Poetry
Six
For David Meltzer
for Julie Rogers
i remember sitting there
among the books, how they
mean everything until you’re
dying, then they mean nothing
at all. i guess there’s all sorts
of vanity too close to see, by
which i mean in vain, all i
aspire to. i imagine i’d cling till
the bitter end, where you’re
going out like a boss, the guy
from the haymarket riots, say,
who bit a dynamite cap instead
of waiting to hang. it’s hard to
see you like this, snoring and
gasping for breath, yet death
at home is a triumph, an assertion
of personality against an impervious
world. maybe we’re in your pyramid.
maybe we’re buried with you. it’s
12:34; make a wish, he said,
if superstition becomes you.
LOVERS OF TODAY
is the name of the bar
on the lower east side
where the bartender
pours drinks for free
after i run out of cash
& i wake the woman
from airbnb at
4 a.m. cuz i can’t
unlock the door
& make phonecalls
i won’t remember
wheeee! que pasa new york?
two nights later
much more sober
fall on the pavement
in brooklyn
manage not
to break anything
though it hurts
like hell in the morning
(& my wrist hurts
today as i type)
& i buy a book
at first & twelfth
by d.a. levy
& i buy a book
at mast by Meltzer
& i buy a book
at the strand
by nicholas Breton
gentleman & i eat a
bacon, egg & cheese
& wonder why
it can’t be done
in san francisco
(a million reasons
but that’s what makes
viable travel
under late capital
ism) & i miss anselm
& john coletti &
alan gilbert (tho we speak)
& catch picasso &
lamont young
& the night i fall
am reading poems
by wieners & lima
with anthony, cedar
& joshua &
that’s what makes
that town the best
TRAVELS IN RUSSIA
the beds in russia are worthless though the overstuffed green leather couches more than atone for this lack of comfort. wrapped in my sealskin pelisse with a beaver hat worthless in paris but much prized here, i obtain such semblance of sleep as i’m able without a cpap machine (which looks like a russian word). bring me my sickle for gouging and an uber on skis behind hairy nags and i’m good to go to the carnival to negotiate for chinese tea. the byzantine forms are the only ones available to express my feelings for an onion-domed basilica blooming against a harvest moon. if i infiltrate the kremlin disguised as a nun that’s my own business. if i eat too many herrings before the main course that’s one more elksteak for you. the whole point of coming here is to bring back shrunken customs in tiny ziploc bags or pressed between the pages of my latest book of poems. posterity will reward me for noticing those things that escape the russians themselves, like the color of the air they breathe, the odor of a vodka-fueled radiator. on the deck of a steamer to novgorod where the oka meets the volga i’ll hurl myself onto a coil of rope and get a better night’s sleep than i could in a bed at the hotel angleterre in st. petersburg. by the end of the ballet i’m sweating buckets. i retreat to my room to bathe myself in cool cigars and contemplate steel-blue twilight through the fine layer of sand sprinkled between the panes of the double window. it’s for my own protection.
WARM LIFE
for Bill Berkson & Khaled al-Assad
the union president’s dead
& they won’t let transgender
people pee in north carolina
& here i’m complaining about
climbing the mountain again
the mountain’ll always remain
if i’m lucky, to keep me from
sucking & only a king mule will
do. humbled by bill as he goes
through the business of staying
alive with dignified unconcern. i
don’t deserve him, have no zen
no dasein, just half-a-dozen self
-inflicted wounds i’m expected
to grin & bear & like robert
plant, i do. it’s like i’m in
a rembrandt or something
holding testtubes to the sun
to read my urine specimens &
—spoiler alert—i’m trigger sad
checked my email mid-poem
so of course its bad news
the ancient city is practically
gone, palmyra, palmyra
at least i still have bill
here in isis usa
ANTINOSTALGIA
remembering the sadness of my
life, not to mention his.
sometimes it snows in april in
minneapolis. our country
lurched hard right to never be
seen again. he was my only
friend. my red eyes gazed in the
dressingroom mirror; he told me
how fine i looked. my finger
hung fire by my cheek,
neglecting to smear foundation.
he thought i’d lost my way. we
hurt each other purposely. i
have ptsd from the bush
administration. he felt the same
way: if only she’d loved him
enough. we stirred flatwater
prophecies into a copper bowl,
only to blow interpretation. he
identified with me in a way
that’s productive but also a
projection of himself. he
identified with himself. i was his
mirror. he was my chef, he said,
i’ll cook for you. the accurate
understanding was well-nigh
impossible. i still believe in the
art he made then, but i don’t
believe in me. or so he said; i
don’t believe her. by the end my
vocals became syllables, mere
symbols of belief. he didn’t have
to. we were done when he
discovered my name was
walker. i pointed to film history.
in reply she noted how much
you could find online now that i
was dead. he said, you’re
kidding me! when? i said it’s
happening now.
WILLIE ALEXANDER
deserves his own poem
alex chilton of boston
t.rex of triceratops
johnny thunders without the misogyny
moog masterpiece, mambo son
punk influenced by his own garage band
as old as mick jagger
what’s lost & remains
invective against gin misinterpreted
rocknroll 78, harry james, rhodes piano
dye of a lasting bleed
i attribute my feelings to him
the way you do to songwriters
dirty eddie don’t care at all
about marilyn monroe, joe dimaggio
stole taxi-stand diane from jeepster
some kinda car reference there
thankless task a boston rocker
aerosmith, the cars, j.geils
boston, til tuesday, morphine
mighty mighty bosstones
scruffy the fuckin cat
got my kicks on v66
the modern lovers, harvard square
the grolier, algiers, the brattle
a hush is holding its breath
vincent ferrini said
life is the poem
hope so
