Scarecrow

by Robert Fernandez

  you scrape reduction’s black jelly;

  when you despair, o gods,

  you lead us to war

  —

  The work dies.

  The sun arcs.

  Still the rainbow

  indicates

  —

  An absolute desire

  bantams

  And it is all I have,

  this wrinkled duct

  pity for which burns

  only lightly, a bit of stick

  of tree’s sap, on the

  tongue

  —

  Would take a blotter

  and see the sun’s

  black dolmen itch

  down each of its

  four faces, would

  know tragedy

  and absurdity

  like heads packed

  in cabbage leaves

  what to do

  Oh what to do

  —

  When we

  get closer

  when the

  ring is right

  there is a light

  bent against black plates

  like black linen drapes

  stitched from sea

  to sun

  to sky

  —

  Breathe a moment

  of your silence meat,

  sayeth the world, and I

  will cut a gash so deep

  splendor will show her neck,

  rushing up from the dark earth

  O rims of scalloped fountains

  —

  And there to find

  there to find there to find

  power’s

  drooping pupil,

  heavy-lidded disdain

  ma mère grapples by the mane

  and would open the vein but

  drags us off into the dirt

  —

  Everything is dust here

  and violence and without

  the resonance what the fuck

  —

  Is there to say

  and

  Give us water and food to pursue our tasks.

  Help us not become wards of the state,

  impoverished, homeless, destitute, crushed

  under the heel, buried in systems, imprisoned,

  dead, hospitalized. We die die die. Our dogs

  will not walk themselves after we go. Our bodies

  will not burn themselves after we go. Our apartments

  will not pack themselves after we go. Instead,

  bright ribbons of work, tangled in our bodies,

  will be vomited out and indeed bright ribbons

  will be vomited out. In the meantime,

  the light’s eyelashes open and close.

  And in the meantime, work and reprieve.

  Lie down; don’t lie; lie flat; lie still. See these

  books bound in itching white leather? They are

  your life. And each feathery page, lifted by hot wind.

  O summer air, o gardens, o seasons o châteaux.

  The glaring day, it binds, o occurrence, o soil o soul.

  so strange arrangements

  So strange arrangements stamped

  with Valentines where the red is pure,

  and sundown’s thousand pillows

  are an access of forgetting

  —

  An access of forgetting,

  love takes you, arm in arm;

  the entire city goes barefoot

  across sundown’s red mirrors

  —

  Where are the clouds

  leaner? And a thousand faces greet us

  without a single prayer. And to yield

  is yielding to Abelards of forgetting

  —

  Where the brick is eaten by cloud,

  Where are the pears white?

  Where are the pears white?

  Where are the pears white?

  all the deadly ones

  We want you to kill us, our

  —

  Time has run thin, let the young with bloodlust in their

  mouths, watering their mouths, come to interview us, who

  are fresh game, where

  —

  The water seems sunken, a storage unit of brown boxes, we

  will sit, under hot lights, spilling tokens from our heads, ready

  to burn like summer shuckings, white ears of corn white ears

  of corn

  —

  Who then will release us? Who

  then will

  —

  Release

  us?

  —

  I had a tower, it was many-hued, it played the world, it played

  the game, it followed its name into transience and death, o

  crushed horn, where are you now, dripping

  streaked maize along the streets

  death is an answer, stop

  —

  Filling us with such slop, poète

  maudit ain’t got a drop to sell

  and wears yellow and orange

  striped socks, dancing on hell’s

  zebra mirror

  the dog

  is huge as a roll

  of industrial rug, stretched

  to fill the 77th floor of a high-rise

  in Manhattan

  —

  The dog’s heart

  is connected to a spine,

  a flight of bone steps

  extending down to a stomach,

  taut and empty

  —

  The emptiness of the stomach

  makes a paltry music, pulsing

  and twinkling with repressions,

  a swelling as the long cavities

  of muscle flush, pull, and bend

  —

  The dog tabulates,

  a hand nonchalantly tallying

  at an abacus drenched in saliva and foam

  —

  The pink and black gums

  conceal the gold tooth of an infinite, irrepressible

  failure of savor

  the ground beneath

  Can I get at your knots?

  Will your slits have me?

  Who says your armpits are full of folds?

  And your wrists, colored paper?

  And under your tongue, colored paper?

  Will you bring me back to myself?

  Was I hard to find, rolling in saltwater?

  Did you feel my burden, two buckets

  full of clay? Didn’t you want to shrug it off

  for a moment?

  Wasn’t this summer, season of rest?

  Were the dead restless in the tall trees?

  Were the young bright in summer’s doorways?

  Did the water burn brightly in its jugs?

  Where was anyone to help us?

  Where were our fathers and our sisters?

  O my friends, o my love, we were ours,

  where was the breath and ground beneath us?

  the leaning

  Was the pleasure of the air I took

  like rope ladders like fountains I

  could tell you of leaping animals

  leaping to their deaths I could tell

  of formative deaths that led to

  leaping I could tell of monsters

  pinned with ribbons and the face clean

  as the body of a wasp and taking

  the pleasure of the air I could tell

  of fortresses covetousness and care

  I could tell, too, of divestments, of

  I-am-not-ours, of we-are-not-theirs

  and of raw linen pinned with hours

  and skin shining with sweat I could

  tell of the work done here on our behalf

  how it smiles I could tell of the water-

  wheel’s laughing and the flags’ laughing

  and of the hope of not seeing I am the bend

  in the road that cuts the burden in half

  I am the avenue that die
s in jubilee

  I take the pleasure of the air in tresses

  there are storms up ahead I take the water

  I take the fountain in my mouth I take

  the way

  flags

  Choose a flag,

  one that itches, raw

  glass, and draw it close

  —

  Comfort is for those

  whose eyes can shut but

  all wallets close at once, all eyes

  —

  All hands all hearts, blood

  chambers—no-

  thing speaks,

  in the vast hall nothing speaks,

  the air conditioner blows and the glass

  tomb’s color is perfect

  —

  I would bend you toward speed of day you

  are not yet aligned you

  are too slow slow slow or or or

  you’re not quite yes yes yes and must

  align perfectly with break of day,

  unwrapping inch by inch of stubborn canvas

  to winds that would clean their teeth on you

  —

  So the day is murder;

  still there’s a bit, here and there, to say to day—

  say ears are enfolded listening, colored flags, yes

  again say nothing and no one

  is ever enough there is no time yes yes never sorrow

  never enough

  full day

  Time to lend you an apple, o

  Marianne, so you can eat the season

  straight off

  —

  Break for me just a bit, at the knee,

  let it roughen from your voice

  say what there is to see

  tell us what’s in front of you

  —

  your stomach holds the dice

  your blood’s a weather vane

  your head’s an untidy box

  —

  What miracle everything’s soft and bends for you

  be happy today is full day, saturated

  nothing else be happy, your loved ones care for you

  be happy, the light shines on you be happy

  you are in your body, a great boat on seas of flesh

  and of work, be happy

  be happy

  be happy

  ad absurdum

  I call tricks

  because I don’t have enough for a lung

  or a heart or a shard of black bowel

  so who are you to fling chips, remain

  —

  The desert dweller, tenant of dry places, I like

  the gold tooth tucked into your skull

  and the ravenous wool tooth

  tucked into your skull and the Nile of leather

  tucked into your skull

  —

  Fix me a raiment of days, I wait

  for your shuckings of heat, your turn, I await

  your motive, a dog’s gums drawn down, tongue revealed,

  I refuse to dream anymore, heat gathers around

  my teeth, I am close to speech’s refusal pour

  some water from your horn along my ribs, can’t

  —

  You see that the days are exhausted, that we

  move from island to island, that we will be left

  to be picked at by gold birds?

  —

  Who flings meat at you to continue

  who has your best interests in mind who loves you

  who lends you time who worries about your health?

  —

  There is a chorus of burdens that would restore

  you to the earth but the fountains’ brilliant black

  holds those birds delicately at the rims and they

  very nearly dissolve in the light and what they

  sing anyway is abrasion

  bruckner grew up among weevils

  Will you consider my standing?

  Bruckner grew up among weevils

  —

  Where, when do I stand?

  Not him not her not this but that

  not opened and so closed.

  I work and in my chest

  a typewriter ball spins its horizontal eye,

  leaky and smearing horizons

  —

  My pleasure is the game and love of summer.

  Let there be games tonight and studded answers,

  bistros and men with red shins.

  Let Sin’s ladders climb to leafy heights.

  Our stomachs grin.

  The table spins

  like something called

  confetti or “carefree.” To-

  —

  day day day the Drs. smile at me, much

  to their (and my) surprise. And at evening, brown

  sugar cones and a walk through the park, a red

  Comme des Garçons heart

  on my sneakers

  dayrun

  Then time to crack the trunk

  and spill diamonds, yellow yellow

  yellow the worst is near the worst

  is here snapping at

  the foot of the bed

  —

  You

  have been reduced,

  Kierkegaard and Heidegger in the dayroom

  overlooking your friend’s

  professorate, chatting with Isaiah

  —

  Say

  you have been mawed, sealed

  rooms, laptops and observation,

  tell the court, tell the court, tell

  the court the prodigal is

  star-stitched

  —

  A waterfall spills at his neck,

  crystals crust, wintry, the side

  of his chest, there

  is something speaking

  along solid faces, gather

  —

  Me toward gather me toward

  gather me toward there is a tower

  between my index finger and middle finger it

  is delicate as paper and sucks up ash

  and bores a soul in my temple

  those you live among

  I have no camera

  no game no tent, no word no mon-

  strance no belt, no vent no succor,

  no assuage no guilt, no music

  —

  The boarders they play games with you

  those whose stomachs are full

  of steaks they toy with you, the house

  is full of toys

  —

  And each day, crime is easier, those

  I live among, those I live among let me have my

  speech, I can

  not speak rocks in oil flounder

  in oil and window pane almond al-

  mond who is fragrant enough to live

  among? Who is fair enough to be set beside?

  —

  My days are broken

  and setting

  and more truthful

  —

  The light despises me food

  despises me the word despises me

  I am no fate

  I am no fate-in-his-robes

  no styled light today I am bled

  I see the rainbow’s metal blinds open

  I am time, purple gold dripping out, sail-

  fish fans monstrance monstrance

  monstrance

  I am no ointment here

  I am no bruise-paste-of-day

  in winter with starred standards

  In winter with starred standards

  behind which the sun flows

  In winter with starred standards

  behind which the sun flows

  In winter with starred standards

  behind which the sun flows

  —

  I have no horns, I cannot molt and

  leave you horns, I have

  no horns yet from the curled

  lead you draw off milk

  I have no horns for you you you

  the gold in
withered horns you you you

  —

  O my love you you you

  and the shelf in your chest is marble

  and the heart that burns there, red velvet

  and the flame that knots, clear

  and the water that drips, blackest

  and the music the music the music

  the blood desires nakedness of every sort

  What nude will take you soon,

  if not by the wrist then by snaring

  the hook of your open collar; noon

  desires nakedness of every sort

  —

  The blood

  desires nakedness of every sort,

  as at city hall, faces freeze,

  nearly a hundred watchful faces freeze

  and stare, and under your checkerboard jacket

  you, a child, are a surge of blood among children

  —

  The windows are kites but we cut

  their throats first; the vultures settle

  on window frames window

  frames window

  frames

  —

  The meal’s a bowl of pastel-colored

  potatoes; with every slice their color

  bleeds and unravels rings that are

  undone

  —

  Mothers among us,

  examine your hands; a serpent

  kisses the palms with a light

  flick of the tongue

  —

  No hell-of-disdain has poured

  its pastel concrete; still, bitter rinds

  of twilight stagger down our backs

  crowns

  One gathers and spends

  some night. Some night

  reaches up in flutes of

  oranges and becomes

  some night. A licorice

  of tongues licks from the

  chandelier. The bridge

  to joy is treacherous.

  Where is the harvest,

  where the meal? Our

  cousins find our names

  too sweet, our meat too

  sweet, our sweat too c-r-

  o-w, too c-r-o-w-n, our

  necks too much like c-r-

  o-w-n-s. O forked alliance

  blessed with droplet red

  and fever, we are citizens

  of the world, and of sun

  then from the bronze world

  Then from the bronze world

  fountains and caves,

  brown roses bent

  to peaks of bone, beaks

  —

  Knock

  on the glitter of fountains.

  Should it be blood

  if we are eating

  —

  Sweat, and honey cakes

  blister what we arrest

  of thought, sun’s

  mess of red spaghetti?

  —

  Messes call down