The
Poet at 37
I drive to work--but not every day--through
construction
barriers,
dumptrucks and backhoes, distracted
by what I have to say that day and to whom.
Lujan's
is on the right where they make little biscuits
of molasses shaped like pigs in the local
tradition. Carl's
Jr.
and then I turn. A friend told me she saw
a girl
get it crossing this street, described the
arc, how the body
flew
up onto the car, and she bounced
back onto the sidewalk. A human being, all
those
intentions.
I eat strange meals, often standing,
of bits of things-a cracker, an apple, a
bowl of cereal,
alone.
I sometimes think, this is my life
and push
away the edge of despair with my hands.
I think
of
Moses. How he begged god for only one thing.
The god he had obeyed for years without
question-he
wanted to see his face. What face
would he have? This desire is clean and
pure
as
a child's. Show me your face. I spend
nothing
and am never extravagant. Sometimes I go
to Mexico
on
the Stanton Street Bridge, and for 25 cents
enter diesel smoke,
bodies, vendors, well-oiled hair of street
musicians,
the
blind couple. She has holes for eyes and
sings with
a can between her knees, the coins, percussion.
He plays
a
catalogue guitar and has dark glasses.
And a watch. There's a man in Juarez who
paints
landscapes
the size of a postage stamp, one American
dollar. See the pond, the waterfall, dense
willows,
two
swans, necks linked on an easel made of
toothpicks?
See the elderly waiters in their Eisenhower
jackets,
sentinels
at Martino's plateglass window?
They wait for the sun to go down. Which
always happens,
fortunately.
Sometimes I climb the nearest mountain--
the bald, dry mountain, a whitewashed A
on its side, an A
I
can't see once I have achieved it.
There are other landscapes here of geologic
interest:
the
desert of white sand soft as snow, so bright
it is said astronauts navigate by it. There
are quartz peaks,
purplish
and severe. Sometimes wearing a skin of
snow.
And new this year: I feel like there is
a before and an after.
And
this is the after. I read the Medievals
who believed in divine order (for comfort?).
As William
of
Conches put it in the tenth century,
the world is an orderly collection of
creatures, and
like
a great zither. A tuned instrument,
with purpose and scale. My mechanic sends
me a Christmas card
reminding
me to reflect on my blessings. He's right--
I have a good job, my health, and the war
hasn't started yet.
One
anonymous disciple of John of Fecamp asks,
who
shall give us wings like those of the dove
so that we may
then
fly through all the kingdoms of the world
and enter within the southern sky? Show
me your face.
The
Beginning of Things
for
Rus
Your west each
morning
gives
doves--night
dissolved by torrents of
sun
and
of doves--a
constant coo, coo
stretches
into
your
room. Here, no easy
song. Melody,
with its grace
note
skitterings above
avoids these empty (rusted
blades
of
a windmill,
a
radiotower, browned peak)
skies. It's only
doves,
and you pull
towards
my back,
pull back towards
sleep
where you don't,
you
tell me, dream. I doubt
daily--though here's
heat,
body, the weakness
(giving
in) to your scratch
and pitch, voice. Flesh
is
grass. Rare
high
meadow of which I
might dream?
Or
meaning everywhere,
like
the ache
of miles of desert, the beaten
armor
of mountain? And doves
insisting,
wherever
they are. Waves of alto and
the
blue
square of window holds
nothing
tangible
again: flat light, jets
evaporating
into
white,
heat that stands
like a man with a sword,
this
sudden need
for
belief. My new love.
Soon you won't
even
hear them. White
noise,
you said and still
I listen. I hear
a
steady
question,
who?
Who are you,
narrow
stranger? Trust me,
you
said one night,
swung a heavy stick
into
the hive-shaped tree
they're
in there.
And dark bodies
flew
upward
a
hundred in one teeming cloud.
We
Are Crossing Soon
It was hot. We wandered on the pavement.
We knew that soon we would get there.
We thought we were prepared-one says goodbye
and looks for a knife and a proper comb
and while doing so avoids a crying person.
Soon we would get there, or not soon but
we would, the bridge not too crowded, the
agents
distracted, and the water would not be too
wet.
The desert weeping manna in the cool morning
will provide.
The streets of El Paso will provide.
We surfed on the ocean and kissed blond
girls named Melissa
with each other astride the dumpsters
behind the TV factory. We were not suave
and we wouldn't like living alone, wondering
what our
mothers were doing at that moment. At
that moment
our mothers were sewing small pieces of
old clothes.
Certainly we would arrive the way birds
arrive, not through
maps and memory, but some other dark
knowledge, though we knew some would drop
dead from the sky. We had cousins. We smoked
cigarettes
whenever we could and the avenues yawned,
flustered
with feet-it was so hot-and beyond lay the
river
in its cement trough, the highway, the
fields
of peppers. We shined your shoes with a
vigor
unexplained by democracy, our boots crooked
but shining, then your shoes were shining,
spotless down the dusty streets, the quarters
in our hands were shining like a teakettle
we would own.
The
Internal State of Texas
This much is known:
It's large and largely dry.
It's been called terrarium-like by experts.
At first, I felt it slowly growing
the requisite cactus and coast.
I wrote letters to the president
but he vacationed inside me for months at
a time.
I can't say Galveston was anything
other than sweet heat and water,
though Dallas was a bitch until I passed
it.
It was the fighter jets that got better
and better.
They came to appreciate me too.
In those fabulous formations they swooned
curlicues on those bluest skies,
burning elaborate fuels like there was no
tomorrow.
"Dear President,
the streets of downtown El Paso
are quite dirty and packed with people
vagrantly wandering."
He was photographed
inside me, with chainsaw,
concerned about longhorns.
I wanted something
even though the dollar stores simmered
like hens on their nests of cleaning supplies,
spatulas, and hair ties.
"Dear President,
I had wanted something, I don't know,
prettier for myself by this age.
Please advise."
Meanwhile, men unscrolled miles
of scotchguarded materials.
Ezekiel Hernandez was shot
herding goats and Krispy Kremes
blindsided everyone. But I was younger then,
before the daring, handsome surgeon
who wore cowboy boots,
before the long convalescence
and all that doctorly handholding.
Big
Song
I have tried it. The brag, with permission
of democracy. The royal we. The big
words, like courage, excellence and power,
brilliance. Have tried to supercede the
bound-
aries of skin, hair, scarred hands, the
fatigue
housed by the majority of my bones,
to launch a spirit large as a whole group
of people--waitresses, sisters, women,
poets, lovers, mammals etc.--
so that I could be the throat, the tip of
the
tongue expressed. Oh, the vocabulary
of it all, filed beside Whitman, Ginsberg,
with snips of the old testament,
the syntax of presidents and most
romantic poets. I am a student,
with flash cards and coffee, of the necessary
exuberance, the jaunty-angled hat,
the workingman's clothes, the apoplexy
of the pilgrim, the V-Day. The cock's strut,
the virtuoso flourish, the chest swell,
that crescendo of being that shoots through
me
and explodes into the perfect us-ness
of the larger sentiments, inspiring
love and generosity in the afterglow. I
have over-
studied the sweet, opened door, the letter
that solicits, the look backward with smile,
all phyla of permission, I should just
photograph them like South American birds
and be done with them.
I over-respect the bigness of some--
their unselfconscious motions to include--
and guilt's smallnesses in others.
Some arrive at big through abnegation--
the potlatch, desecration, the holy
stamina to blaspheme has its own stuff,
its lovely scatology of excess,
the spangles of self to burn. I have tried,
analyzed, faulted, pushed, and faked,
spewing from my fist-tight lips
like a girl spinning in her mother's chiffon,
stained prom gown, thin and scared.
Tonight
the Moon is Mexican
and so is the wind
and so are the oleanders
the wind is bothering.
The porch light is no longer
anything but Mexican.
It's true; tonight
is full of this miracle.
The river
has returned to being Mexican and
the house we live in, the bar
at the corner and the rocks
in the yard. The car is Mexican,
the highway, the gas tank,
your shoes. Mexican
as the stoplight, the cat
skittling across the yard,
as the 7-11 and the father
you thought had forgotten.
What isn't Mexican,
here, my love, tonight?
All thinking has turned
Mexican and don't forget the cops
and the bodies of
Wal-Mart shoppers-all
of them, I am pleased to announce,
are Mexican. Tonight, how
do you pay your bills?
In Mexican.
How did you hurt
your hand? Mexican.
What did you say?
How do I love you?
Mexican. Mexican.
This
is for the silver of highway
through Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, for
the idea of open road, how it makes of the
world
a camera lucida-a timeless, illuminated
room.
The psalmist felt this shine, wrote the
womb
of the morning, wrote the mountains skipped
like rams,
and the little hills like lambs. David Copperfield
begins tenderly, his voice earnest on the
first
of eight tapes of the BBC radio play,
announces his desire to tell us the journey
of his life, while one October, in Wyoming,
herds of black cows turn into mythical animals
because they are black and shiny and stand
head to toe,
bodies fusing in the bright sun, one tar-black
body
with two opposing heads. Tar, tarmac, macadam,
asphalt, highway, freeway, interstate,
scenic byway while Copperfield is rescued
over and over by ignorance and luck combined
with
his own good soul. Where am I? I ask gas
station
attendant, cashier, hotel clerk. One August
through
Ohio, I sweat up the steering wheel, seat,
lay bags of ice
across my lap, hurtle past exploded tires,
wild anemone of wire and rind. You torrent,
you headstrong, they whisper. September,
an Iowa rest stop
hours from anywhere, I watch a man unload
a lawnmower from his truck, the motor vivid
in the quiet air as he begins to cut the
grass around the latrines.
A congregation of small, brown birds lifts
from the bushes as if of one mind and
my body trills
with that highway feeling, of feeling the
world
and mind are one. It's a giddy amnesia-history,
responsibility lose their dominion in February,
in Nevada hills
mute with sage. It's religious how I remember
July, the air-conditioned relief of the
Chicago Art Institute,
where grimy, the road still droning in
my arms, my chest,
my inner ear, I want to explain to the becalmed
tourists
the velocity of Whistler-the twisted, crossing,
intersecting
lines of sight from boatman, wavetip,
to wingtip,
to fin. I return to my car and navigate
acres
of backhoes, dumptrucks, a massive construction
site ringing the hogbutcher to the world.
One June I get a speeding ticket in Pennsylvania
because the radio's playing an optimistic
song
from the 1970's while the speed limit changes
and I am watching instead a farmer harness
up
two golden draft horses, pull them right
to the porch of his house and a bonneted
woman
emerges to admire them. I admire them.
Where am I? In a motel in Cheyenne,
filled with school kids and their band
instruments and the mountains are green,
because this time it's early, it's May,
and David Copperfield
has lost both women he loved, two weak,
incompetent
women and still I cry-this is how it happens,
passion and its unreasonable vaults of soul
and what fills me are miles and David's
sad love
and the plain face of a girl holding a trumpet
on a Super 8 Motel balcony in Wyoming.
Where am I? The stuff of my life in boxes,
thrown out,
whittled to a few books, a computer and
some clothes.
I think I am suffering, but I don't know.
Here's to
not where I'm coming from and not where
I 'm going.
Here's to gypsy movement (as my grandmother
calls it) the ecstatic, the infinity of
living between.
Calle Florista
Don't you remember
our little house on Calle Florista,
the calle with lots of flowers?
There weren't flowers so much as
cats, at least a hundred, lounging in the
neighbor's yard
while the bushes roiled with kittens.
They weren't kittens so much as
pecan trees and weeds of the nightshade
family,
unwatered except on irrigation days
when the whole neighborhood stood up to
its knees in water.
And the water was not water, so much as
gravel, and the Calle was not a street,
but more
a bunch of rocks lined up in a particular
way.
And the "Florista" started last year. The
maps
still say Iris Lane.
There were no irises so much as one fat
Sharpei,
the guard dog to Chinese Kings said the
uncle next door,
as Sassy yowled in the yard.
Sassy was not a guard dog so much as
not very smart,
though Tio was kind of Kingly
sitting in his minivan with a Keystone Light.
What did I do all day?
The boy hit my car with a stick.
His sister stood in the plastic swimming
pool.
When would the pecans drop? Tio was waiting.
It wasn't so much waiting as the kids
and Tio
worrying about the occasional helicopter
battering by,
the dog and the cats, who were not cats
at all
maybe.
And me in that little house, writing about
our street which changed every day
subtly and in complicated ways.
But for you it was most different-
you were the one who didn't exist,
except as someone
who did not live on Calle Florista.
New World
Here the minimalist sky.
Here antelope (pronghorns) and the burnt,
high-plains grasses
bound to the edge of the compound,
the edge of town the edge of, the edge of.
Here glints polish the air to gold.
The antelopes and the few stunted trees
dream about Jonah in the belly of the sky.
Let's have nothing
but gold-it's so pleasing.
One night a man took out an accordion.
So loud, the instrument in this night and
so many
romantic waltzes that I wept just
outside the fire's circle of light.
I knew a lot, once.
Wasn't Naturalism about to happen?
And really, the French and the English
why should they quit-a battle here, one
there,
and their navies refulgent?
And Levinas, saying such things:
"the night is the very experience of the
there is"?
Once I knew
that pastries could have a thousand leaves.
The bishop wore a fabulous hat and forks
and knives
were polished monthly, to meditate
in their velvet boxes.
Here the sky cares only about
being blue and large and represents nothing
but itself. The doves ask "who cooks for
you?'
(in the translations)
and scorpions sleep in your shoes.
Us, we go along
inventing new ways to die:
by the cutting off of hands,
of hair, death by one dirty blanket and
death by walking.
Death by six pine nuts, by bloody
sunset, by obscure mirage.
Unfinished Letter
to Death
Though we've often passed on airplanes,
at the library, in the desert, I've never
Imagine my surprise when
First allow me to introduce my colleagues
and their
Let's be honest: that dog had already
And we really didn't know that insects
I agree, the arguments for the first attack
seemed
Moreover, the sun gets very hot during
these months, would it be too much
In the ring, most boxers
Vodka itself is not so terrible if
The tobacco industry has systematically
You see, if I had only been ten minutes
earlier,
The toaster and the hairdryer are indeed
flawed appliances but
It only took one despot, a painting by
Degas, and an angry mistress to
War, to many of us here in the United States,
seems a bit
Please, think of the How much would it
take to
From now on, I promise to
I can guarantee, not only Geronimo and
his ghost
This is to advise you that you are not
to come within
Without further adieu,
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