A Rare Device: PoetryApril 14, 2007
Often I equate poetry with fine paintings. Both seem to represent some ineffable part of our humanity, and both are, for me, completely unintelligible. I like the way a Picasso looks, the colors are often pleasing, the painting is usually hanging straight, Picasso’s are just great. But I feel exactly the same way about certain graffiti I see under bridges, or colorful labels on bottles of wine. My capacity for discrimination between good art and bad art is next to none. I have similar trouble distinguishing good poetry from bad poetry. I have a book of poems by Robert Frost, and when I read them I feel confused. When I hear poetry being read by my fellow MFA’ers at readings, I feel confused, but I like the way the words sound. And that’s something.
So here’s my approach to poetry: Don’t think too much when you write poems, then tell your reader not to think too much when they read your poetry. So don’t think too much when you read my poetry. Just enjoy the way they sound in your head. And please remember that I do not, and probably never will, call myself a poet.
I.
Even Death Is Exhausted
Death, of course, was dressed up in black
His breath the scent of acid
He let me feel the wood of the scythe
I remarked that it looked well crafted
Death sat on my couch
Death drank all my beer
Death snores when he sleeps on his back
Death was trashed
I went for my bat
And struck at his bones
I whacked and they cracked
Which caused me a near-fatal heart attack
II.
Stupefying Symphonic Fireflies of
On the bank of the river I curse my flashlight
Then I see the twinkling Christmas light bug show
One fizzles into my ear
One zips up the bridge of my nose, bumps my forehead
Creatures born with wings
But without the knack to steer
Because I am enlightened, I search for meaning in these creatures
They exude an iridescent meaninglessness, and I find that attractive
Strange little beetle things
With glowing asses
A planet of buzzing insects shades moonlit tips of the waves in the river
Then I see the message
Written in the air, in orange letters, all caps
The word:
ELEPHANT
Then nothing but the flies
And the sound of hundreds of microscopic chainsaws
Then another hallucinated word:
UMBRELLA
I blink and it’s gone
Visual silence
And then:
KETCHUP
And then:
TOMMOROW
This is how Moses must have felt
A recipient of a secret message
Heed my holy prophecy:
Elephant, Umbrella, Ketchup, Tomorrow
Jesus would be jealous
III.
Be No Windflower No
Be Jesus and his clone
And wear tuxedos, and wave at the crowd
And drink Shirley Temples from bendy straws
Be the colonial musician who plays the sad ukulele
To cheer the homeless rocks and flowers
The orphaned atoms of oxygen who float in the air without meaning
Be the portable toilet that sings hit love songs
And understands without understanding
Zen crap
Be the Galapagos turtle who treats months like hours
Time to a cow is measured in salt licks and chews of the cud
Fruit flies are born, then grow to lead a satisfactory life, and die — in one day
There is no such thing as a Galapagos human
Cud tastes like punishment
A haiku:
Wind sows its seeds in
the invisible morning.
Works just like poison.
A seed sits on the watery earth
Seconds later little twigs sprouts from its flat belly
And its roots like tangling toes scurry and burrow into the moist
Toward the top of the planet
The windflower is born under the tree
On top of the tallest hill
In the shadow of the walls of the valley
Of the mountain that floats on top of the clouds
