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Jewelry boom box spittin’bidi bidi bom bom he verges his groove of slapstick smoke across our donated mosquito nets bidi bidi bom bom all night he fingertips our omnivorous junk in his cruel maw of tooth gaps magical realistic funky ass choral arrangements of servitude mighty dump truck hip-ee hip-ee dales my rotunda all over these unsullied shimmies bidi bidi bom bom orb-spider thighs cloaking his genocidal hunches Momma catapulting protection abracadabras over our twiggy panoplies we painstakingly bedecked how many times haven’t we fallen for mishandled precipices in the wrongheaded entirety of machomanic evacuation asteroid in mouth-crooked chaps guayabera deep pink guava pulp rum & coke in his fierce prayerful grip to bypass civility a Google-translated wink inumbrated eyebrows to cast embered mercies I pump bidi bidi bom bom hormonal harmonies for his jawlined mitzvahs bidi bidi bidi bidi bidi on wings only light will kerfuffle flight born at his bidding va-voomed for his favor we puff from the tail of his pickup truck we clothes- line an underwater continent marooned & whiplashed for genesis if carnage can charade competency we too can corrupt castanets timbre compulsory penances over his padded knees bidi bidi bom bom above his life insurance policy rates coma with anointed vanity with the right song a stone will pass for bread break for a fool’s sunrise achieve the love ritual cut scorn’s willy bob hither to this bomb

The phantom happiness I sought O’er every crag and moor; I paused at every postern gate, And knocked at every door; In vain I searched the land and sea, E’en to the inmost core, The curtains of eternal night Descend—my search is o’er.

Now that everything seems so persuasive you will go on changing      as always it has always been the case with you whether you knew it or not      ever since that morning in the swamp      that Sunday a sunless windy morning      when right in front of you      a fat hive dropped unbidden      out of a blackened tree a tupelo      and where it fell      the water was shallow      eighteen inches at most but in it      one hundred & fifty-six wasps drowned      so      no      you are not finished      your apprenticeship is not yet over you have fallen in love      inadvertently      you are the bride-to-be      and now      having dressed yourself in the gown      for practice you must stand before a mirror in the upper right-hand corner of which      all of a sudden      a courtroom will appear      the litigants judge & jury suspended there      in midair      a news bulletin      the reporter's face reflected from a portable television far across the room      the sound turned down the litigants looking tense      or bored the whole crew of them a little self-conscious      like characters who have just recently been conjured      though somewhat incompletely      by a staff of studio writers in Century City      California In a field off a Vermont road      later this week      you'll listen to a car ticking as it cools      the sound of the engine blending with the cicadas in tall bluegrass floating past      as in a dream then you will finger the veil & lift your mother & father long ago set aside in a folder for silences & song you'll waken      almost immediately reborn      you will have lifted the veil though of course      sooner or later      farther down the line      that stranger      the one with whom you spend so much time in your mind      talking      he will reveal he is your brother      and what will you have to say to him then      when as he must      he asks if you had allowed yourself to lead a happy life in spite of the fact your parents had not      what is it you will tell him what answer can you give?

Not forced to fall for hideous Phaon, nor to drift dreamlike from a Victorian cliff, pursued by visions of slender limbs, peach-soft hair, dewy violets clustered in an unwilling lap, not exiled on a distant island for writing smartly about love, not called amoral nor forgotten, not murdered by a jealous lover, nor weakened from drink, did not make an incision in the veins, never murdered in a tavern at twenty-nine nor thought mad, released immediately from St. Luke's Hospital for Lunatics, freed from Northampton General Lunatic Asylum, cured of syphilis, not mad nor ruined by drink nor shot in the head, the rope unknotted and fluidly slid from the lamp- post, sauntered away with a sideways crawl up the Champs-Élysées, never sickened from drink nor drowned in the Gulf of Spezia, the heart kept tight swam madly toward shore, disappeared down the glistening beach skipping happily in the direction of England, staved off fever while fighting for Greeks, lived, wrote, erased the blood-stained pillowcase, married Fanny, moved to Finland, fathered several pink-skinned children, lay down for a rest in the Baltimore street, got up confused about Spanish port and went to the graveyard to sleep it off, laudanum, opium, stroke, paralysis, aphasia, angels, threads of exotic Delacroix visions, but everything was put right when mom said, "Come on home, I want to care for you," left the house and walked into the river until the water level covered the hairline then shed the heavy Edwardian garments and broke into a birdlike breaststroke exclaiming, "How lovely to be free of the sickbed!" never destroyed by drink, sang while removing the shrapnel from a soldier, recovered from the Spanish flu, returned to Poland all debts forgiven by appreciative readers from the Congo, replaced the bottle of Lysol among toxic rats enjoying a sauna under the sink, did not pull the trigger or push the chair out from under the revolution while screaming about the army of the arts, put on a jacket and sailed to Mexico, calmly came up on deck, folded the jacket over the rail, and then— arrested by a vision of spread-eagled sailors descending like angels through the turquoise sky—decided not to swallow the sea, freed from Payne Whitney, walked right on through the psychiatric state hospital and out the other side, had no psychotic break while on acid in a land of dreamlike torch singers masquerading as Satanists, never touched the stuff, the dead liver tissue miraculously mended, smoker's cough silenced, cured by the sea air of old gray Gloucester, jumped into the beach taxi and drove down the beach gesticulating gaily toward the setting sun, not undone, unloved, forgotten, nor filled with despair, not punished for talking with angels, not unhappy nor alone, not misrepresented nor misunderstood nor nauseous from drink or drugs or depression, loved respected and read long-lived healthy and happy celebrated by all in life before dying contented in a comfortable bed.

After Al-Sayyah The radio blares “Dialogue of Souls,” and the woman who hated clouds watches the sky. Where is the sea now? she asks. Where is it from here? What is its name?— this rain on a morning ride to school, winter, my seventh year, my father driving through rain, his eyes fixed on a world of credit and debt. On the radio, devotion to the lifter of harm from those who despair, knower of secrets with the knowledge of certainty. Not even the anguish of those years, the heavy traffic, cold and wind could have touched me. I was certain the palm holding me would be struck again. Chance allows for that and for stars to throb in reachable depths. Filled with grief bordering happiness, I didn’t care if I was safe, whether the storm was over, only that it came, the slash of lightning, the groaning sky, and the storms we made, how rain stripped everything of urgency, how to the lifter of harm rise those who despair.

I dragged my twelve-year-old cousin to see the Broadway production of ARaisin in the Sun

You wanted to be so hungry, you would break into branches, and have to choose between the starving month’s nineteenth, twenty-first, and twenty-third evenings. The liturgy begins to echo itself and why does it matter? If the ground-water is too scarce one can stretch nets into the air and harvest the fog. Hunger opens you to illiteracy, thirst makes clear the starving pattern, the thick night is so quiet, the spinning spider pauses, the angel stops whispering for a moment— The secret night could already be over, you will have to listen very carefully— You are never going to know which night’s mouth is sacredly reciting and which night’s recitation is secretly mere wind—

Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. (Martial, Epigrams 12.84) What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing—This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. Belinda still her downy pillow press'd, Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy rest: 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head; A youth more glitt'ring than a birthnight beau, (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow) Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say. "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touch'd thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, Or virgins visited by angel pow'rs, With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs, Hear and believe! thy own importance know, Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths from learned pride conceal'd, To maids alone and children are reveal'd: What tho' no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky; These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. As now your own, our beings were of old, And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air. Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip with Nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air. Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embrac'd: For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, When music softens, and when dancing fires? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Though honour is the word with men below. Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, For life predestin'd to the gnomes' embrace. These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, When offers are disdain'd, and love denied: Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, And garters, stars, and coronets appear, And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes their ear. 'Tis these that early taint the female soul, Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, And little hearts to flutter at a beau. Oft, when the world imagine women stray, The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue, And old impertinence expel by new. What tender maid but must a victim fall To one man's treat, but for another's ball? When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call, Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air, In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas! some dread event impend, Ere to the main this morning sun descend, But Heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where: Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware! This to disclose is all thy guardian can. Beware of all, but most beware of man!" He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue. 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux; Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, But all the vision vanish'd from thy head. And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy Sylphs surround their darling care; These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own.

A clear choice is so sweet. Not reluctance but real resistance. Joy-to-bursting, or none. Grief, not gradations. Someone essential and someone not. A good, dark strike-through versus weighing everything at the end of each day. Look, a cat killed a cardinal on an emerald lawn. For so many reasons it shouldn't have been beautiful. But that's also the kind of book I like best.

The King saith, and his arm swept the landscape’s foliage into bloom where he hath inscribed the secret mysteries of his love before at last taking himself away. His head away. His recording hand. So his worshipful subjects must imagine themselves in his loving fulfillment, who were no more than instruments of his creation. Pawns. Apparati. Away, he took himself and left us studying the smudged sky. Soft pencil lead. Once he was not a king, only a pale boy staring down from the high dive. The contest was seriousness he decided, who shaped himself for genus genius and nothing less. Among genii, whoever dies first wins. Or so he thought. He wanted the web browsers to ping his name in literary mention everywhere on the world wide web. He wanted relief from his head, which acted as spider and inner web weaver. The boy was a live thing tumbled in its thread and tapped and fed off, siphoned from. His head kecked back and howling from inside the bone castle from whence he came to hate the court he held. He was crowned with loneliness and suffered for friendship, for fealty of the noblest sort. The invisible crown rounded his temples tighter than any turban, more binding than a wedding band, and he sat in his round tower on the rounding earth. Read these, saith the King, and put down his pen, hearing himself inwardly holding forth on the dullest aspects of the human heart with the sharpest possible wit. Unreadable as Pound on usury or Aquinas on sex. I know the noose made an oval portrait frame for his face. And duct tape around the base of the Ziploc bag was an air-tight chamber for the regal head—most serious relic, breathlessly lecturing in the hall of silence.