From December 26 2011
Adjunct as a word makes me think of a decoupled train car,
orphaned on the B&M track. I think it means to be contingent upon,
And adjunct is no way to be, a parasitic connection to a campus,
Never among the college of priests, the flamen dialis, never among
The vestal virgins, never tending the eternal flame in the temple,
Never being made, always to schlep from one place to the next,
Condemned to an eternity of self-help seminars as they stretch
another century or decade, or the tailings of the new long one.
When I watch the sky when clear from this bluff, a light falls
And extinguishes itself above the line where the streetlamps
Illuminate the town in a frosty aura to the highway junction 25,
What appears to be a halo independent of a single light
Even those among the combination truck stop corner store.
Where the center is everywhere but the circumference nowhere
Where the rural highway plunges into the country side
A town with a single-staged rocket in the town center
But without the liquid fuel engine in its fuselage
A rocket grounded as the town inhabitants scrambling for work
Unless they have a summer home with furniture draped with bed-sheets
For three out of four seasons with the shutters drawn
Once you can walk on the lake you might as well ice-fish
If you don’t fall in, provided you can drill into the ice.
The section that you pull tells a story but not for as long
As the rings of a redwood lasting two thousand years
But instead of an archeology lesson you are ice-fishing
Not delving into the recent past as frozen over on the lake
Anyway the summer on the lakeside is quiet and uneventful.
From January 2
I wanted to dissolve
crushed walnuts in a glass
Thinking I could cure
My persistent headache
The convolutions of the nut
Matching those of the brain
The wine it mixed with
Turning to new blood
To water those mazes
Those rivers of thought
Capricious furrows
Like all medicine, bitter.
From January 3
In the city centers the stadiums and water-parks are immaculate
and so is the frozen-over water fountain.
But in the hinterland families eke out their living from grass and seeds,
and from January branches disappear all songbirds
along with the barn-swallow and the solitary finch.
From a concoction of ether and scarcer antihistamine, or from diesel fumes
comes a numbing intoxication much of the population depends upon,
distilled into mist breathed from a makeshift mask and piece of hose.
While fog shrouds the City, its auditoriums are bright until the power-outs.
And their dreams are filled with white-masked deities and rivers of treacle.
Through the thawing permafrost still cleaves the ox-driven plow.
The value of the paper currency is flatter than a paper upon which it’s
printed.
As are the merits of this work, all meant to flatter.
Last lines
The value of blank paper at the butt-end of a marbled composition book
Is greater than the ink spilled upon them, taking the form of hastily-written sentences
Of even less value than the ink spent to committing them on scarcer paper.
Soon the leaves of the book and the lines that wrinkle their surfaces
Can be counted on a single hand and on just more than one digit
And since more is less according to the laws of value,
As every shop-keeper knows, and since conversely less is more,
Filed leaves are cheaper, blank more costly
The further down I go upon the remaining pages
Until the last blank line in the whole book is priceless,
And the marbled cover less valuable on the market
Than the mill of the Great War or the funny money
Of the five and dime, or the money of Monopoly
When the other pieces of the board game have been lost
Which simply means you can neither win nor lose.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
From Aug 28 and Sept 10 2011
From August 28 2011
The roof of the Apthorp building in the sun—
Seen from Columbus Circle, the rounded mansard rooftops,
Like domes of a cathedral, the renaissance, [Venetian Atlantis],
As if the sky were sunlit water, the Apthorp drowned.
What must it cost to rent, or even buy.
So what that Zabar’s was a tourist trap.
To the Plaza you can walk from this corner.
This is what is called a hot corner.
A tall, gaunt man in 1982 was practicing
Electric bass by the subway stop,
Picking out the tune to If you could read my mind—
But stopped on what a tale my thoughts could tell.
You can walk to the Plaza through Central Park,
Dodging the horse-drawn carriages and taxis,
In the year after the same man had lost his bass.
He swayed on the same spot, a change-cup in his hand.
Nothing happened much in the field of music.
You must witness how those rooftops shined
After the last rain, through the mist the sun is parting,
The curved pastels of slate or copper flashing,
The caryatids holding storeys up, the Moorish ornament,
How Venuice fused with the East, all that Apthorp improted,
Unaffordable on normal salaries, except for the view.
From September 10 2011
As the fall sun peeks through the slats of my bamboo roll-up blind—
As the crickets pause and the traffic resounds in longer intervals
And the garden bed dries, full-grown stalks of grass and pokeweed
Leaning into the direction of the withered tomato vines,
As nothing happens new under the shining of the sun in the yard,
The other side shady, the sun-dried currents of air running through
The attic, aerating the rafters, aerating the over-crowded vegetable garden
One man could not live upon if his life depended upon it.
The roof of the Apthorp building in the sun—
Seen from Columbus Circle, the rounded mansard rooftops,
Like domes of a cathedral, the renaissance, [Venetian Atlantis],
As if the sky were sunlit water, the Apthorp drowned.
What must it cost to rent, or even buy.
So what that Zabar’s was a tourist trap.
To the Plaza you can walk from this corner.
This is what is called a hot corner.
A tall, gaunt man in 1982 was practicing
Electric bass by the subway stop,
Picking out the tune to If you could read my mind—
But stopped on what a tale my thoughts could tell.
You can walk to the Plaza through Central Park,
Dodging the horse-drawn carriages and taxis,
In the year after the same man had lost his bass.
He swayed on the same spot, a change-cup in his hand.
Nothing happened much in the field of music.
You must witness how those rooftops shined
After the last rain, through the mist the sun is parting,
The curved pastels of slate or copper flashing,
The caryatids holding storeys up, the Moorish ornament,
How Venuice fused with the East, all that Apthorp improted,
Unaffordable on normal salaries, except for the view.
From September 10 2011
As the fall sun peeks through the slats of my bamboo roll-up blind—
As the crickets pause and the traffic resounds in longer intervals
And the garden bed dries, full-grown stalks of grass and pokeweed
Leaning into the direction of the withered tomato vines,
As nothing happens new under the shining of the sun in the yard,
The other side shady, the sun-dried currents of air running through
The attic, aerating the rafters, aerating the over-crowded vegetable garden
One man could not live upon if his life depended upon it.
Monday, January 9, 2012
From October 1, 2011
Behind me, behind my tail, is a murky green that is the stable element
And the world I understand. A few rocks, seven exactly, some sand
That flies to catch the light from all sides, the food from above,
Some flashing bubbles, many illusions on the walls around us,
Shadow from approaching bodies, creatures with different apparitions
And of different sizes, all with eyes and mouths and limbs,
Creatures who can neither swim nor even float. Their vibrations
Barely disturb our place, no turbulence. My fellows have risen
To another state, plucked from the surface. Nothing jars the glass.
I am still the sole cause of the turbulence around me.
See how my fins stirs the sand, how flecks of pyrite shine.
Outside, ungainly creatures pay tribute with offerings.
****
As you move above among the upper ranks, the more you know just who your friends, who might be foes are. Among the upper tiers, the fewer the numbers. The higher the tier, the fewer who circulate. In the very highest tier mingle a handful. The most high, the one who can afford to spurn the company who brought him here, sits behind black velvet curtains and doors so thick they could take bullets. No one knows what the most high does with his time, no one knows who the most high is. The most high knows by divination what is to come. He knows just who to watch.
Could I just ingratiate myself to the residents of the upper tiers, only half a dozen souls would get me into the sanctum sanctorum. Could I get a peak among those hallowed halls. The busts of elders, all emeriti by now, line those halls. Actually, their busts lie in dimly lit alcoves, their names in brass. Also written in stone the gaffes you made in youth, gaffes that nonplussed the master practitioner when he was about to confer his blessing. When he retracted his proverbial hand from your brow, when he retracted the laurel branch from your crown, he thought, too bad the loss for him, but after all is said and done, it’s for the better, otherwise no lesson learned. Fame’s bony finger that had beckoned now curled into a fist pulled back into a sack-cloth sleeve you once thought silk. [sleeve of sack-cloth you once thought silk.]
Those among the upper tiers are ghostly in their pure magisteriality, but they pride themselves in how low they can come down to earth as they pride themselves on the low places from which they have arrived. They can pepper their speech with profanity with the best of them, knowing when to be circumspect, when to be cautious and balanced in tone, and when to stop. It’s their forbearance after all that earned them their place. Don’t change into the china shop like an 800-lb. gorilla was the best advice they ever received. The vernacular is the blood they must vampirized in the places to which they descend.
Lay a wreath at the foot of the eminence grise, speak your flowery encomium on the stage, and keep your thoughts to yourself.
Never forget that the effusions of the hapless are like the lines cast by novice fly-fishermen in all directions, catching nothing, getting no attention, piquing no interest from the fish-folk.
From the phone booth he rushes waving, to the upper balcony he walks, waving in acknowledgement as well, barely knowing these are his acolytes calling him from the streets, the city traffic drowning the greetings they utter.
A wave of people in a throng pushes admirer from admired, the master practitioner in his suite, his assistants attending to his needs.
“I fly from a place where flattery reigns” Purcell, Indian Queen (librettist Dryden).
Life at the top is not all eh dreamed he thinks as he mails the alimony check or tries to connect with his kids, who have lived in his tall shadow all their lives, for whom he expressed little affection. The memoirs they will write will drag his saintly visage through the sewers: how cold and how small, how small-minded he will seem. Don’t go there he ejaculates in the interview, puzzling the earnest cub reporter.
To stay in touch with the plebs he descends to the crowd, both hands in the pockets of his of his funky unwashed loosely fitting jeans.
The shaggy tendrils of the beets, the farmer’s soil still caking them, he fondles after getting them at the produce stand. How long has he let the hired help do all his shopping, after all?
How he points at the antiques in the window reveals his shrewdness, how he fingers his chin in firm examination as he lends an ear to the dealer. It turned out to be a good day. He soaked himself in the vernacular of the bazaar.
Finally, the fall has arrived in more than name, the air chilly, the day wet, rain dripping from the eaves, the summer vapors blown away, dead leaves sprawled on the grass, their dampness attaching them to the car’s windshield, bright red the sumac leaves among the maples, deceiving us with promises of oriental spices and color, of schooners aloft, their cannons blazing against Caribbean or African pirates, the newly forged chains rattling below deck, the forequarters empty, Boreas puffing away, no sight of land yet, the turbulence of sub-tropical waters matching the turbulence of wind propelling the barely sea-worthy craft southward, away from the cabins and chimneys, the glowing fireplaces of the colonials on this most august and calm of side-streets, in whose cupboard is a biscuit-tin decorated with the cat-folk, the cat mother bonneted, her arms wound in a shawl, her cabin behind her, no mouse-folk in sight, not today, not ever, never, where did the father-cat part from her, her brood swaddled in rocking cradles and bassinets, rumor telling us of the ship making its destination, among the bazaars or the spice hills, of red chilies the sumac false evokes, a funerary whiff of mold and ashes inching into the house.
And the world I understand. A few rocks, seven exactly, some sand
That flies to catch the light from all sides, the food from above,
Some flashing bubbles, many illusions on the walls around us,
Shadow from approaching bodies, creatures with different apparitions
And of different sizes, all with eyes and mouths and limbs,
Creatures who can neither swim nor even float. Their vibrations
Barely disturb our place, no turbulence. My fellows have risen
To another state, plucked from the surface. Nothing jars the glass.
I am still the sole cause of the turbulence around me.
See how my fins stirs the sand, how flecks of pyrite shine.
Outside, ungainly creatures pay tribute with offerings.
****
As you move above among the upper ranks, the more you know just who your friends, who might be foes are. Among the upper tiers, the fewer the numbers. The higher the tier, the fewer who circulate. In the very highest tier mingle a handful. The most high, the one who can afford to spurn the company who brought him here, sits behind black velvet curtains and doors so thick they could take bullets. No one knows what the most high does with his time, no one knows who the most high is. The most high knows by divination what is to come. He knows just who to watch.
Could I just ingratiate myself to the residents of the upper tiers, only half a dozen souls would get me into the sanctum sanctorum. Could I get a peak among those hallowed halls. The busts of elders, all emeriti by now, line those halls. Actually, their busts lie in dimly lit alcoves, their names in brass. Also written in stone the gaffes you made in youth, gaffes that nonplussed the master practitioner when he was about to confer his blessing. When he retracted his proverbial hand from your brow, when he retracted the laurel branch from your crown, he thought, too bad the loss for him, but after all is said and done, it’s for the better, otherwise no lesson learned. Fame’s bony finger that had beckoned now curled into a fist pulled back into a sack-cloth sleeve you once thought silk. [sleeve of sack-cloth you once thought silk.]
Those among the upper tiers are ghostly in their pure magisteriality, but they pride themselves in how low they can come down to earth as they pride themselves on the low places from which they have arrived. They can pepper their speech with profanity with the best of them, knowing when to be circumspect, when to be cautious and balanced in tone, and when to stop. It’s their forbearance after all that earned them their place. Don’t change into the china shop like an 800-lb. gorilla was the best advice they ever received. The vernacular is the blood they must vampirized in the places to which they descend.
Lay a wreath at the foot of the eminence grise, speak your flowery encomium on the stage, and keep your thoughts to yourself.
Never forget that the effusions of the hapless are like the lines cast by novice fly-fishermen in all directions, catching nothing, getting no attention, piquing no interest from the fish-folk.
From the phone booth he rushes waving, to the upper balcony he walks, waving in acknowledgement as well, barely knowing these are his acolytes calling him from the streets, the city traffic drowning the greetings they utter.
A wave of people in a throng pushes admirer from admired, the master practitioner in his suite, his assistants attending to his needs.
“I fly from a place where flattery reigns” Purcell, Indian Queen (librettist Dryden).
Life at the top is not all eh dreamed he thinks as he mails the alimony check or tries to connect with his kids, who have lived in his tall shadow all their lives, for whom he expressed little affection. The memoirs they will write will drag his saintly visage through the sewers: how cold and how small, how small-minded he will seem. Don’t go there he ejaculates in the interview, puzzling the earnest cub reporter.
To stay in touch with the plebs he descends to the crowd, both hands in the pockets of his of his funky unwashed loosely fitting jeans.
The shaggy tendrils of the beets, the farmer’s soil still caking them, he fondles after getting them at the produce stand. How long has he let the hired help do all his shopping, after all?
How he points at the antiques in the window reveals his shrewdness, how he fingers his chin in firm examination as he lends an ear to the dealer. It turned out to be a good day. He soaked himself in the vernacular of the bazaar.
Finally, the fall has arrived in more than name, the air chilly, the day wet, rain dripping from the eaves, the summer vapors blown away, dead leaves sprawled on the grass, their dampness attaching them to the car’s windshield, bright red the sumac leaves among the maples, deceiving us with promises of oriental spices and color, of schooners aloft, their cannons blazing against Caribbean or African pirates, the newly forged chains rattling below deck, the forequarters empty, Boreas puffing away, no sight of land yet, the turbulence of sub-tropical waters matching the turbulence of wind propelling the barely sea-worthy craft southward, away from the cabins and chimneys, the glowing fireplaces of the colonials on this most august and calm of side-streets, in whose cupboard is a biscuit-tin decorated with the cat-folk, the cat mother bonneted, her arms wound in a shawl, her cabin behind her, no mouse-folk in sight, not today, not ever, never, where did the father-cat part from her, her brood swaddled in rocking cradles and bassinets, rumor telling us of the ship making its destination, among the bazaars or the spice hills, of red chilies the sumac false evokes, a funerary whiff of mold and ashes inching into the house.
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