Garrison, airport, press club
Possible,
A Michelin Guide to
War,
Revolution,
Famine,
Danger,
Death,
Distance.
I should have burned them
All
Long ago
So that their spirits rejoin
Time.
II
I remember the first:
Leopoldville;
Lumumba lived.
It came and I didn’t recognize
The hand.
Could it be that
Once
I didn’t recognize that
Wide and sprawling down/beat
Hand,
Full of violent, elegant
Strokes,
Filling page after page with
No margins
Then, written
Between the
Lines.
Leopoldville;
Lumumba lived.
Your hand
That scattered my life like
Scrabble tiles,
Rewording it in your own language,
Intricate,
Demanding,
Fascinating and
Without parallel.
Leopoldville;
Lumumba lived.
I know.
You have him like some
Wild animal trophy
In your files.
What else came with you and those letters from
Leopoldville?
The scent of Africa?
The continent that belongs to me?
Perhaps I should have
Burned that first letter and
Let my ancestors whisper to me from its ashes,
Blow the dark breath of Africa in my ear,
Tell me stories I’ve never heard.
Leopoldville;
Lumumba lived.
III
Letters answered/Letters
Letters followed/Letters
Please forward,
Hold for arrival
If undelivered,
Please
Return
To
Sender.
You trailed paper like a bride,
And I collected it like a street sweeper,
Gathering all the scraps
Into neat little stacks,
Sorting postmarks like Morse Code:
Cable me;
It is so hot here;
Shower four times a day;
Traveled by jeep;
Bush country;
Traveled by plane;
Mountain rebels;
Traveled by helicopter;
Tired,
Traveled by junk;
Sick,
Traveled on foot;
Lost
The ambassador in Delhi,
The AFP correspondent in Saigon,
And guess what …
The weather;
The Prime Minister;
Miss you;
Good dinner;
Fantastically beautiful;
Some crossfire;
If only—
Ruined film;
Burned-out village—Wish
You were
Here;
Torture;
Air freight;
Come.
IV
I came,
Timidly at first
Like a child entering a room full of adults,
Becoming bolder and bolder as
More and more
Sweets were offered.
I flew on fed
Names I had only dreamed now
Falling easily from my lips,
Arrogantly
With body posture
Like jive talk
In Harlem,
Kaschmir and Khartum,
Algiers, Odessa, Aswan, Andorra,
Alexandria, New Delhi,
Darling
Delphi, Istanbul, Parma, Phnom Penh,
Addis Ababa, Katmandu,
Luxor, Moscow, Nairobi, Conakry, Hsilinhaote,
Hold
Hanoi,
Acapulco,
Angkor Vat, Caledonia, Calcutta,
Marseilles, Suez, Shanghai,
Positano, Valparaiso,
Spoleto, Siena, Sian,
Dakar, Abidjan, Milan,
My
Marrakech, Mozambique, Chenonceaux,
Dar Es Salaam, Leningrad, Houston,
Hand
Houhehote, Venice, Karnak,
Peking.
I stuffed myself,
A child bride on her
Wedding day,
Fingers henna-dipped,
Eyes black-rimmed and avid,
Bejeweled and still
Invisible
To her
Husband.
V
Husband,
Will there be
A
Last
Letter?
You
&
I?
You will let me know?
(Of course)
You will let me know?
(Of course)
Pick a beautiful place
(There are so many)
To
Let
Me
Go.
I’ve traveled
So far with you
Trailed years after me
Like baggage tags strewn by lonely winds.
Pick some oasis in the Sahara
Azaona, for example,
Or the foot of the pyramid at Thebes
(Did I really meet you there?).
How
Im-
Possible!
Or choose Wadi Halfa or
Kilimanjaro.
Why Not? We’ve been to better places together
And left them behind
Without so much
As a backward glance.
All I know is
I want to die on my own continent;
I want to die in Brazzaville.
Or pick a place that has
No history at all.
Pick
Oum Chalouba. I’ll be waiting.
The Answer
Darling,
Sian is in
Heat.
The vet was
Very cross.
He said I shouldn’t be
Surprised by
Her
Heats,
And
I should have had
Shots given to her
Every six months.
He said
It was too late to do
Anything,
And
I was to give her
Sugar lumps with
Tranquilizers in them
And put
Eau de Cologne
On her
Bottom.
Tranquilized
Sugar lumps,
And
Eau de Cologne:
Man’s
Answer
To
Women’s
Heats.
Performance
I
Let’s start from the End, not the Beginning,
From the final curtain, not the overture,
The Brass and Cymbals reverberate in climax
The roll of drums marks the chorus procession
And flutes and woodwinds accompany us
II
However the conductor directed, we had a good time,
Our laughter and joie de vivre stole the show
Our performance enchanted the dazzled audience
Which was surprised to learn the concert had to end
Since our duet had always been held up as an example
III
But all music arrives at the last beat one day,
Scores are settled, the orchestra packs up
Its instruments and goes home, the p
ublic files out,
The lights dim and then are extinguished for good
Ending the Beginning without so much as an intermission
We Aged a Thousand Years
We aged a thousand years
In that one moment
When the sound of burnt embers echoed
Our footsteps erased by falling snow
Laid on the brumal Chicago lakefront,
Where fallen Cedars shook off the weight of
Separation and there was nothing except frost
Which shone with indifferent whiteness,
Our mouths clutched and fused into one last chilblain kiss,
Taking myself by the hand, I was the first to leave,
Heading across the Canadian border
A mile beyond the thick ribbed floe
Quivering in the nipping crystal hoar
Of evaporated love …
Been There, Done That
I
I have seen the pyramids
Cruised the Nile
Traveled the Great Wall of China
Floated in the Red Sea,
Swam the Jordan,
Waded in the Ganges
II
I have played Chopin’s 1st Etude
Wept beneath Montreal’s Dome
Said my prayers in Santa Sophia
Marveled at the Sistine Chapel
Laid a rose on Raphael’s tomb
Tasted truffles in Bologna
III
I have peered into Stalin’s tomb
Picnicked at Pompeii
Kissed Saint Antoine’s bones
Counted sheep in Mongolia
Had dinner with Mao Zedong
IV
I have been rained on at the Great Pyramid
Smelled the cypresses of Carthage
Tinted silk in the dye pits of Fez
Rode the Orient Express through Siberia
Ate Caviar in the Caucus,
I’ve Been There, Done That
V
I reached Nirvana, once,
And made love there, once,
Whispered your name, once,
I have closed my eyes, taken your hand
Drawn my last breath,
And loved you to the end.
Herons on the Roof
Herons on the roof
Of the Metropolitan Museum
Sleeping one on one, necks entangled,
Like warring pink serpents,
Stark against the gray slate of the terrace,
Set to fly over Fifth Avenue
Against the traffic,
Placed there in climactic peril,
A fanatic determined to reproduce their
Artificiality in wax rather than nature
Madame Trussant’s museum
A measure of time’s empiricality
Long after the evident say
Two or three or thirteen centuries
Flamboyant color of angel hair coral,
Black underarms with the wingspan
Of a predatory Bald Eagle,
Not a crane, nor a seagull, not a stork, nor Egret,
Envisioned in red wax—an epiphany
So real my head hurt
I sat bolt upright in bed
Thinking why Herons on the roof?
And how was I going to get them there?
Tropical Fish
Tropical fish are the most practical of pets
They eat very little and don’t mind being wet
Not to mention their penchant for not talking at all
And their ability to listen for hours on call
Their flamboyant colors bring joy to the eye,
And oxygen-less existence tranquility buys
But what kind of internal life do they possess?
Happiness since they’re not tormented by sex
Yet incredibly babies do suddenly appear
Mysteriously rebirthing year after year
Immaculate in conception they persist just the same
Where do they come from and who gets the blame?
To Gloria
Dear
Gloria
Steinem,
I have
A
Problem.
I
Am
Female
And
I
Am
Lib-
Erated,
But
I would rather be
Beau-
Tiful
Than
Not.
I
Would rather be
Made love to
Than
Not.
I
Would rather be
Lover
Than
Friend.
In
Other
Words,
I
Am
A
Backsliding,
Man-loving,
Crotch-gazing,
Phallus-adoring,
Counter-revolutionary,
Renegade,
Handkerchief-head,
Sexist
Slave
I feel like some
Good nigger
Southern white folks
Haul out to
Prove
Their niggers
Are Happy
Niggers.
Some liver-lipped,
Honky-loving
Uncle Tom,
Rolling my eyes
(contact lenses by Horning and Colt)
And
Shuffling my feet
(loafers by Gucci),
Shaking my lips like tambourines
(dress by Pucci),
Knocking my knees in a Gospel jump
(body stocking by Christian Dior),
My carpetbag rattling
(Louis Vuitton),
My hands clapping
(nails: Revlon; rings: Tiffany’s;
watch: Piaget; gloves: Hermes),
Rolling on the ground
(fur rug by Jacques Kaplan),
And shouting to high Heaven
(gargle by Listerine),
Teeth grinding
(caps by Dr. Klaie),
Hopping and sweating
(deodorant by Vichy),
Throwing myself around
(perfume by Guerlain),
In the burning bush of a
Southern sun
(eye-glasses by Givenchy),
Head ticking
(hair spray by Coty),
A Sunday bone-crack
(shampoo by Carita)
Bandana
(by Pierre Cardin)
Waving like a witch doctor’s
Monkey fur switch
(got to get me one).
Gloria,
I
Just
Can’t
Seem
To
Get
The
Hang
Of it,
Trembling at some
Baritone voice,
Gut-snapping at some
Broad-shouldered
Embrace,
Swooning at some
Sycophant’s mustached
Kiss.
I
Am
The
Absurdity of
Absurdities,
A
Backsliding,
Man-loving,
Crotch-gazing,
Phallus-adoring,
Counter-revolutionary,
Renegade,
Handkerchief-head,
Sexist
Slave.
Gloria,
Hold
My
Hand!
How Do I Say
How do I say
I love you
Without sounding trite
Or childish or hysterical
Or sick?
I’ve tried telegrams and phone calls,
Postcards and your answering service,
But always
That wary and jaded eye,
That patronizing, misanthropic mouth,
Stops me.
I think:
How would that look in print?
Can it be that
The New York Times Review of Books
Can come
Between
People?
Elephant Dung
I
I remember how once you told me
When you were ten years old
And not yet in long pants
An escaped circus elephant got stuck
II
In the doorway of your mother’s house
At Carnival time in Viarregio;
A fugitive from the parade seeking water
And how your mother waved you back
III
From the second story balcony to retreat
Because she couldn’t let you in nor the elephant out
I laughed and laughed at the elephant’s predicament
But you were serious as you explained;
IV
“Like horses, Elephants hate to walk backwards because
They would have to walk in their own dung”
The best definition of nostalgia
I’ve ever heard of, my love.
Lily Pond Road
I
On December 19th of the year 2030
A white tailed doe and her fawn
Entered the Poet’s Circle
To feed off my outstretched hand as it
Struck a sublime pose positioned on
The fresh cut emerald sword
II
The diners at the white damask covered tables
Sat transfixed in the deliquescent light,
Forks suspended in disbelief
By that simple act of surplusage
As you leaned towards me and
Our foreheads tenderly touched
III
“Such a handsome couple” one guest exclaimed
“Why you still laugh at each other’s jokes”
“How long have you been married?”
Twenty years today I replied, ravished
By your handsome head with its handsome
Hair and your handsome smiling mouth
IV
Belonging to handsome eyes reflecting
The same pleonasm of faith
As the visiting doe, my lips pressed
Your outstretched hand filled with salvation
And safety offering no gift other than
Three decades of wedded blissfulness.
Atlantic City
What about a flower for your Lady?
Or some cotton candy for your girl?
What about a teddy for your sweetheart,
Or a candied apple for your pearl?
Days of frantic beach ball and badminton
Hula hoops along the line of sea,
Girls uplifted on their boyfriends shoulders,
Laughing wildly at their heedless pleas
Love that flowed from simple Sunday pleasures,
Smiles devoid of any kind of lie,
Barking pups fetch looping sticks from ether,
Mayonnaise and ketchup on French fries,
Everytime a Knot Is Undone, a God Is Released Page 15