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One son plays monster rage. His brother plays ship crashed in a maze. We are reading Hulk. We are reading Theseus. White sails, green men, bright women who give everything and get nothing. The monster son would never sail a ship into a maze, but brothers are not the same. They hear the same stories and make different toys of them, muscled figures in their fists, walls of wood and magnets. Who knows why a part of me always departs this place, glides out the window to rain and falling leaves, dresses of wetness and gold. She floats there, blessed by air, but when she tries to slip back in, she can’t; she hangs beyond the glass, panicked, then bulging with fury. Days later another part of me flies, into a maple the color of platelets, and another into bareness and sky. I’ve lost count of how many fists are now pounding my house, how many mouths are braying how many cries, but here inside, for now, my dear sons call to me for their fallen castles, built again, to find all the missing arrows.

Using the gun mounts for monkey bars, children skin the cat, pulling themselves through, suspended in doorways of abandoned helicopters in graveyards. With arms spread-eagled they imitate vultures landing in fields. Their play is silent as distant rain, the volume turned down on the 6 o’clock news, except for the boy with American eyes who keeps singing rat-a-tat-tat, hugging a broken machine gun.

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness."

The women were divided between regrets for the homes they had left and fear of the deserts and savages before them. —Francis Parkman nothing but this continent intent on its dismay— hands, etc. bandaged, a torn petticoat fringed with lace, roseate frozen fingers, or elsewhere feet wrapped in burlap scuffing new snow after the indigo of their tunics seeps back into the soil this spring, the several springs’ dulling thaw and incidental greenery what marks they made were harrowed out by those who settled, so set themselves against the land whether to keep the land open to passage or parcel it to the plow Benton and Everett argued “English tartars,” some said, white savages to plunder the trade, “only farmer and tradesman stabilize” his head raised slightly the dying woodsman views the open plains, “flat water” squalls spilling stiff grasses into the small shade a stand of scrub trees gives his end “huge skulls and whitening bones of buffalo were scattered everywhere” the Conestoga’s canvas straining to the wind, the plow’s first bite, the first indenture of the rutted road, crossties set down, oil, asphalt glittering quartz aggregate to the sun the harrow’s bright discs crumble the damp shine of the new furrow, the wind dulls and sifts grassland into dust two days in the storm cellar, wet rags to their faces, the slatted door impacted with wet rags, dowery linens strange light at the cyclone’s onset, a cupped brightness edging banks of dark clouds, fields darkening in lines of gathering dust, section on section spilling eastward, a straw drilled through a tree, a team of mules transported forty miles intact a dream of transport, Dorothy soaring on the wind, becalmed in still another summer, lost, follows billboards and Burma Shave into the city’s ragged sprawl Uptown or Lakeview, five children in three rooms, A.D.C., weathers like unpainted wood, stacked porches where her laundry tatters with city grit, bars haunted by banjo music everybody talks of home as though it were the sparkle of an earlier dream, a glint of rainwater in someone’s hair, names you can’t remember, old photographs gone brown with age, a man and woman, faces obscured by broad hats, a bare tree beside them, the bare distances empty and faded into the sky Oxus, Phasis, Palmyra— Oz encased in glass, “variegated with fields and meadows” store window dioramas display the life and manners of high-rise glass apartments— The El Dorado, Malibu East— warm winters, cool summers high above the city’s noise clouds move in facets across their polished faces, tipped red at sunset, presiding over a close-set clutter of flat, graveled roofs graceful as mannequins they are laughing into the summer evening, women bright as spring flowers, in autumn’s colors, warmed and smiling, they talk of love before a dying fire gray as she is, aging, she fingers the pictures of ladies’ magazines, fingers, as well, pictures she brought from home the red flowers on the floor wear into black treads, black dust comes in at her windows his weapons arranged at his side, the sun darkening his sight, Cooper contrived his death in alien spaces; Boone finished his days on a crumbling porch that fronted on the open West

For Marshall “Major” Taylor A hoot is a hilarious person. Perhaps train scream or owl, jeer. Often done by mouth. A man may widen owl wide and give one away. Hoots may result in bans, as in, “the crowd ‘hooted’ the track star clean out of the sport.” Sometimes a hoot may be kept and saved for later. For instance, “They didn’t give a hoot.” A woman may sharpen a hoot in the toolshed with the bread knives. So there may be a toolshed, and this may be where the knives are kept and the hoots. They come from chambers — come at you with those wings. So when waiting in the tool- shed hoot runs its owl talon over the knives. Else it comes at you, other it stares. • In 1890, George “Little Chocolate” Dixon put his foot on the world and held it there, waiting for the Major to come. These were the days when extra layers of name were glazed on — a way of saying both more and less and not at all. In the case of the two-term moniker, permit either/or — you may grab from the bag “Little.” In France, Marshall “Major” Taylor was le Nègre Volant— you may grab from the bag “Flying.” • Sometimes it’s a bad investment to self-publish autobiography —what a hoot. As in, pauperism may wait for you with its long needles readying to blow you out. Under the pauper’s empty ton a man gets baby-bird gaping with hunger. The Major puts his wings inside and dies in Cook County Hospital where it’s too late. Hoot given, hoot held back. Ice-white nurses come warm in their linens to fold back the wings beside themselves, like any good cook come to shut a mouth. This case of hoot has called for leg and wing and swoop. Rise up, Major. Ghost-man old Birdie Munger’s bike — take back the front, it’s time to owl.

I will teach you          my townspeople how to perform          a funeral — for you have it          over a troop of artists— unless one should          scour the world — you have the ground sense          necessary. See! the hearse leads. I begin with          a design for a hearse. For Christ's sake          not black — nor white either —          and not polished! Let it be weathered —          like a farm wagon — with gilt wheels          (this could be applied fresh          at small expense) or no wheels at all: a rough dray to          drag over the ground. Knock the glass out! My God-glass,          my townspeople! For what purpose?          Is it for the dead to look out or          for us to see how well he is housed          or to see the flowers or          the lack of them — or what? To keep the rain          and snow from him? He will have a          heavier rain soon: pebbles and dirt          and what not. Let there be no glass — and no upholstery          phew! and no little          brass rollers and small easy wheels          on the bottom — my townspeople          what are you thinking of? A rough          plain hearse then with gilt wheels          and no top at all. On this          the coffin lies by its own weight. No wreathes please — especially no          hot house flowers. Some common memento          is better, something he prized          and is known by: his old clothes —          a few books perhaps — God knows what!          You realize how we are          about these things my townspeople — something will be found —          anything even flowers          if he had come to that. So much for          the hearse. For heaven's sake though          see to the driver! Take off          the silk hat! In fact that's no place          at all for him — up there          unceremoniously dragging our friend out          to his own dignity! Bring him down —          bring him down! Low and inconspicuous!          I'd not have him ride on the wagon at all —          damn him — the undertaker's          understrapper! Let him hold          the reins and walk          at the side and inconspicuously          too! Then briefly          as to yourselves: Walk behind —          as they do in France, seventh class, or          if you ride Hell take curtains!          Go with some show of inconvenience;          sit openly — to the weather          as to grief. Or do you think          you can shut grief in? What — from us?          We who have perhaps nothing to lose?          Share with us share with us —          it will be money in your pockets. Go now I think you are          ready.

1914-18 (Sea Warfare) They bear, in place of classic names, Letters and numbers on their skin. They play their grisly blindfold games In little boxes made of tin. Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin, Sometimes they learn where mines are laid, Or where the Baltic ice is thin. That is the custom of "The Trade." Few prize-courts sit upon their claims. They seldom tow their targets in. They follow certain secret aims Down under, far from strife or din. When they are ready to begin No flag is flown, no fuss is made More than the shearing of a pin. That is the custom of "The Trade." The Scout's quadruple funnel flames A mark from Sweden to the Swin, The Cruiser's thund'rous screw proclaims Her comings out and goings in: But only whiffs of paraffin Or creamy rings that fizz and fade Show where the one-eyed Death has been. That is the custom of "The Trade." Their feats, their fortunes and their fames Are hidden from their nearest kin; No eager public backs or blames, No journal prints the yarn they spin (The Censor would not let it in! ) When they return from run or raid. Unheard they work, unseen they win. That is the custom of "The Trade."

I hold out my hand. I hand over and I pass on. I hold out my hand. I hold out my hand. I hand over and I pass on. Some call this mothering, this way I begin each day by holding out my hand and then all day long pass on. Some call this caretaking, this way all day and all night long, I hold out my hand and take engine oil additive into me and then I pass on this engine oil additive to this other thing that once was me, this not really me. This soothing obligation This love. This hand over and this pass on. This part of me and this not really me. This me and engine oil additive. This me and not really me and engine oil additive. Back and forth. All day long, like a lion I lie where I will with not really me and I bestow upon not really me refractive index testing oils and wood preservatives. I lie with not really me all day long, and so I bequeath not really me a honeyed wine of flame retardants and fire preventing agents. I make a milk like nectar, a honeyed nectar of capacitor dielectrics, dyes, and electrical insulation and I pass it on every two hours to not really me. Not really me is a ram perched on a cliff above a stream, unable to be quenched by the flame retardant in furniture. Not really me comes near and takes a nectar of insulated pipes, and some industrial paints. Later I pass the breast cup to not really me, a breast cup filled with sound insulation panels and imitation wood with a little nectar and sweetness. And not really me drinks it and then complains a little, rebuking me, for my cakes of nuts and raisins are cakes of extraction of crude petroleum and natural gas, for my apples are filled with televisions and windshield wiper blades. On my breast are the curls of not really me and against the brow of not really me wafts plasticizer used in heat transfer systems. As drinking not really me takes in anger and in need not really me drinks from the hand of that sweetest sleep the juice of me that cup of adhesives, that cup of fire retardants, of pesticide extenders. And as not really me drinks I cradle the moon and not really me in my right hand my lips kissing with the dedusting agents and wax extenders. Then later in the night, the bed scattered with the stains of cutting oils and gas-transmission turbines, the blankets with blends of hydraulic fluid, we lie there together handing over and passing on filled up and attempting to think our way through economics and labor and time and biology me and not really me together. I'd like to think we had agreed upon this together, that we had a tradition, that we agreed these things explained us to us but when not really me wakes after drinking the pharmaceuticals and photo chemicals night after night and day after day not really me will sing a song of rebuke, sing the song of not really me, the song that goes like Salutations to brominated fire retardants of Koppers Ind. goes like Salutations to water/oil repellant paper coating of 3M goes like Salutations to wiper blades of Asahi goes like Salutations to bike chain lubrication of Clariant International goes like Salutations to wire and cable insulation of Daikin goes like Salutations to pharmaceutical packaging of DuPont goes like Salutations to nail polish of Dyneon goes like Salutations to engine oil additive of Agrevo E goes like Salutations to hair curling and straightening of Agsin Ptd. Ltd. goes like Salutations to insecticide and termiticide for empty green- houses of Chevron Chemical goes like Salutations to greenhouse flowers of Monsanto goes like Salutations to insecticide to kill fire ants of Rigo Co. goes like Salutations to plasticizers of US Borax Inc. Not really me's song will go on and on Not really me will sing it all night long hour after hour for weeks on end. It will have eighty-five company names in it. It will have twenty-one chemical functions in it. It will have ninety-seven products in it. It will have two hundred trade names in it. Not really me's song will rotate through these names in all their combinations. And then it will end with another part that is as long as the first and inventories the chemicals that not really me does not yet know. But oh those of you who are not really me at all I say let wisdom be your anvil and knowledge your hammer. Hand this over. Pass this on.

I The chemist creates the brazen approximation: Life Thy will be done Sun II Time to garden before I die— to meet my compost maker the caretaker of the cemetery

the greatest living poet in new york city was born in Puerto Rico his name is Jorge Brandon (1902-1995) he is over 70 years old he carries his metaphor in brown shopping bags inside steel shopping cart he travels around with on the streets of manhattan he recites his poetry to whoever listens & when nobody is around he recites to himself he speaks the wisdom of unforgettable palm trees the vocabulary of coconuts that wear overcoats the traffic lights of his poems function without boring advice from ac or dc current book stores & libraries are deprived of his vibes to become familiar with this immortal poet you have to hang-out on street corners building stoops rooftops fire escapes bars parks subway train stations bodegas botanicas iglesias pawn shops card games cock fights funerals valencia bakery hunts point palace pool halls orchard beach & cuchifrito stands on the lower eastside the admission is free his presence is poetry