2020-10-30 07:08

San Francisco Note 16

(August 2002)


Then at last I simply sat down.
The vulturing pigeons
ignored me and I lost count.
See how the clouds
come together into one,
wordlessly into fragments,
each whole. As if we
could have fooled anyone
into believing anything.
They look deep into our eyes
and know instantly — you are
a fraud: even the pigeons jump
only momentarily then resume
their scavenge.


Mozart violin concerto blasting
unlocked and drowning her
voice as she takes the sandwich
order. A voice that doesn’t match.
A viola in the first violin part. Can
I bring the real into it? Here, regard
these rails, always parallel.
Note, while you attend the
earth, note: spit, old gum,
cigarettes, and leaves. And
the earth attends, notes you, and
will have you: welcome, real!

Who needs sense when sound will do?
Here is the last clacking train
to the beach. Some apple in a bag.
Some other theme, a variation, and
sudden — sudden — a loss, a spider
on the rug — all the same. (Let me
start again.) I vanish as
the leaves. The ground
spits and I am unwashed, retoxed
and folded into my wrapper—
How can it be done so precisely?
Each random little turd in the park:
all part of the Grand Poetic Vision.
And I am here, in the Am-land,
the country of I’s locked in the
claustrophobic verbs, weak, friendly
but gutless — over there the magicians
pull coins, swallow flowers
to shit swords then pound them
into garden hoes…


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