None of it helped much,

not even my beloved Philosophy,

sitting dejected, hands in her lap,

moving her head slowly from side to side.

“You naughty, wicked boy ...”

But I cherished you last night ...

It makes no difference, night is like that—

different, odd. The gains we rack up

dissipate in cold daylight, random

to the touch. Look how the faint green

of the willow shudders. Last night it was another story,

some kind of bird was singing.

I have this warble in my head

yet can’t get out of my long johns ...

And if it was over, from side to side, rocking

as a distraught mother rocks her cradle

mindless of the screaming babe,

and if it all comes to this, what good are we to others

when we do descend the stair?

Lamplight and this and that, caring

out of one end of the tube, with the other hand

fastening the necklace clasp—

Oh you had some fine times too,

morning like pasteboard reflecting the light

at the dancing houses, and

a world wondering, opening like a bud.

You remember I was locked in a closet

and when someone came to let me out,

said, what is this lovely garden,

but where is the even lovelier one I was just in?

So all things come to bust:

the Joshua trees piling ever higher

their grief under the conservatory’s blank panes,

the way you look tonight,

the way you spun your tires

in the wet gutter, on gravel, in the sand.

And take this last piece of medicine:

You were found with the rest of your litter

dying or dead. Only you showed

some appropriate curiosity

that’s gone now to fan the flames

of scholarly ethics, and that’s just about all we’re about.

Knowledgeably, she is knowledgeable about many things—

the stars in their errant orbits, a bud

sliding over a hibiscus, a cloud like a frown

on the face of a teddy bear. And then, more stuff.

The inquisitors were endlessly patient, amused—

you had to be, in that business.

And if they liked your answer, you were free.

It didn’t have to be true. Streamers, party favors,

confetti—all were yours.

I know now why some have seen the sun sink

and it fed their hunger, they came on unabated.

Is it my lord’s pleasure to mate?

In that case we have pogo sticks of different sizes and colors.

But he may just go away

thinking it enough for that day.

Bicycle came barreling through the sleet—

as was proven

when they entered the house

in which the priest was,

moping and sincere

like all exegetes. Zeppelin

hovered o’er him, bushes fancied him,

but it was to be let down on earth

they all embraced singing.

Further, one was sure

one had come to pass,

yet no slovenly proof was

ever forwarded.

The lines swayed

backwards and forth,

housewives queuing up for lamb chops

and all that this rhythm implies

excoriated

from above.

The tourist metastasizes his position.

These palms are lucky being within us

no matter what the tyrant truth says.

All along my childhood’s wall

I hoped (was hoping) for this occlusion

but not passionately.

A cheerful emotion hatched,

soon population o’erran the land.

We descended gently toward boats

to hear the boatswain’s

song, sung from the capstan, about how life intrudes

on the plodding waves

and no one is certain of desiccation

as a great marrow bone is gnawed.

It is as though a feast had happened

in plain sight. We forgot about the

treasure, forgot it had happened

among the madness of whirling wheat.

The man standing there, the other stranger,

slips easily into the background

as though stopping were the last thing on his mind.

Another, lacking the courage of his convictions,

went mad from drinking seawater. That was an absolute rout.

Oh evenings! Learning where to look it up

became an end in itself. To this purpose

trained fleas were engaged to do sums.

Ants on their way to happiness paused

over the numbers: Did it seem like three

or was it just three? Is this where I came in?

More likely we all need to be blessed for the hole

in his savage argument. Surely, passing through town,

we contributed a little to the regional economy,

received credit for showing our faces.

So what if the only theater in town

had been turned into a funeral parlor?

There are few things more theatrical than death,

one supposes, though one doesn’t know.

Which brings me to my original argument.

Ah, what was the argument? Keeping our places,

assuming no more credit than what is due

our tame luster, our positive shine. Then people will go out

into the city, spreading germs, living like it was last year.

This little bridge

three of them

blasted a recess in the rock

hoovered the mountains

played with a squirrel called Scrawny

(hangnail on the forefinger of Death)

a hundred yards from my home

what home you haven’t got a home

I do so have a home

Mottled later the pattern recedes

into my marvelous life

Hey how are you life

never been better

that’s good

’cause I want you to take care of yourself

understand

Yeah I understand

Aw for the love of Pete

The pattern’s got on mushrooms now

on the clothes of aborigines on magnets

They are sending a boat for you a

private launch

Tired of feeding the muskrats in this shithole

getting ready to tidy up and go

leave this wooden structure that doesn’t love me

Wait there are one or two small items to regulate

before you can go

I repeat I want my life out of here

dissolved in memory

Bring on the aromatherapy

boys there’s a job to get done

Me always in the middle

me whining

me probably not such a nice person after all

me on the stadium

me persiflating in the dire blue strait

me up to my ankles in woe

me rejoicing in the realization of my perfectibility

Loggerheads come on down

They’re waiting for you

in the cabin

this way please,

And that should be about right—

know
of
him. I don’t want

to speak of him. He’s brilliant.

His underwear is radiant.

The Davis Cup

came apart in his hands. A seasoned jester.

A basket case. Mother brought the children.

We all survived tennis.

The gale picked up.

Buildings waved in it, and the tentacles

of a giant squid, seeking a memento

lost some years ago near the Donner Pass.

Seriously
, I want my memento back!

The cabin cruisers of morning

edge tentatively closer—

why, it’s all a sham!

Prince Charming’s dropping cigarette ash

on topiary chessmen. The ugly sisters are uncertain.

Cinderella is out. Period. Gargoyles are in great demand,

but if so, why say so? You’ll come back, with childhood lusting

after evil groceries, and more of them to take care of.

Youth is wasted on the old.

Like I said, the days, these days, come calibrated.

On the boulevard I passed a giant squid.

It manifested but a puny interest in me

or its surroundings, though one suction cup

thoughtfully grazed a ring of spikes around a boulevard tree

like a monocle one puts down absentmindedly

on the page of a newspaper and words like

worker ants quickly spring into action:

“It was not the FIRST TIME THE accused has been so solicited.

By his OWN ADMISsion four other rumpuses were given rise to

after that first YEar ...”