2,802 Readings | 9 Ratings

Same Train

No velocity.
No mechanical voice or human sleep.
When I got to the top of the hill called
Rhubarb is susan not susan not seat
no poems.
Lips were
nope.
She did not lean.
No suffering, no moving,
no mind and heart moving
with all that move me
under the water or swimming I am
not not a little boy.
No Lowell dissed
by Frank O’Hara
who sits on Staten Island ferry
not knowing words to I don’t know the people
who will feed
.
No poems.
Which inevitably means no undergraduate poems
on waking, smoking cigs.
No Daddy poem. 
No Excellent Fuck poem. 
No “small of her back”
or all things
crimson,
no “my body on your body”.
Were dogs, real dogs, not paintings of dogs, playing poker
in my living room?
What dogs? (No poems.)
Go ahead nap all day. 
You won’t be lunching
with the sun.
No final exam
on music of ducks.
And Galway Kinnell
will not be here
to pass out the blue books. 
No Phil Ochs,
No Who is Howard Finster
and What does he have to do
with Who is Lester Bangs?
No Bud Powell
grunting
between the notes.
Was that Magic
who just
dished to Kareem?
No, it’s Kobe
chastising you
for not
seizing the day.
Hey, no piñata in that tree.
No tree drenched in flame.
No trees uprooted
thus no chance of
bloody fountains 
and ten million
dune buggies
coming down the mountain


Posted 02/01/09
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