Strange Gathering [5]
after John Berryman
When this is over, I’ll want
to take my cat with me to the bar. Wouldn’t
that be such a wild time? They’ve got wine for cats now
& I bet she could keep up. She’s an old gal, or
middle-aged, anyway. Someone called her
mature the other day and I damn near cried
considering she might one day die. When you’re riding
the train, everyone’s gay. I don’t make the rules,
it just happens. Up on that mountain, the light
always makes me cry, but the dirt looks like rust, stirs
up some lust. All these hands in pockets. Wild. Some babies
are born with teeth & Patrick was. A newborn
with teeth is like a cat. All cute and dangerous-looking, all
helpless & tender. Climbing bales of hay
in an old barn & we get up to the ceiling, the light
through the cracks. Romantic, in a Tom Sawyer
kinda way. Romantic, in that
we were too young to know about economics.
Strange Gathering [6 & 7]
after John Berryman
Vermont’s always calling &
asking me why I left. I try to explain
it’s just an issue of timing, but
I still drink her syrup & harden
in the winter. Dreams where there’s death
are always the hardest to understand
at the time & afterwards. I’m just here wishing
I could squirm under your gaze
or graze in your green, green mtns, et cetera. I
hear the curtains rustle and prickle. I hear
the landlord shouting
at her children, really nasty stuff. But I’d rather think
about the library and having sex in its basement. That’s nicer
& doesn’t cost a dime. The library here still charges
fines & you’ve gotta buy a membership if you live outside
the city. The richest city in the state won’t let you borrow
a book for free. It’s such a racket. This
is why we need social medicine.
Strange Gathering [8 & 9]
after John Berryman
The weather’s fine, thanks
for asking. We don’t ask that often
enough anymore & I love your green
hair. There’s nothing to see
around here, is what they’d like you to think. But
we know about windows open &
sheets sticking to skin. Contrapposto, rococo
et cetera, YOU. Standing in the doorway &
it’s like a tornado in here. You’re about
to be blown. They call it
the high wood
& we know what that’s about
in the morning. We’re at a standstill
too hot to get dressed & too hot
when we’re naked. Stuck
in our own crocheted
web, all strung up
& spidery.
Strange Gathering [14]
after John Berryman
The world is too amazing for us to take it in
so we find it boring instead. We look at electricity
jumping between clouds and worry
that we might be struck:
dumb. The sun, too, is easy
to complain about. We don’t like it in our eyes
but we’d be shit out of luck if it left
us. Let’s stop
pretending to be cool & just let ourselves be
unrepentant dorks. You can’t be cool
when you’re in awe of everything
around you, is my theory. Pontification
gets a bad rap, and so does rap. It’s all
the same, my dude. We’re just talking about things
we love and shit that’s happening to us. You’ve gotta complain
because if you don’t
there’s no contrast. We’ve got to choose
to not choose.
