i
wrote this poem nights before a fest when i had been so sick so long
that by the time of events i cld do nothing to steer or direct the reads
at all other than by being spiritually congruous, and exceptionally
present of mind, and meanwhile, by heart, part and parcel with the same, whilst otherwise incapacitated.
i even bowed out before the weekend was thru, gripping a flower and stick of incense Dianne Borsenik gave to me, as it was my birthday, and to be nice in general, i suspect; i cut out leaving without making contact with any, while Peter Leon was still reading, having to give in to a
pain what has since made me government certified. two days previous i wrote this expecting favorite houseguests, with a house not yet cleaned, more than a half dozen reads and mixt medias to tend with no private staff, i finished the poem, and got headed to the ER for a 'headache.' that was May 8th, 2009, the day i got sick, to the best of my mind.
Writ
While The Pain Pill Began Its Work
(for Tres Versing Cleve Fest Poetry Rdrs)
i aint got head for beckoning kitchen and baths.
my necks a live wire scrounging for Everlast battries,
N.E. thing would blast this pain down lower from the head,
get off the neck and shoulders, bury my heart in your wounded.
i aint got time to go wandering in your chicken tracks,
smoldering some personal fire, wanting to take your whole farm
in my breast, like a kerchief, like a postcard from the past.
wanting repast--but no appetite for. just the spread--wanting a
picnic you yourself lay down for all.
o me,
i aint got time in this life perforated by pain, why is it we all have
some major pain, some serious and blasting
sick thru the gullet in the face of?
in the face of all i would bring your sister down pat. i would make
your doctor reconsider shit, ‘specially when he heard you, knocking
your own face, talking poetry coming in whether anyone answers
the door is in the fading past. your fanciest outfit, also in the past.
i want a fucking headache gone and blast your poetry, i am so
over that, i want the next great poetry. the next overlord, the ringer of
silence in that grand bell ringing fast. fingering the light on your
mother's hosiery, your mother's greased legs shining
propped against the mast
of some sailor's perfumery, his sweet lies that heaved her chest.
i want to know about the rust building half boarded by graffiti left
by what chance to hulk the night you were driven drunk past.
to mean something like an altar. trekked towards.
incense burned for. as if ten hundred thousand people yearned for
the painting made by this unkempt place
and us
this unkept pace we have no meter for nor footing on, no truncating.
no grading. not sized up gradual or gradient. not spurned like some
reclamation, no stakes on, nothing to
regurgitate or harp upon. no Larry David monologue for.
no Lord Byron mourns the pace of man for. no goddamn 2009 on.
nothing to set your glass of wine on.
to be saw through and begot.
to shave my legs and wear a dress like the magazines taught. to fuck a
headache in the throat and stalk the halls in ecstatic ever awareness
of death for. i applaud the ones in the seats who schlepped
in for
to hear your poem. your puny Hoover Dam poem. your Aeschylus. your
scrawny Bob Dylan lyrics line the waking dream all the time for.
your haunting rhymes which make the soldier die for.
your time slot is seriously limited. if you go over the saints in the garden
will pine for the next great poet who howls in Cleveland better than you
panned for, even the isn't it anyway such good head
you've maybe by gold now forgot.
