Lunch Poems

all I want is a room up there
and you in it

… and I’ll be happy here and happy there, full
of tea and tears

… and surely we shall not continue to be unhappy
we shall be happy
but we shall continue to be ourselves everything
continues to be possible

...but it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night wondering whether you are any good or not and the only decision you can make is that you did it...

but to be part of the treetops and the blueness, invisible
the iridescent darknesses beyond,
silent, listening to
the air becoming no air becoming air again

I can’t even find a pond small enough
to drown in without being ostentatious

I’m so damned literary
and at the same time the waters rushing past remind
me of nothing
I’m so damn empty

I seem to be defying fate, or am I avoiding it?

Leaf! you are so big!
How can you change your
color, then just fall!

As if there were no
such thing as integrity!

Mothers of America
let your kids go to the movies!
get them out of the house so they won't know what you're up to
it's true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images
and when you grow old as grow old you must
they won't hate you

… my words are love
which willfully parades in
its room, refusing to move.

Oh say can you see Alma. The darling
of Them. All her friends were artists.
They alone have memories. They alone
love flowers. They alone give parties
and die. Poor Alma. They alone.
She died,
and it was as if all the jewels in the world
had heaved a sigh. The seismograph
at Fordham university registered, for once,
a spiritual note. How like a sliver
in her own short fat muscular foot.
She loved the Western World, though
there are some who say she isn't really dead.

The moon passes into clouds
so hurt by the street lights
of your glance oh my heart

the only thing to do is simply continue
is that simple
yes, it is simple because it is the only thing to do
can you do it
yes, you can because it is the only thing to do

I think of all the things I’ve been thinking of
I feel insane

willow trees, willow trees they remind me of Desdemona
I'm so damned literary
and at the same time the waters rushing past remind
me of nothing

you know we've all sinned a lot against science
so we really ought to be as available as an apple
on a bough
pleasant thought fresh air free love cross-pollenization

oh oh god how I'd love to dream let alone sleep