Diane di Prima
there is something Real
in the world.
acute dementia. papaya the usual
“summer cold, with asthma”
Fog gathers, transparent but not
fie on it, ah fie.
That after nine wins, a loss
(persistent, the laws of Chance)
that even chinese herbs will not quell
the deeper virus.
And sleep — what is it, dreamless
for? This sapphire
when it comes down to it I might never use the taboret
or the spun glass pen from Italy.
there are a number of letters I might not answer
certain hair shirts I won’t wear out.
believe me. I might talk soft as any announcer
of golf, and still not get my way.
when it comes down to it a sampan on the China sea
or a kayak under the aurora borealis
are equally unlikely. Goodbye. Goodbye.
You see I haven’t shopped at the Banana Republic
cattle-log. Or left Texas in a huff
under an ironwood sky.
when I comes down to it, I will have broken my vows:
paid taxes, crossed a couple of picket lines
3 (from the desk)
it is possible for the three great inventions
(gunpowder, roast meat and
actually pottery) not the necessity
of war — to typify
the Long March. I am eager
to comment on the boldness and frustrated
I might toggle beyond dispute.
Digital libraries have left me
without brunch or the evil eye
a leitmotiv invented by Gutenberg long before
the indiscretions of Sant-Simon. Alas I read
the Cantos cannot be sung. Lyric having been devastated
by Francis Bacon driving thru history he saw as
a dry creek bed. No altars outside of the Palace Museum.
4 (for Kenward)
deliberate have unstretched by the blue pool
of anxious suppers in a lace peignoir
coughing like Mimi or Camille, the Giants
losing in Houston, cough syrup
all gone now, new bird in the back yard
good omen, or just a mistake?
you tell me. I am fatigued
by all this coming forth by day
or whatever, whenever. Lights like a tow truck
flashing behind his eyes. A hunk.
A fucking paradigm. Vanilla pudding or tapioca
like the old song, repeated, Bei mir
bist du schoen, sweetie.
Please join us for a meal.
Casual conversation. Bring
yr calligraphy brush.
A modicum of misery
and pain. Felt pad. Inkstone
and water. I think we
will be in heaven. Here is
the deposit. Or only up a tree
embodying all the tantras.
You sit and wonder.
selenium drums, ribbons, needles
or expendable items
as wonderful as he. Failure
or fluctuation. Just my luck.