Six
Poems by Josh Bell |
Zombie Sunday
(a short poetical history of Spring) Gentle handed holy father, or whomever, I mentioned daffodils, and the crowd went wild. I had them, briefly, nibbling from my blistered hand. Then I called attention to the dandelions, popping forth like sunny, tethered corks from the busy lawn, and the crowd went home. Lucky for me they left. Mine was a short list of flowers beginning with "d," and too late, skulking through the park, did I recall the daisy, the dahlia, too late did I invent the dog-wort and the dwarf poppy. Modern ways. April. Motorcycles have begun thundering down the wet avenues like armored bees slick with the shattered, puddled blooms of fragrant gasoline and oil, and I've noticed, from a distance, that in early Spring the trees don't, all at once, jump to life like you've read about, but gather to them a smoky cloud of blue, like tall children puffing on cigarettes, until, late April, they cough up a few green leaves. That was my mistake. Chaucer couldn't name his flowers, either, or he could name them, but couldn't tell them apart, or I missed it if he did. It was Spring. I was involved, moaning in the hedge and watching college kids whack golf balls into the drive-in movie screen, which seems, at night, across the field, like the forehead of a giant, worried monk, bent over and tending to his proliferating, moonlit vegetables. Speaking of monks, I need to read more Chaucer. Then T.S. Eliot, about a hundred years later, wasn't he clever? Bravo, Tom. I can barely look a lilac directly in the "stamen," a word that never seems right, no matter how I spell it, a word little more than a word, if that. I think we thought T.S. Eliot would ruin sex for the common fornicator, Our Father, like you and me. I think we guessed him sort of mortuary in the sack. That, or (your theory) he was frightened of the shadow of his penis, rolling unbidden, like a scuttled go-cart, across the grooved sheets. And the hyacinths, oh the hyacinths, a flower I'd like to take by the pistil and fling, if only I could tell one from a hydrangea, my second flower beginning with "h." But about old master Eliot we both were wrong. How like me he is. I imagine him now, sucking flowers into the tunneled earth where he riots like a cartoon gopher, he was a petal hoarder. I much rather would have slept with Williams, though he did nothing for Spring, at least in the anthologies, our able doctor, tapping out his poems while a lithe America undressed in the little examination room across the hall. Read Williams in a paper gown, you tell me, and all your dreams will come to pass. But I forgot Emily Dickinson. We all wanted to sleep with her. She was right about Spring, if she wrote about it, and she had those tendencies. My new neighbor, homeless Jack, greets Spring with a holler. Emily would have hated him. Me, too, though she had a thing for abomination. But what's Emily Dickinson got to do with the price of methedrine, Jack might ask. Bravo, Jack. And Rilke, Jack, Rilke was an "autumn." The tree-line overtaking the movie screen warbles. The aforementioned flowers, all varieties, rise like European soccer fans, and charge the field. Spring, you sent the rain down this rented stretch of gutter-pipe on the retched corner of Thomas and Lafayette. The college kids whack arc after arc into the monk's forehead, into the tree-line, into the onanistic wave of oncoming flowers. I wish I could welcome these days when the blood begins its rolling boil, and like a chef, in my palpitating white hat, I could use the blood to cook a meal that would finally please you. Daylily, digitalis, delphinium, dianthus. The Wherewithal Riff This poem is yours and you are obligated to sleep, then burn your house down, with it. It's named "The Wherewithal Riff" and it speaks in the voice a butterfly uses while pretending to choke on gravel. It moves like pliers to the situation. In the high-speed- come-apart arena of love, many have made their mistakes. Circus geeks and E.R. doctors owe their livelihood to the human body's capacity for putting strange things inside itself. That's not funny. This poem knows its way around inside yourself, where you dream of ice-cream in the spin-cycle and bed sheets where they shouldn't be. It has the time to bleed that you don't, since now the doctors are coming to rip it from you. Pray that the geeks get to you first, with their kindly teeth and awful hair. As in "inspiring awe." It's all so crazy. This poem's voice is sometimes mine. I use it when all them good animals have gone to sleep. I use it on you occasionally. Forgive me not for this, but for several un- disclosed hush-hush missions I have made, carrying your flag. I have borne your standard in strange locales (the voice in this poem speaks of them and is a voice with more wherewithal than I know): A second story bathroom in a Frank Lloyd Wright filling station where I wrote the name you should have been given on the stall door. This poem should have a different name, too. One closer to its true nature: "For Fuck's Sake," or "Pretty Guilt," or "The 'I am really afraid of your terrible beauty' Poem," for example. That is funny, the voice in this poem has bubble gum on its breath and a penchant for lying with its eyes closed, which, by the way, are the color cerulean, that shade of blue gone to college, and This bridge of yours, says the man on tv, but I could say the same thing to you, in this voice. This bridge of yours just keeps on bridging. You had to sacrifice more than a few stuffed animals to get so tough or get this far. Your eyes are far bluer than poems and your mistakes are much bigger than your eyes, sad darling. Meditation on The Consolation of Philosophy And on that final night I tore eye-holes in a black pillowcase, slipped it over my head, made love to myself in the mirror, and couldn't bring myself to finish. I've begun telling the truth and now I need objective help. Certain things I need to do can't be accomplished without a circumspect accomplice. A girlfriend. Back in the good old days those condemned to death hustled up cash to tip their executioner; a sharper blade, a meditated stroke, etc, but the last woman I bade wear a black pillowcase while she made love to me didn't (make love, wear the hood) even though I put 10 dollars on the night stand before services rendered. My surrender, of sorts, to the animal largesse lurking behind the puzzled genius of the hood, and who'll complain if the blade's on its fifth neck of the day, or your executioner shows up drunk? You? "Off with your.... arm. Damn. Here we go." Look, I'm not really into that kinky stuff, but a body requires service. Take Boethius, whom I haven't read. He wrote his uplifting Consolation of Philosophy in prison, then they cinched a wet leather helmet on his head, and tossed him to the sun. I bet when the leather dried, shrank, cut in, I bet it gave, a bit, as the convict's blood got it wet; enough for false hope, a peek at slack jawed Romans standing around with clean hands. Boethius got lucky. I mean, he never had a chance to take it all back, to plead for exile and promise to burn his manuscripts. What would the sun say to that? It wouldn't be good. You can't reason with a star, friend, or the people you put in your will or your bed. That's why we give advanced directives to those who handle our bodies during the few hopeful seconds they have call to handle them--sex, hospitalization, death in beds, closets, coffins, coffee tins (like your Uncle Mike)--it doesn't matter: Someone has to promise that they'll pull the plug or man the screws, and then follow through, no matter how badly, when the time comes, we want them not to. Watching Students Enter Thompson's Woods There was a time it didn't scare you, but now your tests have come back positive and the results imply one thing: You've done too much Ovid, and this might be why it aches to witness nature, the one-more-button- undone of Spring, the abrogate sun on the quad, zaftig robins on their nests, nubile maidens on towels in the woods behind the library. And all the time, baby, it's you there breathless, you braced, you the nondescript voyeur tuned up for the sacrifice, taking in the scene from your office window and waiting for the jealous gods to drop down among the vasty barelimbed coeds in order to redefine what it never means to be deep in human skin. How long did it take you to figure out you slipped that bullet-headed rose into a bottle of misinterpreted gin? You never would have bet against the apparent vase-ness of that bottle. So what? That rose died in your kitchen and you broke down and cared less? Call that winter. The light tricked you. Light was that rare. All the other plants grew lovesick anyway and leaned into the glow of your tv. Then Winter weakened and gave in to the musclebound anabolic verb that Winter gives in to, and now you watch the bad squirrels pimp and wig-wag through the sticky trees. Students enter the woods with purpose and leave transformed with the fresh, routine blush of the sybaritic halfwit on their cheeks, their depthless faces wide like mystified, dope-fed owls. All the florists in Christendom agree that bullet-headed roses never open, and you've always understood it as a figure for what it takes to resist Spring--dying folded--though that's too simple for even the likes of you, a brain on stilts in a book lined office. Springs pile up. They have unheard of half-lives. They hold you tight like the dirty love of a bad green doctor, a knife in one hand and a bucket in the other. Surviving Love Don't talk to me about the rain or what inconsequential oblivion awaits, what infirm clock-watching angels spill dark-wise from tiny cars like clowns. A plastic thermometer in my chest pops and tells me that we're done. Breakfast then comes pouring in with the new shadows, and coffee. Clouds re-approach. Lies flood the bad neighborhoods of my tongue. You move to turn on the light and it's some time before it lights. Hello...hello...hello? Your navel proves to me that you were born. Remember me, like a mouth that opens on the dark, I'll forget you like a grave recalls what filled it. Love Affair on Monkey Island Monkeys on the periphery. Lips all over the place. Bloodstorm. Lovers of fish? I've already seen this movie. -- I've never seen a bunch of snakes in what is called a "breeding ball." You refuse to meet my parents. -- I hang towels on my fire escape. For the most part, lovers treat each other like rented automobiles. -- I hate to write about the moon. The moon looks like a picture of you looking for a tissue. -- How blue am I? I never thought of it that way, but I am blue as a wet Swedish fish riding a penny loafer to the barber shop. -- Showering is a heavily eroticized sport. I love you with water up your nose. Then you don't say no or anything. -- You win again. I promise to wash the dishes for a week. I promise to wash your victims, starting, not to mention me, with Ted. -- Old ladies hang me from the fire escape. For the most part, lovers treat each other like a fruitcake rides a coffee table. -- Do you love me like you used to, with the crusts cut off and the sardines in their immaculate rows? I eat, you hate me. -- Do I hate to write about the sun? The sun grins like an old man in Florida, bragging about the sun. -- I started writing an Art of Love but you came home with jellybeans. Now I have twenty chapters on jellybeans. -- You put jellybeans in my souvlaki. This proves you are terrified by an overwhelming desire to treat me better. -- When the lord made me, he put a cage in my stomach for two dancing girls who do the splits when you leave a room. -- When the lord made you, he put a dwarf star in outer space and a head, I suspect, in your refrigerator. Who are you? -- I whisper lines from movies in your ear at night. Welcome to oblivion. If only you could see what I've seen, with your eyes. -- The moon meets you at the airport. Didn't we have some good times, he says. Yes, old friend, I think about them every day. -- Your heart's in the right place, your old loved are everywhere. That moon rumbling in your attic like a 10 pound bowling ball. -- Hold this. I signed my name to it. You can't ask me to draw your picture from memory, so it's a planet, mostly. |
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