They
shake their eyes at me and flaunt their thirst
Their
dreams risen like shrouds of dust in their dry hearts.
Sunlight
embroidered these forgettable birds these open-
Mouthed
sparrows hungry for what in this vast desert?
Herds
of them too parched to fly schools of them swimming
Air-ward
and inviolately panting all casting on this immense
Parquet floor such
questions as I have never known to ask.
As
if in the solitary act of seeing I see double behold two
Possibilities
like slightly unlike twins parallel worlds
Reflected
back to me such a contrary source
And I hear empty women laugh and say: Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya
Whatever that means.
And I hear empty women laugh and say: Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya
Whatever that means.
Such
apocalyptic sensualism in my poems in my inverted
Persona
all to discover what part of myself in a sense
Is
a poet—the recognition of which will be delayed maybe ten
Centuries
as was the case with Moses Maimonides my
Teacher
my friend.
O hello Ole Moses! How’s it going?
O hello Ole Moses! How’s it going?
Who
can say where exactly the inner and the outer world
Meet
like estranged lovers wordless but with ecstatic gestures?
O
this profound crisis of values all fallen along with ancient
Columns
into a liquefied foundation of corrupt culture What?
When
I was fifteen I set off on a continual search for impossible
Totality
in a quiet at times monotonous music that evaporates
That
vanishes into the haunted country I created all by myself.
It
occurs to me by the way in the face of a discredited culture
That
the sky unfurls a kind of subversive doubt. O I know I have
Become
a measly Life-ist who stands firmly against Life!
I
take nothing at face value or seriously ya-ya-ya-ya-ya or
What
she said. The Poem will resemble me
For no less rambunctious
an art of total negation can survive
More
than a few hours beyond the womb.
Someone laughs and says:
Hell
y’all that don’t take no goddam abortion to do.
Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya
she says.
No
matter how long I sing and sing and sing the poem dies
Not
three hours beyond vulgar understanding—
For
the destructiveness must ultimately include myself
I
who have been excommunicated from poetry I
On
whom the sun bestows a stunning lyrical intention.
In
the intransigency of the blood the intimacy of etymologies
Tangled
in the semantical love-knot
I
stare blankly at the empty city.
Where
does poetry reside?
Everywhere
infused with a fire of ironic humor poems
Hop
around like popcorn in a deep but insufficient skillet
An
urgency of process in my love to which I say the absurd
Is
the finest and most basic form of metaphysical existence.
At
this point I turn to Heraclitus and the pre-socratics.
I
want to hear less logically definitive verbs
Spilling
from morning. I want to hear at once
A
lyrical summoning of the natural correspondence.
Meantime
I shall meditate on poetic process
Itself
a vigilant hermeticism but a consciously reduced
Range
of imagery shimmering still every temptation toward
Abstraction
O in the short nature of poems tightly sprung.
When
the sparrows call me Federico Garcia Lorca will come!
