Hieronymus Bosch on Television

The Collected Poems

Sarantino comes riding, tan chaps flapping against the hide of his mount, slavering dogs harrying his flank, toward

roses beyond beauty, petals sweating an alcoholic mist

hung over

fences, regally positioned at the edges of softly tilted lawns

(drooping points, unevenly lined up

anticipate a serrated welcome)

toward virtue’s frail, distracted, thorny reward:

dividends, Daisy Mae’s, certificates, bonds, paper.

Language is smeared on his face.

His face is blacked with it.

Wai. Wai.

Wanting to speak we have no recourse but to a

figure of speech

totally wrapped in the image of his own action

welded in ecstasy to the horse

riding towards the shimmering line of

other horsemen

obscured by our hand on the dial.

We nurse a glass teat

are filled up

with horsemen from one channel

fenced 1940’s lawns from another

Lucille Ball from a third.

Stagmant tidal flats at the end of the dial.

on television.

Have you,

have you,

have you seen

on television,

someone’s mother,

waiting,

someone’s mother,

on television

being talked to from someone,

waiting for

her son who is spread eagled dead on the street

waiting for

her son to rise up on the six o’clock news,

on television

on the Six O’Clock News, to tell her

where he is,

what has happened.

Victims pour out of the tube, into the living room,

onto the Karistan carpet from Japan

chunks of skin on pieces of the sky;s

criminals, lost childeren, homosexuals, soldiers,

bloodied, crazed,

spill out of the tube,

climb the chrome lamps ,

cover the faience,

pile up on the plush sofa,

doze on the love seats,

fill up the living room:

march in circles,

fall,

rise,

fall.

In the vast space

between the picture and the surface of the tube

miniature suns orbit, tan our skins in the dark.

Scales form on our eyes.

Across the face of the tube

on the diagonal,

in Pleistocenes of 60 minutes,

in technological time,

we evolve again.

Across the face of the tube

against the glass mountain

on the diagonal, a new species mutates.

On television character exists.

Off of the tube, in front, behind,

edges dull, outlines smear

but

on television,

on television

stroked in the same direction

definite dimensions of character toughen

deepen,

are exercised,

run and rerun and rerun again

until we can trace their shadows in the dark;

until the lightest random fingering causes them to leap

from the darkened box

muscular, distinct, well defined

and, half turned way, stand next to us

giving advice.

Starved for character

we try to crawl into the set

but it will not open

only its sides become transparent

and we can see its insides.

Grains of sand.

We molt,

become

beautiful collections of sleek dots in phosphors

tough

supple

flexible

fluid.

Swarm, become

motes, a swirl of dots on television

(the hangman, the rope, the condemned, the drop,

dots in phosphors.)

Asshemovesherfingerbetweenmylegswalksitslowly

sensuously over muscles,

leaving perfumed trail of ripples and spasms

like an erotic snail

she

turns distractedly to change the channel and brings famous people to bed.

At the beginning of the day

a pattern stumbles casually onto the screen

as if from an all night tryst,

a little drunk,

bestubbled,

caught, it oscillates vigorously

it shakes comically.

We meditate in the half darkness on the signature of a great intelligence.

Eventually it dissolves

and the world

reappears

made small and precise and perfect.

Mother and father are reunited

on television.

We are again a family.

True, father is small.

True, mother is small.

True, son and daughter are small,

at most 25, 30 inches on the diagonal (with their shadows)

But that there appear on television people at all is

a mystery: reminds us (we remember)

that though linguistics is a queerest science

we have no science at all of what the two eyes see.

But master one eye

sticks a philosophy to us,

a zen of entertainments.

At the end of the day another pattern appears—or the same one (it’s hard to tell).

An arm drops in a tender arc, a leg thrusts itself at us

obsequeously

death has a pushy motif and often consequences,

on television. The knife disappears,

the body curves into a him or and a her

drinking beer or pepsi

while

a dectective takes notes that are found

on another show three hours later

during which time, a relative comes to claim the body

which because of a snafu

Translations

after words are spoken we require

more words translating into a language we can comprehend,

released toward rather than said,

I will translate for you

through English to English and back again.

A translation

as a white cotton hankerchief in which to sneeze,

as a pale blue silk lined pocket in which to tuck ourselves,

as,

wanting mercy we receive justice and white bread,

pronouncements and aspirin—

and those only from nine to five Mondays through Fridays.

I will translate for you

through English to English and back again,

as hearing poetry read

we wait for the words to be said again, aloud—

to be translated,

because,

between us, within us

there is a gashed and splintered word scarred barrier

against which language crashes, rebounds and

injured, goes astray,

wandering

into the dusty tunnels under fingernails

burrowing,

into the pores of skin

which remembers suddenly

oils and rinds of fruit eaten years ago.

I will translate for you from English through English to English

to capture that which words held prisoner,

that which was bound between words en route to the short sentences

along which words progressed

but which escaped from words

and disappeared without a trace,

as a deciphered code disappears into a message.

I will translate for you the indelible marks on air beneath works.

Old Simcha walks with words, singing

recognizing in his friends a woolen foolishness

discovers poetry dressed and encoated in black letters of the alphabet

needing translation,

drinks as priests drink, sees what priests see

and is beaten for his pains,

while, at the zoo, between pages

the book carelessly left open,

words wander and without malice

take visitors and keepers casually for their dinner

and we,

mauled and bitten by the toothed animal that curls and waits between senteces,

sweating and wounded

say our lines

and wait for the translation.

A Response to a Request for a Bedtime Story

(for My Daughter Elyse)

DAUGHTER:

Daddy, tell me a bedtime story,

not too funny but not too sad,

of tailors and cobblers and fame and glory,

of danger and courage and good and bad,

A fairytale to start me dreaming,

with heros on horses and fairies and fools,

with dwarfs and giants and witches scheming,

and rings that talk and dancing stools,

a princess enchanted, an unhappy kingdom,

a charming prince who sets her free,

a knight who gets what he wants and then some,

a wizard with visions of what will be.

Daddy, tell me a story to sleep to.

Start it, “Once upon a time,”

in the middle put something to weep to,

a brother’s betrayal, a stepmother’s crime.

At the end, let the kingdom ring with laughter,

the world secure, its wrongs set right.

If ou finish it, “Happily ever after,”

I’ll put my head down and say goodnight.

FATHER:

Once upon a time, daughter, it was simple.

A prince on a horse rode out with a sword,

and for love of a princess faced a dragon and slew him

and claimed the princess as his reward.

All the dragons today work for large corporations

and do awful things at authorities’ call,

or quiet as mice they do the king’s bidding

and a sword against them counts for nothing at all.

Now the horses of villains are all packed into engines

that make the earth twitch and drive people mad,

but the horses of heros belch smoke and confusion

so that no one can tell the good from the bad.

And rings talk only in T.V. commercials,

and knights sell something to buy at a store.

and all of the princes are in law school at Harvard

and the princesses just won’t keep house anymore.

And giants are products of glands misdirected

and dwarfs are the same error compouded it seems

by a firm manufacturing drugs for enchantment

for magicians to use to capture bad dreams.

And all of the fairies are out of the forest

and the cottage is empty and the closet is bare

and the witches all have been liberated

and a wolf in a woods is exceedingly rare.

And charm and color belong to the atom

and strangeness is something that is seen by a few

wizards of science in chambers of bubbles

and only computers have the future in view.

There are no cobblers to speak of, darling,

when our shoes wear out we throw them away

and little old ladies who make clothes in Korea

are all that is left of tailors today.

And fame and glory belong to figures

who run with a ball when bowl games are played

and boldness and courage are found only on Wall Street.

in princes whose killings are made with a trade.

So sing yourself to sleep my daughter

for a modern child such tales won’t do,

yesterday’s news is to fantastic

and what happened today will frighten you.

“Happily ever after,” I’ll worry

whether there’s much of an after at all.

Tommorrow they may fuse their atom

and the sky fall.

Sunday Morning

(for Vera S)

Sunday morning before the Times

walking down Spring Street, East to West

I see, across the street

someone 20 years dead,

walking down

Spring Street,

West to East.

And desires, 20 years imprisoned

released by the perception,

claim satisfaction and

turn me,

uptown,

towards her.

While

glands,

which do not discriminate between mystery and threat,

which do not make judgments beween degrees of dieing or modes of dead,

flex

and having prepared me for every emergency save meeting someone I

loved

20 years dead, on Spring Street

turn me,

downtown

away.

In the breach of a Sunday morning, before the Times,

midstep

beneath the turning toward, above the turning away

in desperation, a part of me twists to find

some other way to fall than up or down,

searches

for the ground on which to complete a turn

finds

only the gap between what I loved and what I found merely attractive

and sprills sideways onto

disappointments, betrayals, indifferences

anticipating a death 20 years old but still to come.

But SoHo

claims the encounter as its own

imposes a sense of commonplace upon the impossible

draws out of the mysterious only its artistic possibilities

sketches the unimaginable as two figures against a slow

SoHo Sunday landscape

colors desire the shade of passion on canvas

and proportions fear to the fear of being tasteless.

How do you call to someone 20 years dead

and if they turn around what do you say

and how do you make excuses for a mistake.

I sing out to her,

I call the only hallo appropriate to the dead,

her name.

And, at her name, she turns reluctantly

as if against desire

slightly annoyed perhaps but not surprised

no sign of recognition in her eyes

only a tone of familiarity in her voice

acknowledges the need for explanation.

“I came to brunch at Berrys and to see the gallaries.”

and whispers something else that’s hard to hear.

Which explains nothing at all.

Distracted still by reason I remain

only inclined to roll down hill.

Passion, held in rein by habits foreign to the neighborhood,

trips on observing little things.

That I have aged 20 years but she is still the same, only

her flesh is tinted gray around the fingers and the brow

and how,

the dead are still governed by the

reflexes and customs of the living, and look lonely.

But you have been dead for 20 years, I say.

“Well it’s boring, and besides, you never wrote or called.”

Almost hysterical I cry,”But at your funeral I walked behind the coffin wept and mourned;

Where should I address the letter, and whats the number to call?”

But not convinced by logic she complains,

“Why don’t you take things as they come, not as they are.”

and just as easily I defend myself.

Two lovers on a stroll we turn the corner of our argument.

Catching myself, I scream, for God’s sake this is stupid, why are we standing here arguing.

“I’m not,” she answers, “I’m walking to Berrys for brunch and then the galleries.”

And for some reason lost to me, then and now

but final none the less,

the most important thing for me became

to convince her that she was dead, had been for twenty years.

This can’t be you and I can’t be talking to you. You’ve been dead for 20 years.

“A waste of time,” she says, and turns and walks away.

I love you, I call after her.

But only slowing slightly and over her shoulder, she replies,

“You said that 20 years ago and it didn’t keep death away.”

“Are you busy tonight?” I call after her. Then, as an after thought, ”the galleries are closed on Sunday.”

She shrugs her shoulders and continues.

I find myself in front of Al and Sam’s

The paper’s there and the morning’s half complete.

In front of the Charcuterie, a couple complains about the cost of pate

behind me, someone curse’s the lottery.

And I overhear a conversation in my head.

What kind of a neighborhood is this

which will call forth the dead from the grave

for brunch and a display of art and not ask questions?

To which the answer was:

“What kind of fool would loose his woman twice

demanding of love that it be sanctified by logic?

What sort of a person asks of the dead risen.”Are You Busy

Tonight?” What fool would demand of the dead returned that they be real?

Epitaph For a Civilization Botched In Its Teeth

The frightened birds they calmed with effort and taught to glide upon the surfaces of lakes

and not make waves and not stir up the bottom

took to the air at once, all cawing.

The fragile human needs they planted

in gardens they cultivated with such care

flowered all at once and suddenly

the smell of human wanting filled the air

and the piles of metal they collected

and placed with such precision on the ground

then shifted again and again from place to place

and the devices they spent so much time finding

and the delicate mechanism they repaired, oiled wound

and set in motion carefully, were for an instant neglected

and slipped and came together grinding

and the birds came home to roost.

The first thing that they asked was “Whats the special?”

and “How much does it cost when its on sale?”

“How soon will it come if you deliver?”

then,

“Whats it do, whats it for?”

They announced they had caught the sun, sold plaster mirrors and reaped a million;

They made what was simple complicated

and reaped another;

They made what was cheap, dear and

pocketed millions more,

on paper, in credit.

They amused themselves by calculating interest

entertained themselves by opening accounts and

getting gifts

Economists became their silver poets

brokers became their philosophers

accountants the critics of their literature.

Everyone had the same thought.

If wheat is cheap and sand dear

what good is planting wheat.

Better plant sand.

They planted sand.

and the birds came home to roost.

In every house a dog guarded the kitchen

lights were left on to keep the house secure

alarms were set to keep the vandals distant,

yet, somehow they forgot to close the door.

Their tragedies all had sensuous endings,

All of the photographs showed people laughing

with the wind blowing in their hair.

But in every family portrait there is someone

out of focus, off to the left, something horrible, a

relation without a head, turning, talking to a friend,

They thought if they called plastic steel it would hold up concrete buildings

They thought if they could pay for electricity the lights

would never go out

They thought if the weatherman predicted sunny weather

the sky would hold the water forever.

When it rained they all got wet

and the birds, the birds came home to roost at once.

Before Us People Worked

Before us people worked

we went to the heart of economics.

Before us people worked,

we become corporations.

We incorporated everything,

poverty, old age, the body politic

any number of strange diseases

unusual ways of being sick.

Finally, we incorporated ourselves.

We sold shares in our aspirations

mortgaged our wants for working capital

floated bonds backed by our breathing in and breathing out.

We bought ourselves back to drive the price higher

and sold ourselves when we could find a buyer

and found, one day, we had to ask permission

of an institutional investor when we wanted to laugh

and when we wanted to make love someone else owned

the necessary parts and we had to pay a commission

and found out that unhappy as we were we couldn’t cry

because that apparatus was hedging a bank’s position.

And when the crash came and we tried suicide

we didn’t own enough of ourselves to be able to die

and were sued by our stockholders in court

for mismanagement.

Before us, people worked.

We went to the heart of economics.

Before us people worked

we discovered the secret of making money.

It was simple, we became a mint, coined our own.

Engraved portraits of presidents on our needs

seals and slogans over the signatures of our desires;

In God we Trust, E Pluribus Unum.

And found when our insides were printed upon

we had millions but nothing to spend them on.

There was nothing we wanted because our wants were in bonds

of large denominations

and our desires were cash in vaults drawing interest.

We found that all our wealth just left us more in debt

and needing wants and wanting needs we resorted to counterfeit.

We forged desires, counterfeited impulses

inked over whim to look like need

and loosed a flood of bogus upon the nation

of two hundred million money makers—

and inflation.

We found that skin itself has much to recommend it

as a means of exchange until you try to spend it;

found we were stuck standing around like idiots

not able to need anything real or want anything genuine

boring ourselves with fantasy

eating ourselves to a fat starvation

going crazy watching our capital grow, daily compounded.

And when the crash came we found we didn’t have the need or desire

or impulse genuine enough to want to die, so the banks just closed out our accounts.

Before us people worked,

we went to the heart of economics.

Before us people were happy to hear money talk,

they liked to listen to it tell of the places it had been

the things it had seen, the miracles it had worked.

Before us money only talked.

We made it sing.

We found it could speak foreign languages

take actions, make decisions

We found we could read in its entrails

the poetry of the future and the past.

Before us money only talked

we made it sing—

only the songs it sang.

Before us people worked, we went to the heart of economics

we discovered money was slow

that it had to be printed, counted, sent, arrive,

that it had to be passed from hand to hand

that it could be hoarded, drooled over

that it had to be imprisoned like a thief,

protected like a child.

We found that people liked it for its designs,

for the netting that hooked the numbers,

that people found something esthetic in it

taped it to the pages of books, collected it,

bought it and sold it for the way it looked,

for how scarce it was.

Before us people worked, we went to the heart of economics

and found that money’s little fet couldn’t take it around

fast enough

that it tripped and stumbled and fell into some old lady’s purse and stayed there forever

that little kids saved more of it than they needed

to buy something that they shouldn’t want,

that it wore out jingling in pockets, being passed from hand to hand that people put it in their mouths waiting to make change.

Before us people worked, we went to the heart of economics

and realized that money didn’t matter

that it was a nuisance

that we could do better,

that human debits and credits could be made

to dance and sing

at the speed of light

on the head of a electronic chip

in the synapses of a computer

that accounted every transaction

whose truth was indistinguishable from fact

who forgave no debtor, took no risks

made no bad judgments

which remembered everything, which forgot nothing,

was able to take its pound of flesh

without a drop of blood.

Only the electricity,

the electricity.

We thought we could pay for the electricity and the lights

would flicker and the tape would run forever

but when the crash came and the juice went off

billions on billions stopped and disappeared into wires.

We couldn’t hunt for change in closets or under seat cushions

because there was no change

and we couldn’t rob the piggy banks because thee were none,

only numbers on cards

and because all the electrons stayed in their holes and

all the plugs were dead in their sockets and our pockets

were empty

we couldn’t run down to the corner store to buy a loaf of bread on credit

and we couldn’t even burn money to keep warm because we had no money

and we went bankrupt and froze to death with

billions to our names.

Before us people worked

we went to the heart of economics

then

economics went to the heart of us.

The Right Eye Never Marries

The right eye never marries, never divorces

three times a groom, never a husband.

Three times the same promises spoken

three times the toungue wags and marries

three times the tongue’s a husband.

Three times the right eye blinks

three times the right eye snuggles in darkness and

leaves the bride at the alter.

Three times waves of passion rise up like a great storm and

fling themselves upon the sea wall of marriage.

Three times the wall collapses,

three times the sea floods in,

three times the sea salts the earth,

three times the tide recedes.

Three times the right eye blinks.

III

Some men are sailors by profession

for others it is a hobby

some because they hate the land

some because they love the sea.

Some men are husband the first time,

some are rescued the second,

for some, like errant whales,

it takes three to beach them

on the sands of matrimony.

The right eye’s a sailor

who loves the sea for the sea’s sake

and seeks ports away from home

only to conjure the sea wall’s memory.

Robust She Was

Robust she was, big and big around

and flavored deep,

and, when she moved, her weight in air moved with her.

Her depths were still unfathomed and unplumbed

but ripples hinted at

perverse dimensions harboring the source of jokes.

Floods of passion left watermarks only

up to her backside

and it rained downward of her upper parts.

Water settled in puddles in her pudendum

and she made waves when she laughed.

There where and why she moved was a mystery

and how was paradox.

She bobbed on streets like a cork to the height of the mouths of buildings

rode and rolled in water wet air,

her navel a naval artiface, semaphoring she was

negotiating a destination unmapped on charts;

people like ports waited to be called up

to lay to and slide in

tectonic motions wowards her.

Body of wrought iron peened with the mongers mark

the irony was her face,

a vivid lace of silver, sheer as the damp on a baby’s bum,

washed and lightly dried.

Face, flesh and skull

floated on the ambient light,

suckled and weaned translucent shadows.

But when she said, “take me,”

she threw a darkness on the ground

on which to labor.

She made you think of China

blessed with prodigious hordes;

measureless numbers gathered and exposed themselves

and all of evolution flashed in view.

When she said, “Love me,” she posed as natural a challenge

as volcanos hissing just beneath the skin of the earth

or monsoons or hurricanes emerging from the womb of quiet air

over a lagoon.

Afterwards her memory was a reminder that

even man’s carnal knowldge is incomplete.

This Little Poem

This little poem juts out at right angles to my life

and casts an odd shadow and pushes wildly into my gut.

This little poem sits on the parapet of my breath

threatening to jump and smash itself on the hiddle of a blank page.

This little poem exposes itself and

gets all the other little poems in trouble.

This little poem is ugly

this little poem is sad

this little poem is excited

this little poem is bad.

This little poem is wily

this little poem has class,

this little poem is stylish

this little poem will get kicked in the ass.

III

This poem’s for Nancy

This poem’s for Jane

This poem’s for pleasure

This poem’s for pain.

For headache,

for grief,

for tension,

for relief.

To be written,

to be read,

to be spoken,

to be said.

whispered

sighed

sung

cried.

This little poem is nasty

this little poem is fun

this little poem is misisng some parts

this little poem is done.

(This little poem’s transparent,

this little poem you can’t see,

this little poem is a poet,

this liittle poem is me.)

Dancing Songs

FERMENT

Too much Shakespeare on the noggin

too much Tennyson in the bean

too little nose upon our morrows

too little thought to where we’ve been.

Insurance for Cadillacs, cataracts,

contrracts, constructs and sorrows

(Insurance covers the small of the rose.) (sic)

The smell risen

reasons like raisins in bread in the oven,

the smell covered with briars,

with beer with pralines and with sonnets

eleven, twelve in octal numbers.

Spirit of Shakespeare’s ghost reclining , stretching

lurks, shadowed and unseen, unseasoned

asks three questions out loud

and one silently; where, on this day? why on that day?

how, on tomorrow? and, why not yesterday?

carrying us swiftly to the brink of estuaries down which drift

branches of trees with unopened blossoms

(for the which, gifts are returned unopened

for the where, we right clauses and write songs.)

LUSTER (KREBS)

No one reads unopened letters

Writers repair to lick stamps and

stamp their wounds.

Shakespeare’s ghost cancels our vision

envelops, develops, discovers, repairs;

thirteen, fourteen in hexadecimal

rising,

risen, in digital remorse.

Shall play our fashion on film

a movie in infinite, indefinite, empty frames,

the dream of alabaster statues

which do not move;

‘what we record cannot be replayed,

what we receive cannot be transmitted

but we are wired for sound anyway” or

reduced to the orientation of molecules on tape

recreated in the image of

velocities of dots in phosphors

follow electrons in rebellion

over and against edges of

orbits on orbits around tension rods and three heads

and fall condemned to lie

in semi solid states on the ninth track in cassettes.

FUZZ

The nose of my noggin reconstructs the smell of the rose

salt over beer numbers glasses unseasoned

unopened estuaries (to be discovered)

take wrong passages on maps

and are opened and still not discovered.

Remorse fashions lofts into which we roll

like rocks and dance

desperate, obscene dances

against which another bar opens in SOHO.

Letter appears from the state office of gifts and punishments;

to wit

therearetoomanyartistsandnotenoughtalenttogoaround;

we wishtobetrutallyhonest;honest,notalent,nomoney; giveitup;forgetittakeupreading

regretingit; signed

Shakespeare, too much, in the noggin, Tennyson,

too much in the bean.

Sorrow,

a little for my morrow salts the season I hew from dreams.

Get the rag and shoot the table,

wipe yourself but send the cable:

Cain; Stop; for God’s sake think;

Abel.

Rose. Snow. Ascending. Wrong, wrong, in octal numbers

Descend. Right, write decimal remorse.

I save the stamps (you can reuse them)

I save the bombs, (you can refuse them)

but of the glue only the taste on the tongue remains.

Nicholas

He said,”We have to patch the holes in the river, lay down

squares of rushes and ride the back current.”

I took it for the crazy talk of a dieing man.

He said, “Her love surprised me, it was so uncalled for.”

He said, “I did something that called for it. It too was uncalled for.”

When he awoke he rumpled the tin foil of the morning gently and put it in his pocket.

At night he smoothed out the silvery sheet he saved

and folded it arround the evening.

He left each day as he found it, complete.

He insisted and insisted, “We can make a place for anything in our

lives.”

“There is always another inch to move over,

a little room to crowd together if need be.”

He insisted and insisted,”Flesh is compressible.”

“There is always an extra dollar to be found,

a scattering of coins under the rug, behind the cushions

to be brought together to spend on a new toy,

always beautiful in the memory of the first moment we held it.

When he had a choice he chose the noisiest thing

especially if it were brightly colored. He used up the time allotted him. When he died the space he left was small but it retained his shape.

Making

making conservatives, making conservatives out of us all.

We hang, hang from the skeleton of many images of a tree

the noose a harness for our sight.

Garroted.

Dimming vision through purpling eyes.

Garroted

we turn, turn slowly, slowly to the right, as the landscape turns,

turns to the left.

To the left

the landscape turns,

out of sight,

out of vision.

Out of our vision a golden land,

a promised (golden and ochre in the sunset) land

drifts to the left out of our vision

as we twist slowly, slowly in the breeze,

as we stretch slowly, into our future.

Dressed for riding, we ae saddled and ridden

by the wind as we turn,

as the wind makes,

makes,

conservatives out of us all.

Yet we hear things said to us that no men ever heard before.

Holographs,

holographs shall not,

holographs shall not recover our vision.

Computers,

computers shall not,

computers shall not recover our vision.

Tape,

tape in infinite loops shall not recover our vision.

Only,

only the wind

only the wind can do that,

only the rope twisting and untwisting in the breeze can do that.

Yet we are told things that no men were ever told before.

III

Is education

is education for the senses

while

in the distance, in the blackness, behind our backs, in our backness

the golden vision going flat, goes flat

goes to dust, to dust.

Out of our vision, out of our sight

the cities are looted and sacked.

Is education

is education for the sense, while

in the distance the town collapses.

Cowboys, indians, addicts, artists, teachers, lawyers, professors, doctors, poets

carouse, doing their dance,

for advantage, for position, for politics.

The golden vision grays, falls in on itself

the salemen, the stockbrokers, the merchants, the speculators, novelists

carousing, sightless

bumping into one another.

There are things to be done, profits to be made

things to be done, profits

in education, in divorces, in sickness, in ignorance, in advice, in pork bellies.

Yet we overhear conversations no men ever heard before.

Disappears,

when the wind swings us back facing only the image of the landscape turning to the left

out of view, into view

as a television set comes on.

On television

on television

we become moving imges only,

synchronous lines of dots, scanning.

In computers,

in computers we become data in binary numbers.

We do the hustle at the end of our rope and wonder

why the noose does not pull tight and why we ae not engulfed

only gulled and gutted,

gulled, gutted and twisted in the wind.

What is in front is on tape

and what is behind is instant replay

and wonder why the noose does not tighten.

Yet we hear arguments in languges never spoken before.

Erased,

rubbed out,

smeared,

smudged,

sentences, paragraphs, whole words,

erased, rubbed out.

Wording and rewording descriptions of things.

We recognize sense and sentence only between words.

Wording and rewording

one sentence.

Only one sentence

written and copied, Zeroxed, dittoed, mimeographed

over and over again, and rewritten

the description of turning.

Erased or clear,

only the punctuation

the punctuation is education

as if the punctuation is the name for the place we are, the time we are at.

And wonder,

and wonder if at the end of our journey on the rope

there will be a vacancy

a vacancy at the place it stops turning

and whether the food will be fit to eat and the water fit to drink.

And we make errors no men ever made before.

The Survivors Song

Lay down the tool of the trade of being human, rest.

I’ll teach you a song

The damndest song I’ve ever heard

the only song I’ve ever heard worth singing

the survivors song.

A jazz for those who hear with their eyes

dance music for those without legs

a march for those returning disabled from the war with themselves

the celebration of being able to sing at all

which is the only thing that’s worth a song.

You can sing it to yourself on the subway

squeezed by bodies like damned souls on the express to hell itself

stalled between stations

when silence sucks sound dry

and words

drift and accumulate in piles between people

like dead leaves between trees in a forest

when the train is rolling again,

and noise floods speech

and words bob and toss in the briney ocean of sound

as useless for communication

as bottles without messages adrift in a stormy sea.

The survivors song, a song without words or music you can hear,

a drinking song for swallowing more than you can swallow

a work song for bearing more than you can bear

as good in church when you are miming faith

as in bed when you are faking pleasure,

a song you can sing with a cigar in your mouth

or when that cavity is filled with someone elses sweet flesh

or brimfull of blood and froth and fragments of yourself

The survivors song,

a song for singing after the house next door burns down

and the char and foam and water leave a barely recognizeable mess,

a song for humming to yourself after you hear the screech

of brakes

and a scream and thump in back of you

off to your left, not far, but far enough.

It’s the song that pushes out of you on the way back from the

cemetary

after you’ve buried a friend your age

and you’ve cried out all your tears

and rage sits on your lap with fear

and with each bump wisper wet tremors in your ear

and

after you’ve lost so totally

they give you losing as a trophy for your very own,

bronzed and shining with your name engraved

and failure glimmers in each shadow when you catch the light

and winning is an image in a dream

receding beyond the speed of memory or desire

it’s the song that finally sings you, softly, slowly rising.

FOR C.A.F.

This is a poem

for the wild animal that calls Carol home

the animal that burrows deep in the winter of everyday

to avoid snows of parents, the sleet of husband to be

winds of academe.

The animal that creeps out into the spring of night

and stretches sleek beside her, ready for a go at anything.

That loves to wrestle, be tossed, laughs; loves to love.

She got this animal

from a grandmother

who married into the line way back and late in life

a woman who tried again and again to be only

a good Jewish peasant wife.

A woman who while dressing one day, discovered she was a woman, discovered against her will

between milking and being milked that she had brains,

discovered during a progrom

pursued by a cossack, that she had class.

And,

after she uncovered these facts she covered them up again

with lies

and sadly backed back into her good Jewish peasant wife’s

disguise

and hid herself from her husband, her mother-in-law

her daughter; from mirrors and pools of clear water;

from herself

But

to keep the woman in her alive she made this animal

she made this animal to keep the woman in her company

She make this animal out of air, out of misery

out of tears, out of parts of her own body

to keep the woman in her company in the depths of

dispair.

She taught the animal to burrow deep in the winter of everyday to escape the snows of mother-in-law, the sleet of husband, the winds of family.

Carol

got this animal

from a grandmother who married late in life

and even later still came to America

who watched her daughter grow up and America

overwhelm her

until she became her fathers daughter and a husbands wife

One day hoping it was not too late

she offered the animal to her daughter

who asked, “What kind of animal is that?

it’s not a dog and it’s not a cat

and whatever it is it’s not pure bred.”

And her daughter laughed at her and said

“If I brought it home my loving spouse

wouldn’t even let me in the house.

He wouldn’t let me keep that kind of a pet.

Mother, leave peasant things in the old country, learn to forget

This is America, there are too many good things in life

for a loving mother and a caring wife.”

the woman in the Jewish immigrant wife disguise

took the animal back and closed her eyes

and fed it memories and cried the animal some water

and waited for her daughters daughter.

And

later dying in the back room of her daughters house

struggling to be free

of disguises finally

grandmother called granddaughter aside

took the animal from inside

and spoke clearly to the woman in the child of three.

Here

is a gift for you. Who knows what Czar you’ll find

what regimes rise and winters come to this America.

Give it a home, keep it alive, this woman animal

It will comfort you in the terror of yourself, remind

you when you let it out, beyond disguises what you are.

I kept it in a space inside, she said, penned up and hid

I thought I tamed it but I never did

Remember, it can eat your sense of duty in two bites

consume your conscience whole without half trying

It’s not yet a domesticated household pet

It wants to roam not stay at home

in bed, with you crying.

Perhaps, she said, before her disguises fell full away

perhaps, she said, a woman dying

you won’t have to keep it chained and out of sight all day.

I fed it on dispair and dreams

but I think its natural diet

is loving and being whole

but I never dared to try it.

and whispered, ‘Don’t tell your mother that I gave it to you,’

she doesn’t understand the things we do.

The woman in the child of three

not caring if the animal was wild

the woman in the womb of the child

reached out her hand for it

and the beast leapt to its new captivity.

This

is a poem for Carol

and the animal that calls Carol home

the animal that she hid in the cage of her body

until one day, by accident

under her Baycliff aristocrat disguise

she discovered with her grandmothers eyes

she was a woman with brains, class and pride

and decided she wasn’t old enough to be wise

and keep the woman animal penned up inside

This

is a poem for Carol

who took a key

and breaking a tradition

set the animal free.

For Carol who opened the gate that divided the two

and locked both kept and keeper in a zoo.

And for the animal who broke a tradition

and let Carol in, for the animal who

liberated her keeper.

This

is a poem for Carol in whose voice I hear

the purr and roar of the beast al last free

this is a poem for Carol in whose eyes I see

the fire of an animal quick and untamed

This is a poem for the both of them

stretching out sleek ready for a go at anything

for the single shadow they cast

For Carol the woman animal and the woman animal Carol,

at last.

Renfrew of the Mounted.

Renfrew of the mounted,

stapled to the north

to frozen wastes

to whiteness

startled by the mottled violence of his thoughts

thinks of Rumplestilskin,

reinvents fairy tales,

rediscovers inaccessible places he had been to,

women he had known

prays for violence

for disaster

Sensibility is not a blessing

sensibility is not a curse

some things are better, somethings are worse

it depends on where you are

your surroundings, your place

In the west, on Pampas even

mulled by the smell of cow sweat

on the plains, on the trail

Renfrew would have been blessed

But in the north country

sensibility pressed out to an extreme

he could see clearly past the far edge of his vision

no haze obscured his sight.

Clarity is not a blessing

clarity is not a curse

some things are better

some worse

it depends on where you are

your surroundings, your place.

On the prarie, on the dry range

vision obscured by smoke

dust mediating far and near

on meadowlands or grasslands

Ranfrew would have been blessed.

But in the north country

clarity presented only the possibility of more clarity,

clarity held reality from reality like the surface of a soap bubble holds air from air— and burst.

Things are what they seem only when they are half clear.

Renfrew of the mounted

stapled to the north, to frozen wastes

to whiteness,

rocked gently to fear by drift and floe

thinks snow into straw, straw into gold

spins rumplestilskin but forgets his name

Memory is not a blessing

memory is not a curse

somethings are better

somethings are worse

it depends on what you remember

your surroundings

your place

In mountains, in hills even,

oiled by mist and damp

stream and river would have polished

the memoryof Rumplestilskin

until it reflected all the possibilities of the present.

Renfrew would have been blessed.

But in the north country

memory only counterfeited perception,

only reproached the past.

Renfrew imagined only what he remembered he saw.

Imagination is not a blessing

imagination is not a curse

somethings are better

somethings are worse

it depends on what you imagine

your surroundings, your place.

On tableland, on upland range

dew soaked, cloud brushed

on bluff, in gorge

Renfrew would have been blessed

But in the north country

memory only insulated the present

held past from future like the surface of a soap bubble holds air from air

and burst.

reality has to be imagined to be real.

III

Renfrew of the mounted

stapled to the north, to frozen wastes,

to whiteness,

cradled by cold, blanketed by dispair,

thinks of Rumplestilskin but forgets his name;

hesitates,

and a nameless wind

blows gold into straw, straw into snow and ice;

Certainty is not a blessing

certainty is not a curse

some things are better

some things are worse

it depends on what you are sure of

your surroundings, your place

hesitates

rembers he has forgotten names, directions, places

turns,

realizes,

he is lost,

takes out his gun,

hesitates,

turns,

turns.

Renfrew of the mounted

stapled to the north, to frozen wastes

to whiteness

imagines,

remembers,

duty has an answer

even to unanswered questions. Duty has a retort to unmade comments,

duty survives temperatures at which passion, desire, interest freeze.

Duty shades what sensibility illuminates.

Because of indifferent geography and unbroken sameness,

because to every territory, however featureless

duty provides a map; directions, routes, distances.

Because duty is certain,

Renfrew of the mounted, stapled to the north, to frozen wastes

turns to duty

which back is sure,

waits, listens

for duty to rescue him from fateless meanderings

from endless pursuit of nameless quarry

from the north, from frozen wastes,

waits,

for Rumplestilskin, to whom he promises himself again as a child, to relieve him from his appointed rounds.

How Come

How come every loving wife

screams at her husband, not on your life

only a beast would do it like that

and I wouldn’t sink to your level, you rat.

Whereas if an old boy friend

happens to mention he enjoys that end

she sighs, “what a sensual thing to do,”

and paints it colors and perfumes it too.

How come it’s a sure bet that a woman

with a mouth full of a man

that she’s just happened to meet

swallows and says it tastes sweet

Whereas her husband trying the same trick

will end up with tooth marks on his stick

and what’s in her mouth spit over his belly

with the complaint that it makes her sick and is smelly

How come the woman only recently wed

with someone else’s spouse in bed

get off before he does and squeals with delight

though he only lasts a minute before he drops from sight

While her husband who’s twice the size

like a long distance runner pursuing a prize

chases her for an hour and finally drops worn

and wins from her for his effort something between a squeak and a yawn

How come the wife who at home will only do it on a new sheet

and complains after her husband’s bath that he really hasn’t

washed his feet

and tells him she finds sex tiring and slightly vulgar and they

should stop

because he’s always too heavy when he’s on top

and insists that making love is just a lot of trouble

and makes him shave again because she can’t stand stubble

and demands he close his eyes and not touch her below the waist because it’s not refined and in bad taste.

and says in the middle that she feels oppressed and doesn’t have her heart in it and they should stop again and rest a minute,

and says she wishes he would do it slower like Mary’s husband Jim because she never has to rush to catch up to him,

and, as he’s coming, criticizes his technique

and says he doesn’t have to prove to her that he’s not weak,

and, instead of an orgasm she gets the point of a joke she missed and can’t understand why he gets pissed,

and says, tommorrow, and turns over and shuts her eyes

and says, marriage requires compromise.

Whereas with the man with whom she’s having an affair

she’ll do it almost anywhere

and prefers the decor

of a public place like a washroom floor

or a roof somewhere or the back of a bar

or a nearly empty subway car.

And when he comes in at a slant and misses

she hardly ever groans and hisses

‘You jerk, you’ve wounded me

open your eyes don’t work from memory.’

She doesn’t ask if it was meant to kill or merely maim

just shifts her body so he doesn’t have to aim

and tells him she gets excited when he dresses up in a disguise

and he insists she rape him with her eyes,

and tells him she adores his favorite position

(the one made famous by the Spanish Inquisition)

and when he flops on her and give a shove

its his technique she says, that won her love

and says, she’ll pay whatever price

because, she says, true love demands real sacrifice.

III

There’s a moral here if you forget it

I warn you brother you’ll regret it

You know it already but you’ve suppressed it

so I’ll tell you again though the ladies protest it.

If there is someone for whom you really have warm feelings of love and devotion,

for whom you care deeply with full honest masculine emotion,

someone with whom sex is everything it’s supposed to be and then someone you can give to as well as get from ,

someone who’ll satisfy your every whim if you let her,

with whom the first time’s good but the second better;

if there’s someone you’d like to settle down with to live a sensuous tender domestic life,

someone you’d like to marry and make your wife,

for God’s sake don’t—it will ruin everything.

When a woman marries she gives her heart

but raises the price of the other parts

and while she’s grateful for what she’s got

it’s never as good as what she’s not

and the man she’s caught, she thinks can’t match

the speed of the ones she couldn’t catch

and any man who’s free to roam

must be smoother and smarter than the one at home.

Before you do anything drastic reconsider

a woman’s always won by the lowest bidder

after marriage things are never what they were

a woman changes when you marry her.

The moment that you say, ‘please be my wife,’

her mind turns to the one who said;, ‘not on your life.’

If you really love her let someone else wed her,

she’ll love you more each time he beds her

let her take someone elses ring and name

when things go wrong it’s him she’ll blame.

Let someone else change with her seasons

when things go right you’ll be the reason

let someone else get pushed and do the shoving

its you she’ll run to when she wants her loving,

let someone else stay husband if he can

stay single and her lover and her man.

Select a word

Select a word. Good the word is….

Now think of sheep’s eggs. Sheep’s eggs and of course—‘Bullshit’

You say in modern times a word’s as much an egg as ‘Sheep’s eggs.’

Sheep’s eggs to boot. You read my mind.

‘Nonsense.’

Nonsense.

‘A game.’

Perhaps. If games played players, as players games, if words played poets as poets words, if dreams dreamed dreamers as dreamers dreams, then we would have poetry to spare

AND SHEEP’S EGGS TO BOOT, OF COURSE.

The word is ….

‘A choice.’

A choice.

Time dissolves in language, language in time,

Action dissolves in choice, choice in action,

and leaves as residue… and

sheep’s eggs.

In this world poets make of random words

poems rich as sheep’s eggs,

laid in haste, in nests of one night stands

which hatched bring forth politicians,

making of random words ‘speeches’

and sheep, of course

great milling sheep

with clothes of wool,

and hoof and mouth disease for poetry.

Chance as random as probability allows

produces from poets

sounds, quick to break and cry and echo sheep’s eggs in your ear,

or poetry as quiet to the touch as random patterns on the printed page.

She was Blond

She was blond and she was neat

and what she offered was poisoned meat

and I said to myself “you shouldn’t eat”

but I was hungry and it was sweet

and I didn’t think about tomorrow.

She was short and she was pert

and the meal she served was sand and dirt

but I ate it all and each bite hurt

and I didn’t complain about dessert

because you can’t tell about tomorrow.

I hoped it wouldn’t but tomorrow came

and if it’s anyones fault then I’m to blame

that my tongue feels like it was made of flame

and I’m blind in one eye and deaf and lame

and only God knows about tomorrow.

Someday I swear I’ll go on a diet

eat coddled eggs in peace and quiet

but my appetite’s strong and to satisfy it

if her menu’s the same today I’ll try it

because

who cares about tomorrow.

Song

Perfume and quiet music, a soft silk sheeted bed

help when the spirit’s willing but the body’s nearly dead

but when the jisms’ rushing and the rip is on the vine

a place on the floor by the open door

will do for me and mine.

Perfume and quite music, candlelight and wine

stoke the flames of passion when the body is supine

but when hormones are flowing and the rip is on the vine

standing up in a china cup will do for me and mine

(or squatting down with a crowd around

will do for me and mine.)

I Knew a Woman

I knew a woman who looked a fright

the pieces of her face weren’t right

She had a body just as queer

with three parts there and two parts here.

Vertical she was a mess

and what was where you had to guess

but on her back she had a grace

and everything fell into place.

(not beauty but delight

redeemed the lady in the night.)

Sage Advice Poem

How often have you heard some wise guy suggest

pointing to a lady with a well developed chest,

“you ought to give her a whirl, she’s an easy score,

no matter how much you like it, she likes it more.”

“When the lights are out and the room is dark

she’ll play the fish to any shark.”

“She’s not much on brains,” he’ll say of course,

“love’s gain was a public school’s loss.”

“It’s not that she’s dumb she just forgot

which end is up and which goes into what.”

“If her shoulders weren’t attached to her head

she’d lose it, and probably in bed.”

“She doesn’t know her ass from her elbow.”

My advice to you is forget it.

Now and then you happen to find

a passionate lady with love on her mind

who doesn’t know the difference between her ass and her elbow

or your ass and your elbow

but says she’s willing to learn if you’re that kind.

Passion is good and ignorance better

she’ll give you heaven if only you let her

but when the evening is over and morning comes

you’ll have three green thumbs.

Every once in a while you meet someone’s Mrs.

who loves caressing and is heavy on kisses

and doesn’t care much whether it’s her ass or her elbow

or your ass or your elbow

as long as it’s not his’s.

Looks are good and willingness better

she’ll give you heaven if only youlet her

But when the new day begins and you get out of bed

you’ll be one quarter living and three quarters dead.

Occasionally you happen to meet

a sensitive woman who’s willing to cheat

and knows the difference between her ass and her elbow

and your ass and your elbow

but says she’ll forget it if you’re sweet.

Endurance is good and inventiveness better

she will give you heaven if only you let her

but after it’s over you’ll wish you had not

because you’ll remember what she forgot.

So when you meet a woman who isn’t quite sure

of which is which or doesn’t much care

my advice to you is exit the nearest door

or make believe she isn’t there

because,

the morning after the night before,

even your toenails will be sore,

and you won’t want to, anymore.

Soho Ditties

The women of Soho are sheik

and they dress in a style that’s unique

but the group as a whole

has the heart of a troll

and the soul of a pussy in heat

Some people like it belly up

some mouth to mouth

some with their heads tucked in

some with their middles out

Some like it standing up

some on the ground

in Soho artists like it best

going round and round

A gives it to B’s wife

A’s wife to B’s best friend.

When C spreads her legs apart

A catches it again.

Art is art, you can not keep

an artist from his calling.

(Painting is their hobby dear,

their real profession’s balling).

Of Soho a critic once said

its a place that reality fled

and left a profusion

of convincing illusions

exquisitely dressed and well fed.

As a breed the tourists unclean

noisy, ill mannered and mean.

In the rest of the city

the tourists are shitty

whereas here they’re merely obscene.

So the tourists of Soho can claim

they put all other tourists to shame.

Ours come from strange places

to stuff art in their faces.

(I wish they’d go home just the same)

Though lacking in medical smarts

for esthetics artistes paint their parts

so you’ve nothing to fear

all you’ll catch here

is an illusion of a dose of the arts.

At parties in Soho we fuck

and frig or bugger or suck

but don’t get excited

you won’t be invited

they’re off limits to tourists, tough luck.

The painter believed he amused her

but she complained he abused her

She said what they’d done

was a great deal of fun

but the flick of his wick had contused her.

The Soho man is sleek

and stylishly clothes his physique

but naked he looks

from the back like two books

from the front like a troll with a beak.

The women of Soho are sheik

and possess an alluring mystique

but they wheeze when they suck

and squeal when they fuck

and when they’re shot into they leak

The people of Soho appear

somewhat strange and a little bit queer

the ones that I’ve met

I forgive and forget

its the ones yet to come that I fear.

J— is sick but JJ’s sicker

Stv— is quick but Dck— wicks quicker

Frk is thick but All—’s thicker

Sing So Ho, Soho.

M— is busy, Mar— wife selects

D— whom J— rejects

W— watches S— screw

while he peeks at JJ—’s views

Sing So Ho, Soho.

In— tries whoever’s new

and M— says Hi, how did you do.

J— takes them when they’re through

marches them backward two by two

Singing So Ho, Soho.

N— hunts sailors in the park

J— marks them with her mark

(and M writes quickly in the dark)

Sin So Ho, Soho.

One walks upon wires

another stands until he tires

A gallery opens, another expires

Sing So Ho, Soho

Post urban, premenstrual, post scene

the Soho woman is lean

and ready to fight

when thing go right

and when things go wrong shes mean, mean, mean.

Pavlovs Dog

Pavlov’s dog remembers

when it ran barking after carts

chased rabbits.

The memory persists.

It thinks of birds taken

bitten and bleeding

strains,

twists its head

and drools.

Skinner’s pigeon

remembers

the circling starts of long ranging flights

ribbons of grasses

flattening under the wind

always under breast

running straight in the

direction home,

flexes his head

and pecks.

Engorged with memory the world splits

at the level of the eye.

In what we repeat and what we do not do

our bodies brush the

boundaries of someone elses mere history

and we are changed into frogs or swine,

short sighted and forgetful with long tongues.

Pavlov’s dog remembers

when its master

with the smell of

fresh cleaved earth on his hands

reached down and roughed his coat,

and in response

he licked the hand.

The taste of dirt and skin persists,

pricks memory

and the dog drools.

Skinners pigeon remembers

the curl of air on wings

pressing the eath up,

the wheat tenderly touching the earth

at a single point, hesitating

before growing up and down,

remembers the distinction between ground and sky, between

grain and everything else,

and pecks.

Pavlov’s hands

divorced from the smell of Pavlov’s hands

reminds the dog of the butcher behind the counter

and the butcher’s bones in a pail nearby

and Pavlov’s buzzer states a condition of

his master’s voice

hanging in air, working its way slowly around curves, as

to the pigeon, in false perspective

on Skinner’s apparatus

appears the image

of the farmer strewing grain

on wooden fields.

We discriminate our pleasures and respond

with the memory of pleasures that were to come,

drool as the square and circle merge,

peck to release our minds from the cage.

In The Face Of Death

In the face of death some of us grow bold and others of us become afraid of soft noises and shadows.

In the face of death some of us weep and others blow their noses.

In the face of death some of us shit in our pants

and others develop constipation.

In the face of death some of us whistle and others sing.

But death he has no preferences at all

no matter how you stood, you fall.

In the face of death some of us pay our debts and

others of us fogive our debtors.

In the face of death some of us drop our pants and

others of us forget howto work belts and zippers entirely.

In the face of death some of us develop a taste for gourmet

foods and others of us lose our appetites altogether.

In the face of death some of us walk and others of us run.

But death he doesn’t give a care

He takes you where you are, anywhere.

In the face of death some of us become quarrelsome and

others of us lose our taste for argument.

In the face of death some of us start a diary and

others of us forget the morning by the afternoon.

In the face of death some of us sleep a lot and others develop a taste for jogging.

In the face of death some of us smile and others frown.

With death anything you do is okay

He just takes you anyway.

In the face of death some of us find reasons and

others give up excuses.

In the face of death some of us buy calendars and others of us give up seasons.

In the face of death some of us acquire a hobby and others of us give up activities.

In the face of death sdome of us laugh and

others cry.

But death never is distracted

He takes you anyway you’ve acted.

In the face of death some of us grow sick and others give up all diseases but one.

In the face of death some of us grow shrewd and others cultivate stupidity.

In the face of death some of us hear voices and others begin to listen to silence.

In the face of death some of us roll and others yaw.

But death he never is mislead

Anyway you are, you’re dead.

In the face of death some of us get our sleds out from the basement and others of us burn all our old letters.

In the face of death some of us develop tics and others stop stuttering.

In the face of death some of us make appointments with doctors and

others start attending church.

In the face of death some turn out and others turn in.

To death it doesn’t matter how you lived

he forgets and he forgives.

In the face of death some of us start collecting things and

others of us give away possessions to passersby.

In the face of death some of us begin to remember things and

others break up their memories one by one into little pieces.

In the face of death some of us get their hair done and

others shine their warts.

In the face of death some of us bend and some of us break.

But death he don’t give a damn

he takes you anyway you am.

it doesn’t matter how you lived

he forgets and he forgives.

death has no preferences at all

no matter how you stood, you fall.

Letters to My son: The Pessimistic Letter

I was thirty when the message came; Stop; Prepare to get ready; Stop.

I was 31 when the lines started getting longer,