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for John At a party I spy a handsome psychiatrist, And wish, as we all do, to get her advice for free. Doctor, I’ll say, I’m supposed to be a poet. All life’s awfulness has been grist to me. We learn that happiness is a Chinese meal, While sorrow is a nourishment forever. My new environment is California Dreamer. I’m fearful I’m forgetting how to brood. And, Doctor, another thing has got me worried: I’m not drinking as much as I should . . . At home, I want to write a happy poem On love, or a love poem of happiness. But they won’t do, the tensions of every day, The rub, the minor abrasions of any two Who share one space. Ah, there’s no substitute for tragedy! But in this chapter, tragedy belongs To that other life, the old life before us. Here is my aphorism of the day: Happy people are monogamous. Even in California. So how does the poem play Without the paraphernalia of betrayal and loss? I don’t have a jealous eye or fear And neither do you. In truth, I’m fond Of your ex-mate, whom I name “my wife-in-law.” My former husband, that old disaster, is now just funny, So laugh we do, in what Cyril Connolly Has called the endless, nocturnal conversation Of marriage. Which may be the best part. Darling, must I love you in light verse Without the tribute of profoundest art? Of course it won’t last. You will break my heart Or I yours, by dying. I could weep over that. But now it seems forced, here in these heaven hills, The mourning doves mourning, the squirrels mating, My old cat warm in my lap, here on our terrace As from below comes a musical cursing As you mend my favorite plate. Later of course I could pick a fight; there is always material in that. But we don’t come from fighting people, those Who scream out red-hot iambs in their hate. No, love, the heavy poem will have to come From temps perdu, fertile with pain, or perhaps Detonated by terrors far beyond this place Where the world rends itself, and its tainted waters Rise in the east to erode our safety here. Much as I want to gather a lifetime thrift And craft, my cunning skills tied in a knot for you, There is only this useless happiness as gift.

Reading what I have just written, I now believe I stopped precipitously, so that my story seems to have been slightly distorted, ending, as it did, not abruptly but in a kind of artificial mist of the sort sprayed onto stages to allow for difficult set changes. Why did I stop? Did some instinct discern a shape, the artist in me intervening to stop traffic, as it were? A shape. Or fate, as the poets say, intuited in those few long ago hours— I must have thought so once. And yet I dislike the term which seems to me a crutch, a phase, the adolescence of the mind, perhaps— Still, it was a term I used myself, frequently to explain my failures. Fate, destiny, whose designs and warnings now seem to me simply local symmetries, metonymic baubles within immense confusion— Chaos was what I saw. My brush froze—I could not paint it. Darkness, silence: that was the feeling. What did we call it then? A “crisis of vision” corresponding, I believed, to the tree that confronted my parents, but whereas they were forced forward into the obstacle, I retreated or fled— Mist covered the stage (my life). Characters came and went, costumes were changed, my brush hand moved side to side far from the canvas, side to side, like a windshield wiper. Surely this was the desert, the dark night. (In reality, a crowded street in London, the tourists waving their colored maps.) One speaks a word:I. Out of this stream the great forms— I took a deep breath. And it came to me the person who drew that breath was not the person in my story, his childish hand confidently wielding the crayon— Had I been that person? A child but also an explorer to whom the path is suddenly clear, for whom the vegetation parts— And beyond, no longer screened from view, that exalted solitude Kant perhaps experienced on his way to the bridges— (We share a birthday.) Outside, the festive streets were strung, in late January, with exhausted Christmas lights. A woman leaned against her lover’s shoulder singing Jacques Brel in her thin soprano— Bravo! the door is shut. Now nothing escapes, nothing enters— I hadn’t moved. I felt the desert stretching ahead, stretching (it now seems) on all sides, shifting as I speak, so that I was constantly face to face with blankness, that stepchild of the sublime, which, it turns out, has been both my subject and my medium. What would my twin have said, had my thoughts reached him? Perhaps he would have said in my case there was no obstacle (for the sake of argument) after which I would have been referred to religion, the cemetery where questions of faith are answered. The mist had cleared. The empty canvases were turned inward against the wall. The little cat is dead(so the song went). Shall I be raised from death, the spirit asks. And the sun says yes. And the desert answers your voice is sand scattered in wind.

After the Yoruba Though the amaryllis sags and spills so do those my wishes serve, all along the town. And yes, the new moon, kinked there in night's patch, tugs me so—but I can't reach to right the slant. And though our cat pads past without a tail, some with slinking tails peer one-eyed at the dawn, some with eyes are clawless, some with sparking claws contain no voice with which to sing of foxes gassing in the lane. Round-shouldered pals parade smart shirts, while my broad back supports a scrubby jumper, fawn or taupe. The balding English air their stubble while some headless hero sports a feathered hat. I know a man whose thoroughbred grazes in his porch for want of livery. There are scholars of Kant who can't find Kent on the map, and men of Kent who cannot fathom Kant. We who would polish off a feast have lain late in our beds, our bellies groaning, throats on fire. We who'd drain a vat of wine have drunk our own blood for its sting. Each of us in tatters flaunts one treasured garment flapping in the wind.

Atlas, you’re Homer. I am so glad you’re Hera. Thera so many things to tell you. I went on that minotaur of the museum. The new display centaurs on how you can contract Sisyphus if you don’t use a Trojan on your Dictys. It was all Greek to me, see. When I was Roman around, I rubbed Midas against someone. “Medea, you look like a Goddess,” he said. The Minerva him! I told him to Frigg off, oracle the cops. “Loki here,” I said. “In Odin times men had better manners.” It’s best to try and nymph that sort of thing in the bud. He said he knew Athena two about women like me, then tried to Bacchus into a corner. Dryads I could, he wouldn’t stop. “Don’t Troy with my affections,” he said. “I’m already going to Helen a hand basket.” I pretended to be completely Apollo by his behavior. If something like that Mars your day, it Styx with you forever. “I’m not Bragi,” he said. “But Idon better.” Some people will never Lerna. Juno what I did? Valhalla for help. I knew the police would Pegasus to the wall. The Sirens went off. Are you or Argonaut guilty, they asked. He told the cops he was Iliad bad clams. He said he accidentally Electra Cupid himself trying to adjust a lamp shade. This job has its pluses and Minos. The cops figured he was Fulla it. He nearly Runic for me. I’m telling you, it was quite an Odyssey, but I knew things would Pan out. And oh, by the way, here’s all his gold. I was able to Fleece him before the museum closed.

We had so little, yet we had so much: Thunder and lightning at the lightest touch.

Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be; Still when, to where thou wert, I came, Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. But since my soul, whose child love is, Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, More subtle than the parent is Love must not be, but take a body too; And therefore what thou wert, and who, I bid Love ask, and now That it assume thy body, I allow, And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow. Whilst thus to ballast love I thought, And so more steadily to have gone, With wares which would sink admiration, I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught; Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon Is much too much, some fitter must be sought; For, nor in nothing, nor in things Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere; Then, as an angel, face, and wings Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear, So thy love may be my love's sphere; Just such disparity As is 'twixt air and angels' purity, 'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.

To me myself them and others always then and now that day we was flying through above Atlantic Ocean clouds the plane and the plan O also plain language plano feet or face was in perfect harmonious bolero wavy plena to someplace a few miles away from heaven this gathered from the way the adults poke their eyes out from their natural sockets   More here in the United States the actual splendour of big cities disfigures your face even more than imagining its sweetness so much that you can’t   taste yourself the way you taste yourself when the sun shines on through your stomach   All you knew was that the birds fly with you in them too   All you knew was miles of green road eating you   One year that comes and another one that splits that’s the way the jingle puts it one December made a print in your mind   And the next December the passion and excitement the coconut rice and Eisenhower who was President of the United States used to come to our parties and sit inside the television set and I began to see paths in the wall by way of cracks how would this be interpreted Also the cracks made a perfect bear   this must be the Life of skidsofrenos without any breaks I thought I could take a small bike that I had and go exploring through the next apartment after I took the room or the road   When I told Mom she said Qué confusión so many questions   back in Aguas Buenas the water was clear and here there is no guava   They can keep Puerto Rico just give us the guava of independence   depending on no bodies   tortures dreams of the past or future within the present State no State ever of things She loves that fruit the best    Assemblage yourself for the rum- ble on Avenue D against the Sportsman we gonna kick them off the earth yet see them floating down the East River   the street was noisy and full of jumping bodies moving somewhere   One quiet afternoon the President of one gang fought the President of another gang and the afternoon changed nature with voices of O man git him Roach fought Roach fought   One of the presidents was named Roach and he fought and the other guy fought from the middle of the block to the corner and another person who was not part of the tussle kept saying Roach fight Roach fought Roach fight Roach is in it Roach is the one the one is Roach It is Roach do it Roach   Roach it is   Roach jumped up he threw him down   heat sweating glands Roach   is out he came out and is into a tumbao with Look Roach   Tropical serenity atop hammock and eating Bacalao ala Española and if news of Ponce de Leon reaches here   That he is looking for the Fountain of Youth   say just be tranquil take a bath you smell like Manhattan sewers if you get drunk don’t bite your eyes   You cannot find a plane to go back to that plane   The fight kept moving up the avenue and they fought and fought till they went over the horizon We have learned the greatest lesson in geography as we moved along through space at 29 thousand feet   eating air going to the next age over   or under or beyond   What it could have been like Sticking it into her like a root the idea that she can go back and once again feel happy that she can go to big cabaret dancing in Santurce Appreciate   the aroma of strangers   That is what it says in the Bible the one translated by the maniacs from the land where the Papaya grows to its full size like a basketball In the new landscape you can see the word escape into your roots when they are riding well and it feels hot like you into   the center   fabricating thru air motions of mountains of motional emotion scribbling   it takes a lot of concentration to move your nerves like that   Slow up within the jet   within the slow propellers of the 50’s   Hold up a second there has been a change of space but everything remains the same angles on your life   your destiny   You do your claves on the paper I will read you your secrets   Civilization smells so different within the iron trees   Sivilessensation   spread yourself out of it listen to the beat abnormalize yourself compa.

Alan drives a cab at night, Has cab driver’s elbow In his left arm, Sells real estate by day. Alan dreams of a big deal, Of opening a classy poolhall. Has a four million dollar deal Which will probably fall through, Has a big land deal with the Post Office But it will take 20 years to deliver Because they are so slow. Alan collects baseball cards and comic books Hates condos and townhouses Though he lives in one. Was a trader for nineteen and one-half years Then fired when the market melted. Alan, even if he was rich, Would not let his stepdaughter By his second wife Have her own phone and private line Like her rich friend Rebecca has Because after all she is only twelve. Alan, half Jewish, has three tattoos. “I got them recently because I wanted them. My Jewish aunt nearly had a stroke When she saw them.” Alan admits he is a pack rat saving Everything, loves wood, restoration, and antiques. Alan admires the people who buy old houses And fix them up. Hates the development of Staten Island Blaming it on the people from Brooklyn. Alan was cooking sausages and onions (His other half is Italian) In his back yard When a woman knocked his parked car Into the next block, Totaled it; he got $1,200 more Than it was worth. Alan found a turtle and put It in a safe stream, Stopped a dog from killing a cock In historic Richmondtown. Alan hates the dump— ninety-four percent of the garbage there Is dropped by the other boroughs— Likes the idea of secession, Staten Island free and independent. Alan apologetically asks If he didn’t talk too much As he brings me to my destination. He leaves me a great silence And I wish I had one million American bucks To tip the exuberant Alan. Alan, take this million bucks Strip the paint off the good wood of your dreams And tattoo the tedious days.

When the wind clipped the whitecaps, and the flags came down before they shredded, we knew it was no nor’easter. The Blue Nose ferry stayed on course, west out of Yarmouth, while 100 miles of fog on the Bay blew away. The Captain let us stand on the starboard bridge and scan a jagged range. Shearwaters skimmed the peaks while storm petrels hunted valleys that slowly filled with gold. Alberto blew out in the Atlantic. We came back to earth that for days might tip and sway and cast us back to sea.

A few of us—Hillary Clinton, Vlad Dracula, Oprah Winfrey, and Trotsky—peer through the kitchen window at a raccoon perched outside on a picnic table where it picks over chips, veggies, olives, and a chunk of pâte. Behind us others crowd the hallway, many more dance in the living room. Trotsky fusses with the bloody screwdriver puttied to her forehead. Hillary Clinton, whose voice is the rumble of a bowling ball, whose hands are hairy to the third knuckle, lifts his rubber chin to announce, “What a perfect mask it has!” While the Count whistling through his plastic fangs says, “Oh, and a nose like a chef.” Then one by one the other masks join in: “Tail of a gambler,” “a swashbuckler’s hips,” “feet of a cat burglar.” Trotsky scratches herself beneath her skirt and Hillary, whose lederhosen are so tight they form a codpiece, wraps his legs around Trotsky’s leg and humps like a dog. Dracula and Oprah, the married hosts, hold hands and then let go. Meanwhile the raccoon squats on the gherkins, extracts pimentos from olives, and sniffs abandoned cups of beer. A ghoul in the living room turns the music up and the house becomes a drum. The windows buzz. “Who do you love? Who do you love?” the singer sings. Our feathered arms, our stockinged legs. The intricate paws, the filleting tongue. We love what we are; we love what we’ve become.