517 Social commentaries poems

I don't see the point of remembering you; you're too boring, Iowa City, Iowa, much duller topologically than Needles, California. I'm here in the Rebel Motel, with my grape-colored sweater and maté tea, whose smoky odor's bound up with first rooms and foods here sex and snow. I write about Needles Herman and rocks, the story's called “As Good as Anything,” and in it daft Herman—true local of Needles—says “Rocks is as good as anything.” I figured that out summer after first love affair in New York: hung out, home, at a rock shop inspecting geodes and thunder eggs Arsenic samples and petrified dinosaur dung. What can I say about Iowa City everyone's an academic poetry groupie, I haven't yet written a poem, there's a bar where for 25 cents a meal of boiled egg and tiny beer. Really I don't know what kind of poetry— what's the name of the make they use here—or what kinds of poetry live people write in the world. Is there a right and wrong poetry, one might still ask as I patronize, retrospectively, the Iowa style, characterized, as I remember, by the assumption of desperation boredom behind two-story houses divorce, incomes, fields, pigs, getting into pants, well not really in poems, well no “well”s and all in the costive mode of men who—and the suicidal women— want to be culpable for something, settle for being mean to their wives and writing dour stanzas. God this is bitchy I modeled for art classes that's rather interesting the hypocrisy: nobody needs to paint nude women they just like to. So here I am naked for art, which is a lot of dumb fucks I already know, same with poetry. Written and judged by. Those befoibled guys who think—you know— the poetic moment's a pocket in pool; where can I publish it; what can I do to my second or third wife now. Nothing happens in Iowa, so can I myself change here? Yes I can start to become contemptuous is that good or bad, probably bad. In New York I'd developed a philosophy of sympathy and spiritual equality: out the window, easily, upon my first meeting real assholes. “A rock's as good as anything” there are no rocks in Iowa shit-black soil, a tree or two, no mountain or tall edifice, University drabs, peeping Toms, anti-war riots, visiting poets treated like royalty, especially if they fuck the locals or have a record of fighting colorfully with their wives. You can go to the movies once a week, like in Needles. You can fuck a visiting poet;  you can be paraded before a visiting poet as fuckable but not fuck. You can write your first poems thinking you might as well since the most stupid people in the universe are writing their five hundredth here. I'm doing that now. What difference does it make. I like my poems. They're as good as rocks.

After Roselia Foundling Asylum and Maternity Hospital, 
corner of Cliff and Manilla This is the house I was born in. Look at it. Asylum. Narrate it: Notice the sloping cornice, look at the curved windows, etc. This is the house I was born in. The cast-iron balconies / not wide enough for bodies. Look at the photos: 3 stories, 8 front windows and a wide door. Dark red brick / inlaid with brown stone. Women’s bodies / expelling  / banishing  / Leaving the babies there. Look at the photos, include the photos.

1. At this precise moment of history With Goody-two-shoes running for Congress We are testing supersonic engines To keep God safe in the cherry tree. When I said so in this space last Thursday I meant what I said: power struggles. 2. You would never dream of such corn. The colonials in sandalwood like running wide open and available for protection. You can throw them away without a refund. 3. Dr. Hanfstaengel who was not called Putzi except by those who did not know him is taped in the national archives. J. Edgar Hoover he ought to know And does know. But calls Dr. Hanfstaengel Putzi nevertheless Somewhere on tape in the Archives. He (Dr. H.) is not a silly man. He left in disgust About the same time Shirley Temple Sat on Roosevelt’s knee An accomplished pianist A remembered personality. He (Dr. H.) began to teach Immortal anecdotes To his mother a Queen Bee In the American colony. 4. What is your attitude toward historical subjects? —Perhaps it’s their size! 5. When I said this in space you would never believe Corn Colonel was so expatriated. —If you think you know, Take this wheel And become standard. 6. She is my only living mother This bee of the bloody arts Bandaging victims of Saturday’s dance Like a veritable sphinx In a totally new combination. 7. The Queen Mother is an enduring vignette at an early age. Now she ought to be kept in submersible decompression chambers For a while. 8. What is your attitude toward historical subjects Like Queen Colonies? —They are permanently fortified For shape retention. 9. Solid shades Seven zippered pockets Close to my old place Waiting by the road Big disk brakes Spinoff Zoom Long lights stabbing at the Two together piggyback In a stark sports roadster Regretting his previous outburst Al loads his Cadillac With lovenests. 10. She is my only living investment She examines the housing industry Counts 3.5 million postwar children Turning twenty-one And draws her own conclusion In the commercial fishing field. 11. Voice of little sexy ventriloquist mignonne: “Well I think all of us are agreed and sincerely I my- self believe that honest people on both sides have got it all on tape. Governor Reagan thinks that nuclear wampums are a last resort that ought not to be re- sorted.” (But little mignonne went right to the point with: “We have a commitment to fulfill and we better do it quick.” No dupe she!) All historians die of the same events at least twice. 13. I feel that I ought to open this case with an apology. Dr. H. certainly has a beautiful voice. He is not a silly man. He is misunderstood even by Presidents. 14. You people are criticizing the Church but what are you going to put in her place? Sometime sit down with a pencil and paper and ask yourself what you’ve got that the Church hasn’t. 15. Nothing to add But the big voice of a detective Using the wrong first names In national archives. 16. She sat in shocking pink with an industrial zipper spe- cially designed for sitting on the knees of presidents in broad daylight. She spoke the president’s mind. “We have a last resort to be resorted and we better do it quick.” He wondered at what he had just said. 17. It was all like running wideopen in a loose gown Without slippers At least someplace.

In the heavy fashion magazines strewn here and there around the house the photos of objects and people mouth the word “money,” but you, assuming no one wants you anymore, mishear the message as “meaning.” Arousal follows. The lives of the rich are so fabulous! The destruction of the poetical lies heavily on their hands, as on their swollen notion that we are always watching. There is nothing behind the mask. Nothing suffocating under its pressure, no human essence trying to get out. Awareness, always awareness. Don’t you see how these elaborate masks are turning you into a zombie? The private life is not for the eye but for the endless interior. It is trying to push all this crap aside and find the missing line. Nobody, least of all the future, cares about the outcome of this quest. It is easy to lose, through meddling or neglect, an entire aspect of existence. And sometimes, to cultivate a single new thought, you need not only silence but an entirely new life.

The orbiting reflector Turns night into day: petals ping Accelerated workers swarm into the plaza A blur on the soul’s dead instrument Everywhere, windows are blanked To the same newsreel I alone Inhabit a mockup of the early nineteenth century I, the great idealist who confesses On the first page of his diary:Father! There are no living atoms & the diary answers:Identity Is that Which is eaten from within Another man is partially assembled On the table Another module Unshrouded, revolves in sunlight filtered through noise A simulated victory Crawls like a glove Animated by music

Why not write something for those who scratched out improbable livings here? Someone has managed to sow This broken field with stones, it appears, So someone’s scratching it still, Although that Japanese knotweed has edged The tilth. Two wasps in the child Attempt to catch sun on a rail of the bridge. The old local doctor has passed At almost a full decade past ninety. He never seemed depressed. Seventy now, if barely, I consider the field again: Someone will drag these rocks away But they’ll be back. The air smells like rain, Which is fine, the summer’s been much too dry. Nothing is left of the barn But some rusty steel straps in some nasty red osier. The stone fence still looks sound, But even there the knotweed steps over. Hadn’t I pledged an elegy To the old ones who worked here? You couldn’t claim They thrived, exactly, but maybe They likewise scented good wind full of rain, Lifted eyes above this old orchard To the cloud-darkened hills and found their support Somehow, somewhere. No matter, They kept going until they could go no more. The trees’ puckered apples have gathered A flock of birds, and as they alight, They’re full of unseasonable chatter, As if to say that all will be right. The old ones I promised a poem Must have said it too.It’ll be all right. I never knew them. They’re gone. I say it out loud,It’ll be all right. —Caledonia County, Vermont

In the Shreve High football stadium, I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville, And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood, And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel, Dreaming of heroes. All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home, Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love. Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other’s bodies.

for Joe Overstreet, David Henderson, Albert Ayler & d mysterious ‘H’ who cut up d Rembrandts i u worry me whoever u are i know u didnt want me to come here but here i am just d same; hi-jacking yr stagecoach, hauling in yr pocket watches & mak ing u hoof it all d way to town. black bard, a robber w/ an art: i left some curses in d cash box so ull know its me listen man, i cant help it if yr thing is over, kaput, finis no matter how u slice it dick u are done. a dead duck all out of quacks. d nagging hiccup dat goes on & on w/out a simple glass of water for relief ii uve been teaching shakespeare for 20 years only to find d joke on u d eavesdropping rascal who got it in d shins because he didnt know enough to keep his feet behind d cur tains: a sad-sacked head served on a platter in titus andronicus or falstaff too fat to make a go of it anymore iii its not my fault dat yr tradition was knocked off wop style & left in d alley w/ pricks in its mouth. i read abt it in d papers but it was no skin off my nose wasnt me who opened d gates & allowed d rustlers to slip thru unnoticed. u ought to do something abt yr security or mend yr fences partner dont look at me if all dese niggers are ripping it up like deadwood dick; doing art d way its never been done. mak ing wurlitzer sorry he made d piano dat will drive mozart to d tennis courts making smith-corona feel like d red faced university dat has just delivered china some 50 e-leben h bomb experts i didnt deliver d blow dat drove d abstract expressionists to my ladies linoleum where dey sleep beneath tons of wax & dogshit & d muddy feet of children or because some badassed blackpainter done sent french impressionism to d walls of highrise lobbies where dey belong is not my fault martha graham will never do d jerk shes a sweet ol soul but her hips cant roll; as stiff as d greek statues she loves so much iv dese are d reasons u did me nasty j alfred prufrock, d trick u pull d in d bookstore today; stand in d corner no peaches for a week, u lemon u must blame me because yr wife is ugly. 86-d by a thousand discriminating saunas. dats why u did dat sneaky thing i wont tell d townsfolk because u hv to live here and im just passing thru v u got one thing right tho. i did say dat everytime i read william faulkner i go to sleep. fitzgerald wdnt hv known a gangster if one had snatched zelda & made her a moll tho she wd hv been grateful i bet bonnie of clyde wrote d saga of suicide sal just as d feds were closing in. it is worth more than d collected works of ts elliot a trembling anglican whose address is now d hell dat thrilld him so last word from down there he was open ing a publishing co dat will bore d devil back to paradise vi & by d way did u hear abt grammar? cut to ribbons in a photo finish by stevie wonder, a blindboy who dances on a heel. he just came out of d slang & broke it down before millions. it was bloody murder vii to make a long poem shorter—3 things moleheaded lame w/4 or 5 eyes 1) yr world is riding off into d sunset 2) d chips are down & nobody will chance yr i.o.u.s. 3) d last wish was a fluke so now u hv to re turn to being a fish p.s. d enchantment has worn off dats why u didnt like my reading list—right? it didnt include anyone on it dat u cd in vite to a cocktail party & shoot a lot of bull—right? so u want to take it out on my hide—right? well i got news for u professor nothing—i am my own brand while u must be d fantasy of a japanese cartoonist a strangekind of dinosaurmouse i can see it all now. d leaves are running low. its d eve of extinction & dere are no holes to accept yr behind. u wander abt yr long neck probing a tree. u think its a tree but its really a trap. a cry of victory goes up in d kitchen of d world. a pest is dead. a prehis toric pest at dat. a really funnytime prehistoric pest whom we will lug into a museum to show everyone how really funny u are yr fate wd make a good scenario but d plot is between u & charles darwin. as i said, im passing thru, just sing ing my song. get along little doggie & jazz like dat. word has it dat a big gold shipment is coming to californy. i by to ride all night if im to meet my pardners dey want me to help score d ambush

The burden of hard hitting. Slug away Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb. Else fandom shouteth: “Who said you could play? Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!” Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job. Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom’s ire Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob— This is the end of every fan’s desire. The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight. Or in or out, or haply up or down, To puzzle him that standeth by the plate, To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renoun: Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown, So pitch that every man can but admire And offer you the freedom of the town— This is the end of every fan’s desire. The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds! The tumult and the shouting from the throats Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats. A mighty cheer that possibly denotes That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire; Or, as H. James would say, We’ve got their goats— This is the end of every fan’s desire. The burden of a pennant. O the hope, The tenuous hope, the hope that’s half a fear, The lengthy season and the boundless dope, And the bromidic; “Wait until next year.” O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear, O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher That next October it shall flutter here: This is the end of every fan’s desire. ENVOY Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase Be that to which most fondly we aspire! For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race— THIS is the end of every fan’s desire.

It’s about                    Ball fits the ball,                      mitt, but the bat,                       not all and the mitt.             the time. Ball hits                      Sometimes bat, or it                     ball gets hit hits mitt.                    (pow) when bat Bat doesn’t                meets it, hit ball,                       and sails bat meets it.              to a place Ball bounces             where mitt off bat, flies               has to quit air, or thuds              in disgrace. ground (dud)            That’s about or it                             the bases fits mitt.                     loaded, about 40,000 Bat waits                    fans exploded. for ball to mate.                     It’s about Ball hates                  the ball, to take bat’s              the bat, bait. Ball                    the mitt, flirts, bat’s                 the bases late, don’t                   and the fans. keep the date.           It’s done Ball goes in                on a diamond, (thwack) to mitt,      and for fun. and goes out              It’s about (thwack) back           home, and it’s to mitt.                       about run.