One Supremely Meloncholic Evening in Oswego With Cricket Finishing Poem Rose Began on Larry’s Stoop
Last night your blushing arms,
this morning, right now, with your fair arms and freckles…
I see you sleep with the loveliness of children
A face to torture the blackest soul
with long friendly dreams of you.
And there you sing in a choir of angels
songs to caress the sleeper’s dreams
with bright light visions of earth’s joy…
Right now your fair arms and freckles on me
in Larry’s little room,
Tonight under the lights the two of us
in God’s little place
singing songs about the great peace
before we fall asleep touching…
But wonder, the science of love!
What of that remarkable nerve of a story you told about the scientists and their very unholy displacement of, believe it or not, love (which means the supreme gift of desirous giving). When you stood right here on Larry’s red stoop last night with your eyes shining mist, how in the beginning you offered me your tiny hand surprisingly with all its connections—the dry bones and the wet ones—how your face and its constant changing expressions of sheer friendliness, betrayal, and shooting firelight, (which means devotional lies), lit up New York like a mad medieval firmament, and never the other way around—how your eyes all too ancient reaction gave an explosion to shatter our minds before time, from an outpost in the first universe, from a small orange ball resting on a wave of many sparkling suns—a place where scientists and jackasses were as incomprehensible to true time as beauty is here, love was fixed meaningless in beauty’s great star quiet… Just like their empty fixed elemental world to examine love like it was a dead brain in a jar!
At dawn our train rocks you to sleep
I forgot about the others so I make love with you
in a barn for the pigs and chickens and asses
Beginning with your longest toe
I never-end my kisses
at your mouth and ears and swimming hair,
sparkling ripples in autumn’s stream
Here my fingers glide effortlessly through happiness…
To watch you sleep I’d say now that our never-end has begun.
Like the sun ends! I want to know Mr. Science how she could confess her love to me when just a moment ago in sun-time you popped out of your mother’s arse a full grown animal with the audacity, (which means absolute, uncompromising stupidity), to record in certain number, theory, and fact the lifeline of passion like it was sedimentary rock or dinosaur bone. Listen Mr. Science, you better tell me before my blood boils over and I step out of this hovel to ring your pallid neck, just why you cannot understand and won’t leave alone, the incomprehensible. Why, after a lifetime of counting meteors and avoiding the plague, you had to pick out her watery eyes with your bird-beak tweezers. Fool! She had her head resting on my lap in trust with me for once and for all. Now look at her. She bleeds little hot bags of plasma. Aren’t her tears wonderful saltwater proof that she was once a loveless fish in a clear, deep blue sea? These are tears from fish eyes which cannot be miracles to you of course. I could kill you for all the damage you have done to her miraculous new born eyes.
My darling you will wake up with lap marks on your cheek
finding scientific ways to get rid of me
Love is a fraud
and yesterday morning with a sheet round your thigh
I watched while your wet mouth opened and closed
with the lingering hope of love swirl in your eyes,
and invisible happy birds fed inside me.
But an article on love
has turned you sour overnight
Your eyes became round black stones
and locusts leapt from your lips.
According to some proofs there’s a limit to your tough
and a time when I will cease to stop my endless moving to say
“My God how beautiful you are!”
At this very awkward moment I see right under the rain light of the city with the eyes that I keep in my eyes. I see there is a way to die without having to live through it at all. I will be in the undying between miraculous truths like light and nothing, (which means I will be in love with her). Mr. Science says with certain pompous gravity that love dies, we die, just look at the flowers that shrivel up and die. Everything will die and stay dead because an unfeeling brick says that anything touchable is impossible eternally. But there is bread on the table beside her eyeball dried up on a glass slide, and I am laughing at him because God laughs at him, because even the impossibility of God and children believe in loving something spoiled and rotten like him. I laugh while the train chug-a-chugs past gravel yards and lime pits, laugh quietly so not to wake her, with my fingers on her mouth and breast—laugh past the factories and the endless stream of wire and smokestack filth that all thank God was born an unfathomable long time after that forgotten sun we wake up to each day once put a mysterious glow under his mother’s bum. I mean the great humble light, the one he will never know, which stretched her right leg to the moon and the other to itself, (which means the moon and sun, his first and last real incomprehensibles), a glow bright and hot enough, launched from God’s bow a stream of twisting arrows that took a frantic scamper through her great spacial wild, each arrow intent on creating another freak of nature, another son of God, or that monkey that was a fish that was a rock that couldn’t love…
No, he cannot believe in love or anything precisely because he forgot he was born. He sits on the air to examine the earth I walk upon, corrupting the world I create for her, for ever, and for things like that which never end.