Cornelius Eady

The stage is set for imminent disaster. Here is the little tramp, standing On a stack of books in order To reach the microphone, the Poet he’s impersonating somehow Trussed and mumbling in a Tweed bundle at his feet. He opens his mouth:Tra-la! Out comes doves, incandescent bulbs, Plastic roses.Well, that’s that, Squirms the young professor who’s Coordinated this, No more visiting poets! His department head groans For the trap door. As it Swings away The tramp keeps on as if Nothing has occurred, A free arm mimicking A wing.

That’s right, said the cab driver, Turning the corner to the Round-a-bout way, Those stupid, fuckin’ beggars, You know the guys who Walk up to my cab With their hands extended And their little cups? You know their problem? You know what’s wrong with them? They ain’t got no brains. I mean, they don’t know nothin’ ’cause if they had brains They’d think of a way To find a job. You know what one of ’em told me once? He said what he did, Begging He said it was work. Begging Was work. And I told him Straight to his face: That ain’t work. You think that’s work? Let me tell you what work is: Work is something that you do That’s of value To someone else. Now you take me. It takes brains to do What I do. You know what I think? I think they ought to send All these beggars over To some other country, Any country, It don’t matter which, For 3, 4, years, Let them wander around Some other country, See how they like that. We ought to make a National program Sending them off To wander about Some other country For a few years, Let ’em beg over there, See how far it gets them. I mean, look at that guy You know, who was big In the sixties, That drug guy, Timothy Leary? Yeah, he went underground, Lived overseas. You know what? A few years abroad And he was ready to Come back On any terms. He didn’t care if They arrested him. He said The U.S. is better Than any country In the world. Send them over there For a few years. They’d be just like him. This is the greatest country In the whole world. Timothy Leary Was damn happy To get back here, And he’s doing fine. Look at me. I used to be like that. I used to live underground. I came back. I think all those beggars got a mental block. I think you should do something. I mean, you ought to like what you do, But you should do something. Something of use To the community. All those people, Those bums, Those scam artists, Those hustlers, Those drug addicts, Those welfare cheats, Those sponges. Other than that I don’t hold nothin’ Against no one. Hey, I picked you up.

How many books now have the word Last In their title? Or worry, or some dangling variation Of mistake? Or empire burning, or The fools have fucked it up? Who the hell listens? They roar and Wriggle, up and down the page, They screen-print what’s coming next — pinups Of blocked streets and stone faces. How many books sling the word doom, Or mimic spotlights or air raid sirens, Regurgitate the Romans, the Kick Down the Door Guys, our genius with the fiery furnace? The quivers, the shakes, the iambic dread, The anger, the insomnia, the slow tic Of the wait, the wail, the transcribed too late, In the manner of those who have gone before us, Geiger counters, clacking the rising damp.