Frank Stanford

Sometimes in our sleep we touch The body of another woman And we wake up And we know the first nights With summer visitors In the three storied house of our childhood. Whatever we remember, The darkest hair being brushed In front of the darkest mirror In the darkest room.

at night while the dogs were barking Baby Gauge and I crawled under the fence with knives we made out like the rattlesnake melons were men we didn’t like the new moon ones were wolves I would cut a belly this way he would cut a belly that way the flies came around the sweet juice it was blood to us we tasted it we licked it off the blades we decided not to kill the wolves we wanted to be wolves we stuck the knives in the ground the moon shined on them we turned the pilot caps inside out so the fur would show that way when we crawled under the bob wire a little piece would get caught we wouldn’t though we wanted to leave trails but no scents we tore the melons open we licked the blood off our paws we wanted to be wolves and in the morning all those dead men with their hearts eat out

A guy comes walking out of the garden Playing Dark Eyes on the accordian. We’re sitting on the porch, Drinking and spitting, lying. We shut our eyes, snap our fingers. Dewhurst goes out to his truck Like he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing And brings back three-half-pints. A little whirlwind occurs in the road, Carrying dust away like a pail of water. We’re drinking serious now, and O.Z. Wants to break in the store for some head cheese, But the others won’t let him. Everybody laughs, dances. The crossroads are all quiet Except for the little man on the accordian. Things are dying down, the moon spills its water. Dewhurst says he smells rain. O.Z. says if it rains he’ll still make a crop. We wait there all night, looking for rain. We haven’t been to sleep, so the blue lizards On the side of the white porch Lose their tails when we try to dream. The man playing the music looks at us, Noticing what we’re up to. He backs off, Holding up his hands in front, smiling, Shaking his head, but before he gets half way Down the road that O.Z. shoots him in the belly. All summer his accordian rotted in the ditch, Like an armadillo turning into a house payment.

My grandmother said when she was young The grass was so wild and high You couldn’t see a man on horseback. In the fields she made out Three barns, Dark and blown down from the weather Like her husbands. She remembers them in the dark, Cursing the beasts, And how they would leave the bed In the morning, The dead grass of their eyes Stacked against her.

Luis Buñuel A white bull, a cassock, an antique mirror The famous ones have passed hours in front of, A midnight blue tuxedo, a fainting couch, a key To a box of lewd photographs, a swastika, Twelve bales of hay, three grave plots, a statue Of Christ holding a heart pierced by a dagger, A black patch, all kinds of utensils for the sick— Including thirty-nine feet of catheter tubing, A houseboat, a dog, a baby grand, an oar Said to have been carved from a lovely river And a woman’s hat by Alfred Jarry, a mattress, A shotgun, a diving helmet, an essay on The Art Of Taxidermy and a clitoris mounted on a ring Like quartz, a crescent wrench, a bulldozer.

evening the priest let three rivers flow and a woman sing to her child I am afraid a woman Will burn my hair

Nicanor Parra I’m not going to lie Through my teeth to you Like the poets from Minnesota, The South, and the West, And New York City. Most of all in life I would like to fuck a thirteen-year-old again, And I don’t have any hesitations About saying I’d rather be Marlon Brando Than I would T. S. Eliot, etc. I have more respect for Muhammad Ali Than any other living man. Of course I’ve tried Esquire, But my shoes aren’t platforms And I don’t know shit about canoes. Although I can’t prove it, Most poets work for the highway dept. There are more of them than there are Flies and engineers. And I stink like a dead mule under an overpass.

I am not asleep, but I see a limb, the fingers of death, the ghost of an anonymous painter leaving the prints of death on the wall; the bright feathers of soft birds blowing away in the forest; the bones of fish and the white backs of strange women; your breathing like the slow thunder on the other side of some river as you sleep beside me; old dancing teachers weeping in their offices; toads with bellies as quiet as girls asleep in mansions, dreaming of saddles and pulling the sheets between their legs; fireflies going to sleep on moonseed flowers around a plantation gazebo at dawn; a girl sweating in bed; hawks drifting through the moon; a woman’s hair, the flavor of death, floating in the fog like a flag on a ship full of ghosts, the ghosts of soldiers searching for the graves of their mothers; june bugs listening to Leoncavallo; christ weeping on Coney Island, inevitable, like a fissure in a faggot’s ass; a widower with no sons, a lonesome janitor, a worm in the sun, the dusty sockets of poets, who have lost their eyes, their

for Nicholas Fuhrmann I   Pig I was in the outhouse I heard somebody at the pump I looked out the chink hole It was the two fishermen They stole fish One man gave the other one some money He flipped a fifty-cent piece up I lost it in the sun I saw the snake doctors riding each other The other man said “You lose” He took something else out of his pocket It shined They had a tow sack I thought they were cleaning fish I looked up I saw the snake doctors riding each other I took my eye away It was dark in the outhouse I whistled I heard the pump again It sounded broken I looked out the chink hole It wasn’t the pump It was the pig The guitar player cut them out The midget helped him “Pump me some water, midget” he said The pig ran off The guitar player washed off his hands The midget washed off the nuts He got a drink My eye hurt He laughed He cleaned the blood off his knife    He wiped it on his leg He started singing The dog tried to get the nuts But the midget kicked him The guitar player picked them up He put them in his pocket The dog went over to the pig He licked him I pulled my pants up I went outside I got the pig I walked over to the pump I said “Don’t you ever lay a hand on this pig again” The guitar player laughed He asked me if I wanted the nuts back He took them out of his pocket He spit on them He shook them like dice He threw them on the ground He said “Hah” The midget stomped on them I had the pig under my arm He was bleeding on my foot    I said “Midget, I got friends on that river” II   The Acolyte The men rode by I passed them on the road They smelled like dead fish The one in front had a guitar on his back The other one had a chain saw I was riding the hog He weighed three-hundred pounds I called him Holy Ghost The midget flashed a knife He thumbed the blade He smiled at me He called me “Pig Rider” I rode over to Baby Gauge’s I was on my way to church I had to get the red cassock I tied the hog to the front porch Baby Gauge was swinging in a tire Born In The Camp With Six Toes was sleeping in the icebox Baby Gauge said “Be at the levee at three o’clock” I put the robe on I said “I almost got drowned last time” “Going to have a mighty good time” he said “Going to be an eclipse” Born In The Camp With Six Toes said I rode the hog to church I took the new shoes off I lit the candles I changed the book I rung the bell I was drinking the wine I heard Baby Gauge yell I ran down the aisle I saw the men at the trough They were beating the hog over the head with sledge hammers It was like the clock in the German pilot’s shack One of his eyes was hanging out And the trough was running over with blood They held his head under the water He was rooting in his own blood He pumped it out in a mist Like a buck shot in the lung It was black He broke loose I ran down the road yelling I stepped on soda bottle caps I ran through sardine cans I tripped on the cassock The hog was crazy He ran into the church He ran into tombstones I said “Somebody throw me something” Chinaman threw me a knife I ran after the hog He was heading for the river I jumped on his back I rode the hog I hugged his neck I stabbed him seven times I wanted the knife to go into me He kept running I ran the knife across his throat And the blood came out like a bird We ran into a sycamore tree When the cloud passed over the moon Like a turkey shutting its eye I rowed out into the slew Not allowing myself to sing gospel music I woke up in a boat It was full of blood My feet were dragging through the water A knife was sticking in the prow And the sun was black It was dark But I saw the snake doctors riding each other I saw my new shoes I put them on They filled up with blood I took the surplice off I threw it in the river I watched it sink There was hog blood in my hair I knelt in the prow with the knife in my mouth I looked at myself in the water I heard someone singing on the levee I was buried in a boat I woke up I set it afire with the taper I watched myself burn I reached in the ashes and found a red knife I held my head under the water so I wouldn’t go crazy It was some commotion I rowed the boat in a circle with one oar A hundred people were in the water They had white robes on Some of them had umbrellas They jumped up and down on the bank They rowed down the levee They were yelling and singing One of them saw me I saw a horse with tassels I put my head under the water I thought I was dead I hit it on a cypress knee Two Negroes came riding through the river They rode towards me on the moon-blind horse One of them was drinking soda water “Where are you going, boy” Baby Gauge said The horse swam back to the levee I was with them The boat drifted away A man said “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego” III   Hambone They tied his hind legs together And hung him in a tree with a log chain I saw them I was on Baby Gauge’s horse I threw a knife at the midget So they hung me up by the feet too I saw them break his neck I saw them pull his legs apart like a wishbone I wished the dead came back The midget stood on a bucket He reached up in the hog’s throat And pulled the heart out The dog was lying on the ground With his mouth open It took all day to butcher the hog I got dizzy I saw the snake doctors riding each other They turned the bucket over It filled up with blood They made a fire The guitar player beat his hand over his leg He put some meat on the fire They tried to make me eat it The midget spit a bone on the ground The other one picked it up He put it on his finger He went over and got his guitar He tried to play it like a Negro There was too much grease on his hands He got blood on the guitar The midget danced around the campfire I wanted to cut his throat The dog bayed at the moon And the blue Andalusian rooster played with a snake I was bleeding out my nose The fish bandits loaded the hog on Baby Gauge’s horse They threw blood on the fire And filled the bucket up with guts for fish bait When they rode off I yelled “Peckerwoods” I dreamed I saw Holy Ghost walking around the campfire He was a wild hog with blood on his tushes Along about midnight I heard a boat but no rowing Somebody short came walking out of the woods With a light on his head The light went out I couldn’t see He drew something out of his boot He grabbed me by the hair I saw a knife in the moonlight “Sweet Jesus” I said Born In The Camp With Six Toes cut me down IV   Chainsaw The man cut his hand off at dawn I heard him yell I set up in bed He ran past the window “Don’t let the dog get it” he said I got out of bed I had the long handles on It was cold I threw some wood on the fire I put the dime around my ankle I put my boots on I put a knife in the boot I walked out to the road The blue Andalusian rooster followed me It was dark I heard the chainsaw in the woods I heard him singing all night He was cutting firewood He was drunk The dog quit barking I drew the knife out of my boot I looked for the midget I saw the blood and I tracked it I saw the sun and the moon I saw the snake doctors riding each other The hand was in the sawdust It was moving The hambone was on the finger It was morning The dog didn’t get it I did There was blood on the chainsaw I told the blue rooster “He thought it was a guitar” I walked around the hand seven times I poked it with a stick I sung to it I picked it up like a snake I took the hambone off the finger I put Holy Ghost’s bone in my boot I put the hand on a stump I danced on the hand I peed on it I broke a wine bottle over it I threw it up in the air and a hawk hit it The dog licked the blood out of the dust I saw the fish bandit’s guitar The blue rooster pecked it I beat the hand with it I threw the guitar in the river The snake doctors lit on it It floated away I went down to the bank I got a pole I put a hook through the hand I washed it off When I touched the wound with my knife it rolled up in a fist Somebody came by in a boat They held up a big fish So I held up the hand They jumped out of the boat They thought I crossed them One of them said “That wasn’t no hoodoo, was it” It was Baby Gauge I said “No, it was the guitar player’s hand” They swam to the bank I told them how I came by it Born In The Camp With Six Toes said “It won’t Take another fish off my lines” I asked them “You want to shake it” Baby Gauge said “No, I want to spit on it” We spit on the hand They left I wrapped it up in newspaper like fish I took it home I put it under Jimmy’s pillow and he knocked my teeth out I put it in a cigar box with a picture of Elvis Presley I took it to town I walked over to the dance hall The guitar player was bleeding in the back of the pickup I gave him the cigar box He passed out The midget pulled a knife on me I picked up the hand He ran off On the way home I ran folks off the road When the truck came by the house The guitar player raised up in the bed He said “Give me my hand back” When it was dark I tied fish line to it and hung it in the outhouse I sung to it The moon shined through the chink hole on the hand I took it down I threw it in a yellow jacket nest I stomped on it I took it to the palm reader I said “Sister, read this” A lot of evenings I listened for them I knew they would come back When a stranger got a drink at night I thought it was the Holy Ghost And sometimes a cloud went by like a three-legged dog And the thunder was someone with a shotgun Letting him have it Now the moon was a fifty-cent piece It was a belly I wanted to cut open When the flies got bad I kept the hand in the smokehouse V   Swimming at Night The midget ran his finger across his neck The other one said “Give it back” I waited in the outhouse I had a sawed-off shotgun The men rode off In the afternoon they sold fish They cleaned them at the pump The scales dried up on their faces They loaded the meat on stolen horses At night they rode up shooting pistols I slept with an ice pick under my pillow One night they rode up drunk The midget was sitting in the guitar player’s lap He said “Come on out” They tied a bale of hay to Baby Gauge’s horse They poured coal oil on it They set it on fire They laughed The horse with the moon eye pranced around them He galloped home I carved wild hog out of a cypress knee I made it the handle I made four tushes out of the hambone I used the blade I brought out of the fire And sealed the pig with It was the blade I put the burning horse to sleep with I called the knife the Holy Ghost To make me go crazy I took all my clothes off And jumped down the hole in the outhouse I grabbed the yellow jacket nest And held it over my heart I pumped cold water over myself And wallowed in the mud I walked through the snake den barefooted I swam the river at midnight With the hand and a blue feather in my mouth And the Holy Ghost around my neck And the hooks caught in my arms    they caught in my legs I cut the trot lines in two I saw the guitar player stealing the fish I was swimming beneath the shack Under the sleeping midget With the fish bandit’s hand in my mouth I climbed through the trap door I crawled under the bed I cut the hooks out I believe I was snake bit I put the hand in the slop jar I reached up and tickled his nose with the feather He got out of bed He turned the lights on He let down his pants He reached under the bed for the slop jar He took the lid off He screamed I brought the knife across his leg I hamstrung the midget I swam under the water With the hand in my mouth I came up near the guitar player’s boat He was running the lines I swam to the other end of the trot line I put the hand on a hook I jerked the lines like a big fish The guitar player worked his way down He thought he had a good one I let go of the line He saw his left hand He screamed He fell out of the boat I swam back through the river I buried the knife in the levee I was sleeping in the Negro’s lap He was spitting snuff on my wounds Born In The Camp With Six Toes cut me with a knife Baby Gauge sucked the poison out Oh Sweet Jesus the levees that break in my heart

My father and I lie down together. He is dead. We look up at the stars, the steady sound Of the wind turning the night like a ceiling fan. This is our home. I remember the work in him Like bitterness in persimmons before a frost. And I imagine the way he had fear, The ground turning dark in a rain. Now he gets up. And I dream he looks down in my eyes And watches me die.