Everybody has a story. The mountain threw rocks at
me. I stood up to it. At
the top I built a shelf for my record. There was enough sky for another
an abutment of air. Science itself authorizes blue, whoever comes along
have some. Up here one can appreciate the eye as an exposed part of the
brain. That’s Helga, the chick who shares my pad. She’s
not really orange,
it’s the picture. We’re moving the aerial into the hall.
I’m an emotional guy
who lacks a cohesive point of view, and Helga has an eating disorder.
a monist. I can dig it. I mean, why did the universe go to all that bother?
Bears drunk on honey wrestling with monkeys, electric burgundy odd-toed
ungulates, and the two-headed snake—one head for eating and drinking,
the other just for thinking.
Rain with a sour smell. Not to worry, though you might
wind up with it—
primarily a race against your own skin. The skull is showing. The jerking
horses in the old footage, bound to end badly. Psychic hardening, I
suppose. Poetry is arranged by sound. I can say no more. A beloved relative
of town was arriving the next day with a brand new infant who would be
tense, disoriented and distraught at discovering herself uprooted from
familiar bassinet and plunged into a great metropolis seething with cutthroats
and cheap chiselers. People ought to get out more, play cards more,
fight more, fall down more. But we don’t need each other to watch
streaming overhead. At your behest, I stood behind the statue, peeking
its shoulder at live persons, catching something of their tenderness.
They’ve been marinating, the young and the tough. Meanwhile you
all have live blood cell analysis.
Another bespoke poem, written while I wrote! Freddy the
Newsboy sees trees and water for the first time thanks to the Fresh Air
Fund. What if that
were you—a prince with large pie hat? My petunia fairies took me
an automatic boat. We sailed to the sun, where else could we go? Not
to grandmother with Jim Beam and a whip! Other children were seen
under the ice, tallywhacking jellyfish with a rusted bracket, the pouring
time and trouble to junior levels. But I have questions three. What is
favorite cholera? Prince Pointy wuz his name, resided in a cottage wedge.
June fairies are free. They lay their eggs under his skin. (That can’t
right.) But stay, they’ll give you the carbon off their backs.
And their heads
would have to smoke. All corn fairies wear overalls. One is called Spink,
little girl. She took command of the Lady Schick, not caught up in hope
and fear. We sailed to Tortola, where else could we go? Flat nudes were
mitered like planks. Stabbed in the chest by my own pencil! After death
they move with ease. The wind never lets the rain touch the ground.
But now we’re traveling in opposite directions, trumpet battles
of gold-gold collisions,
and thick glorious fields of jewels.
The moon belongs to everyone, a scared mirror. Mahoning spoke
of free things, invoked a state of nunc stans, or eternal present.
He was right, but
be alive in all periods, all bodies, living and dead, etc. Allow three
business days. You are aware of what’s lost yet measure no loss.
rabbit disappears in briar patch, a slow business. A new story might
the old ones. Black is the color, more luminous than my true love’s
best things in life are black. Or buried reds. Inside the bulldog’s
mind, it’s a
different it. Old and free, understand? Buffoon did it illogically (horizontal)
to himself. Once on board, down on your bended knee. He had a long association
with Wingy Manone, who could paint. Beginning and end of fishlike emoting.
LARRY FAGIN, a New York City native, is the author or co-author of fifteen
of poems. He co-edits Adventures in Poetry books and teaches at the New
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