herald the coming
or such as you saw —
millions of thighs carrying shit-filled underwear
for garbage dumpsters smeared with egg-yolk-tagging
& corona of shell blinking through —
the French laveriette barked “aucun etranger de facon!”
to requests of scrub / soak / sink / dry on a line
& tho’ not a lick of French to save rats from skinning
do commuters know,
they understand the ridding of shit
as their own task.
only oil-men hang Gandhi’s copies by his own homespin loincloth
& hand-crush his folded spectacles
belching their oleo-o! mouths gripping cigar
stuffed with Apollinaire’s fingertips & schrapnel-skull
as they go chuckling
“the old brownie-baldy is nothing without his glasses;
a saint my ass! Punjab can’t saw outta the eyes Jesus gave heem! what kinda holy man needs glasses to see shit in the toilet?”
when i found there was such a thing as “pen” and “paper”,
(i recall tonguing sharp protrusions from gums — first appearance of TEETH coinciding –)
boy did the shit diaper gallop furious!
these visions no-0ne saw or stuck around long enough to hear!: beheaded soldiers hanging in trees!,
battleships passing between houses & i could see Mary there combing hair through the mast,
the window & drapes her mother pulled apart at dawn!
dead great-grandmother knitting me grey sweater there at the foot of my bed & boy-body —
couldn’t wear it
around mother for she would notice & say: “where did you get that sweater? loose threads — wide neck — tattered even new — (sniff) smells like Chesterfields!? where did you find this Paul?”
so good luck when i try to donate old clothes to Goodwill charity —
drive me a garbage sac fulla treats for the naked
only to hand some sweet red-smocked fluttering-nose-haired memere a sac of air
she balls up & tosses to waste.
‘swhat happens when the dead make yr clothes for ya: nothing’s ever ill-fitting eternal & better buy yr underwear at full price.
so i wrote — wrote it all & my socks kept warm feet in winter sleep where i found spiral notebooks the immensity of palm sandwiches on Sunday snow;
little pocket notebooks & you could buy shirts with full-frontal pockets over nipple!
be a regular Wild Bill Hickock of the Mounting Poetry Outlaw Re-emergence;
bells instead of bones!
shirts right with pockets fit enough for the world through human eyes remind;
i could still hug girls & dream of open-eyes kisses without an “excuse me for a moment . . . ”
i forgot more than i give you . . . a letter for my sister saying: “no one more sturdy during
the old man’s licking another woman’s sag than you that night at dining table while football
on muddy-television-turf & mom crying in her hands”
— just remembered.
i learned to play the sitar in my dreams — holding it as if i was a woman — contorting legs into
tubular bells & wending them around the pumpkin-swell where the neck & treble ran into —
straddle a sitar, youngblood, with a body ghost-ships will pass through
& you cant callous a woman for her yellow teeth or sweaty hair
Bernstein covered me in his sheet music as i had sleep with human-nakedness
& i woke — panting want for wool.
“what piece are playing Leonard?”
“Snoring No.5 — you will listen to yr dreaming heart & bless the femur with raucous
interpretation of dream-body’s obedience to its brethren the body of bells”
a fart woke me up again before spontaneous composition & Bernstein dissolved like gas
yet only the stink left behind & i thought maybe my HAH-CHOO was a “BRAVO!” in-ka-hoots;
the body delighting in its precision — burning what it needs for power & propulsion
while launching the refuse out back-door.
folks take their shitty underwear out the front door
& Beelzebub asked the same questions Gandhi posed:
“why is this door locked?”
“why do you carry the key?”
thing is, Beelzebub didn’t write any of it down . . .
men came long after & wrote what they were told
to write about Her
& children grew up pissing their pants
& kissing crucifixes until the money . . .
Gandhi at least wrote his mind for you —
and they laid his body on flowers o’er the heads of lovers
& roofs of cars
where not even an ant would see him.
& carrying of shit
& oil-men lighting cigars of our hair
& our bones singing —
they are all but the broken skeleton of Lucifer,
this world — Beelzebub piecing Her skeleton
back to Angel!
herald the coming
or as such as you saw!
falling from yr fingers
yr cumming alone in the lips of moon !
wings breaking from bullet holes!