ode to politics in america

Whoa boy, don't you think

there might be an easier way to get a subscription

to Time Magazine? There's always the

conscription of services from newspapermen

of a different age: the space age

or the nuclear arms race

would set the table straight.

Porkpie hat skinny black tie short pants

would work but you just want the magazine

not the swimsuit issue, which they don't do

in Time anyhow, no boobies in Time,

just political crimes new lies

new reports on the possible litigation

of doobies, got lots of pattern recognition

from them border stalkin rednecks

and no reason not to, neither

-- Goddamn

sometimes, I wish I was born a Canadian.

the right stall

Can a man in the toilet transcend?

The bathroom pulls dignity groundward,

pulls emotion through pipes

that lead to assholes, ever downward,

ever bowlward,

ever toward the awkward word,

if someone were to open your stall

mid-business - the slapping of hands

down to cover the balls - and the importance,

of choosing the right stall

and then, if that's impossible,

not checking the length of other men's missiles.

But what of my question? Is it possible

to see heaven whilst shooting yellow piss

into a urinal? No. How about shitting?

Prolonged sitting at the tribunal permits a book.

A book permits the momentary look at God

provided it's great shiterature;

God smiles. God nods, waves,

and sunshine bursts right through the ass!

not as infinite as

Your drinking too much
is not as glamorous as they (the poets) thought (it)you was,

not as funny as
sitting in the middle of the road despite the approaching car

may be, Jetta though it is, haha-ing as a speeding train,
not even as effective as your going guts over brains

over barbed wire over depleted phone access
to friends and friend and ladyfriend you couldn't have

last winter, or previous winter, allwinters
exist in a contiguous line

of damning anti-poetry, not as infinite
as answering machines may be

when you are as sorry for yourself as
you are now, a dream in a loop

about doing maths, eating pi

dream a beautiful leap

Dream of carrying a letter to Switzerland.

Go ahead. Climb the Alps,

write your own Mont Blanc,

comb your fingers through her hair.

After everything that will have passed

in those dark spates your faith

can barely think of.

Passion does not give out

so quick as you think

or fear

(the turning toward the car door,

silence that stabs the gut as it spreads,

the goring dull roar of boredom)

no: The sick winters have gone;

her blonde hair braided

will become the wind

winnowing your inner ear, a

bracing snow; a blind leap

into the sheer

steep light of the unknown.

Love is

the song

we sing

even if we

can't expect

to receive

questions

I do not know when I became a stranger

to you. The amniotic fluid

glistened on my skin

so new in the first moment we met.

Did time blossom for you then?

Did my eyes see you?

Did an angel sing in your ear that this

flesh of your flesh

was now your son?

With my first scream the world must have

crushed in around you like water

bursting through a dam.

Was I strange to you then

as I am strange to you now?

Did we, could we have ever

known each other?

You were a child's giant,

bearded friend.

selva oscura

In the selva oscura,

I made peace with my scarlet cardigan sweater

and buried my dog Sam in the river-bottom sand.

I wrapped him up, buttoned all five buttons

around his brown fur body, fixed

his ears when they flopped inside out.

I dug out the hole

with my own two hands. Then,

in my great red plastic canoe

I paddled down river and left him.

The woods swallowed us

after I closed his eyes.