Through the dances to the stillness

Through the dances to the stillness








Murky world.



Walking in a park adjoining my home

I’ve found some stamps

That now abruptly somebody deems valuable

For with his son he is obdurate on recovering

Them from me, though I maintain that I never

Found the fuckers.



They say they’ll fight me to death

They’ll burn the house down

Kill all my plants and birds

Unless the stamps are handed over.



Which stamps…? I walk along the park

With my stick and I try to keep the path

Clean by sweeping under the brush the unseemly

Garbage, what do I care about little squares

Of gaudy images…, and I’m armed anyway.



The dance, I say, shall be jolly if ever undergone

Once underway a hoot no doubt

I see it already: such hilarity.









Murky world.



And last year’s wash is still hanging outside.



After I’ve tried as well as I could

To hang up the long wet carpet

Today I retrieve last year’s washing on the line –

Your lingerie, my suspenders, and so on…



Roils the cold still air the passing tramway

Where our last trip shall commence

I can make up words of rhyming verses

With the rhythm of its claptrap-claptrap advance…



The jerky witty dance indeed

Is underway in my head.










Murky word.



After the eviction

Following the crisp roads

Toward the mountains yonder.



With my sky blue motorcycle and a mattress

And some deep blue pillows

I’m trying to make it across the country home.



As I’ve stopped to replenish the bike’s tank

And with a quick sandwich maybe my stomach

I can’t keep an eye both onto the mattress

And onto the bike itself.



After a moment, as I’m chewing and looking

At the sunny courtyard

I notice that the bedding of the mattress

Is all gone: the topaz sheets, the pillows

The thin brown blankets.



There are customers on pillows, true

There are resting workers

Lazily stretched along the shadows

The building provides

But I’m gaffing continuously

None of the deep blue pillows

Upon which they lean are really mine

I’ve got to apologize every time after my query

And in a good-humored way.



Sounds of the same music again.



Again the joyful but ludicrous dancing on the court.



Murky world.



On with the farce

And the arrival again postponed.

hanging wormy pelt

can’t bark, can’t bark







here, projected, is my body…

what a roaring scent,

what a roaring scent it lets fly…!

is dead…,

is dead and rotting…



in its murkiness,

a sparkling maggot

scoffs at my swift

deterioration…



calls me a rustic,

a no class churl,

no finesse whatever

in the liquefying arts;

such a crying, such a bore,

such a boor, such a crying

inability to render oneself,

or at least to render

graciously oneself

back to the clean humus,

such as one always

certainly should…



and now in her smugness,

she shrieks…

a corpse beetle

lands in her field.



the sparkling maggot

bristles most aggrieved.



fetid quills are crossed,

the fierce adversaries

disregard the juicy meal

of my body…

rotting fast.



lugubrious, the victor

the vanquished devours

as any mother would

her gutsy abortion.



as the sparkling beetle

now flies away,

my body, a derelict,

a sinking deserted wreck,

melts with…,

melts with the sea.



the sea, a juicy…,

a juicy meal

from a bigger corpse yet.



the sea harmonious,

the warring…,

the warring oceans cacophonous,

the blue, the blue…

Hats

About hats severally worn by the born (1) these are the hats I wear the hats people forget at my side whenever I’m sitting at the brinks of abrupt precipices. these are the hats nipped and scratched often too deeply just maybe as the people who wore them and gave them up. those are the exhausted supernumerary hats I find after the people who forgot them behind suddenly up and decided to jump or else step leisurely into the ravine. those are the hats I wear as unwearable maybe as the people who left them behind people who up and marched with a will toward the abyss. those are the hats of people some of whom were allowed to descend flight by rough and jagged and craggy flight to their uppermost bliss while others were forbidden the luxury and had to leave behind (with their derelict hats) those excess years and riches and felicities and their droves of children in a spasm. those are the hats I wear as those that wore them up and disappeared down the chasms and forgot them near where in his secluded niche the surrogate wearer waits and waits… as the master winds blow up the world as the master blower blows up a crude bottle where the scene could be before shattering condensed…? (2) before my stunned eyes a hat blew in the storm I was disoriented strange city heavy rowdy traffic blinding gaudy lights I had been eating grapes with the friendly inhabiters of a crumbling house deep pools of rain where the rats wallowed but now we needed bread to eat with the remaining grapes and I was so disoriented emerging into the busy artery I didn’t know where to turn the smells were injurious the lights hurtful the dislodged hats blew around and about whirlpools of incongruous objects in eddies of splintering hats the crazed cars rammed down dogs and pigeons and tykes and left those unspeakable messes behind so that new cars rapidly passed above and with a vengeance trying to obliterate the hideous soilage the revolting outrage I was utterly disoriented the offensive smells the garish neons the clattering stabbing hum I submerged myself back meanwhile and when even without a puny loaf underarm I reached again the dilapidated house new lodgers were busy about and worst putting in new shiny appliances were the rude bullying servicemen who chased me away like another grubby discarded putrefying hat.