Easter Poem

 
    
  I

Analogies decide nothing– 

The grasses soften,

One becomes ill at ease

Over a “great work,” or at least

Some projected gathering

Of the experience. The

Everything, the

Sinful fingernail. This town

Has so many blue avenues 

Of which I know nothing.

The instinct towards fiction

Overwhelms, or rather,

Sits angrily, and these pants

Shred up under the heels. 

Symbolic penalties. Several 

Everythings. The monument looks

To have been struck by lightning,

Or at least some great force, and

The cemetery’s avenues do

Have names, so the tombs 

Can be spoken of with addresses

As if they were homes. Likewise, 

When arranged as 

“Raw Materials,” rather than as

A mass of noise and light,

This hill will come to have

“Marrow,” have "vesicles,"

Possibly “nexus,” other 

Such words. And how completely 

Appetizing. The likewise

Which makes living possible.

“Analogies decide nothing,

But they make one feel at home.”

Naturally, it is also 

Necessary, or at least 

Practical, for the poet to be able     

To recognize some flowers

By their real names. “Crocus” is

A good one. Lilacs spill a scent

That is positively mystic,

As we know, but the word is 

Rather tired. “Syringa,” maybe.

We’ll get there. Recently, or

At least now, is for the

Sinful fingernail, the monument 

Which shreds up under

The address, having been struck

By an instinct towards the more

Encompassing vowel. The 

Nothing and the Everything

Are erogenous zones.

Before filling the tank for

Providence, we make ourselves

Susceptible to distribution

By “practices,” by “the old

Adage”; we make our question 

The same question

In every instance, regardless

Of each noun and predicate

Being swapped out

Indefinitely. For instance:

The seventh drop fell at 

Approximately 4:45 p.m. on 

3 July 1988. Occasionally prompted

To make all things appear,

His biography caressed him through 

The glass with rubber gloves. 

Just fuck me already. Just fuck

Me already. In these conditions,

Which are conditions, yes, of

Springtime and wartime,

One loses the final say in

Whether their own words were 

“Literal” or “metaphoric”— 

They become significant

Only at gaps and intersections,

Like reading a palm.




  II

Among the dead at five
All one can do is establish
      A practice— yuck— all one
      Can do with the mass of 



Reality is establish— yow—
A practice within it—
      Oval drive— freighters—
All one can burrow is into



It— the only way to burrow being
Into it— with the practice of it
I mean	    PATRICIA K— HERMAN
            JR. — All one can reject
Is the verse of it—
Or at least rhythms— if



Not necessarily the terms them
            BONESTEEL
selves— Most jeans being now
Frayed in this way— most streets
Without sidewalks having 



      No yellow lines— or
      Lines at all— ouch—
To be burrowed
Into in a way that


      Was “Informational”
      The world seemed rather
      “Humorless” to him having been 
      Honked at and witnessing
      The man pulling his dog
      Saying “c'mere” having
      Sinful fingernail at two 
      In the morning driving 
      Back up 
            “MARROW”



            “VESICLES”
      John street 
      Just after
      Oh let me
Call you back the ambulances just 
flew by and I mean really 

screaming
   

    

(more writing)