Written by Mel Reichler Copyright 2002
The Collected Poems
Hieronymus Bosch on Television
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.
2
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
on television
on the Six O’Clock News, to tell her
where he is,
what has happened.
3
Victims pour out of the tube, into the living room,
onto the Karistan carpet from
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.
4
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.
5
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.)
6
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.
7
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).
8
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
As
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.
2
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.
3
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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.
II
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.
IV
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.
II
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
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.
II
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
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.
IV
This little poem is nasty
this little poem is fun
this little poem is misisng some parts
this little poem is done.
V
(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
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
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.
II
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.
IV
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.
V
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
or
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
who watched her daughter grow up and
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
for a loving mother and a caring wife.”
So
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
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
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.
II
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,
turns,
realizes,
he is lost,
takes out his gun,
hesitates,
turns,
turns.
VI
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
II
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
2
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).
3
Of Soho a critic once said
its a place that reality fled
and left a profusion
of convincing illusions
exquisitely dressed and well fed.
4
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)
5
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.
6
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.
7
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.
8
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.
9
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
10
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.
11
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
12
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,