With its charm of a cocaine high--Although the need for dominanceAnd the breaking of rulesMade her love himWho still did not supply her with all of her needs--But the composite smell of the factory and the drugsThat he sold after each shiftWould lessen the good feelings that madeThat understanding.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Beauty Shop MotifTaking the boat two hundred milesWith her Ozark loving husbandNot having the keyAnd why I don't useThe hair dye she prescribed--The one I had bought fromHer last time--I say, "Yes, Honey"And watch her lips through the mirror speed on.My back aches in the chair stiff as a board.Have I gotten as old as this?Have I started saying, "Yes, Honey?"Conscious of slight pains and discomforts--Words as silent racing of lips.Another shampoo is ground harderIn the grey hair of my scalp.The long gray weeds that grow out of itWill be chopped off another two inches moreThan what I asked her to do.In a room of old women, like me,Who let the buzz of dryersAnd loud beautician speakersKeep their minds active from remembering,My bored and wayward eyesSee in the mirror(Now seated in a once empty chair next to mine)A young one:Her fidgeting body willfully captivated;Hair held high and hostage;Curlers stiffly tightened;Bulges diluvial by Cylenderic BottleHeld ungodly above her headAnd squeezed by gentle but firm handsOf a male beautician--And I remember that the noxious liquidDribbles under Cotton CrownsAround one's headAs the eyes water from the stingOf this thing called love.Somehow I want to warn herAlthough she may not be a strangerTo being whitewashedIn a man's liquidsAnd the click-of-the heels logicOf women, as ifOne's whole damaged lifeCan be bounced from a mirrorIn and to all womenLike an SOS.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Sculpting of WindsIt was as if certain people came in.Those dislikedwereDisregarded and the rest kind of circled in and outBut at the time in and a small period out wereassociated withAnd considered part of that person's reality byhimselfThe way a cat brushes against certain familiaritiesAgreeable enough as it goes for its meal,And so I befriended places.Saltillo in Mexican mountains when the land shivers inshadowAnd the sun stretches through the air and beyond itWith an intent to overpower what is closer to man--The River-walk and the Alamo and between both whereA Philipino in green shorts eats the grassWhere sidewalk and road intersect.There is a citywhere IThought I could find myself less lonely,And so I have returned home.Snow embracesSpringfield's earth to its death.Under the sounds of the rolling drips of water in thegutterI am frozen, though fingers tearing apart the wetleavesI pulled off from a tree, wishing they had beenDry to grind and become the physical appearance of thewind.Cracked and peeled back from a boot a portionOf the snow is removed but refreezes more heavilyOn one area of the dead.I stand as an outsiderImagining myself to allow a job section of today'snewspaperTo become the thoughts that crash along in the mind ofthe wind.I need money but cannot find anything worth doing.To change from a person to a commercial function toeat...this..This day I shall sleep awayAs the night.In Springfield, Mo.The Great God may also await for his eviction.Two hundred Indians in Houston bow down to Krishna asthe gatesMen lock around him are opened and closed.But in Springfield he probably awaits,His red-sock feet on his sofaAs the furnace blowsThe Soviet flag on the wall before his feet.His walls may have many flags,And his mind thoughts of glasnost and communismIntermixed.. impractical thoughtsHe must sacrifice so thatHe can exist together more easilyWith the community of the dead,Unalone.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Post-AnnulmentAfferent, the city bus cramps to the curb and brakesthroughSolipsistic muteness with an exhaltation startled andchoking[People are play-things in one's reality!One mustlookInto other eyes or he'll be reminded that he is a usertoo]As the sun-god, Aten, blazes upon the terminal'sScraped concrete--its graven image--Making the place an Amarna,The shelved rows of the poor menHear the sound humbly grazingThrough whispered reverence overThe glass-speckled pavementIn a gradual dying echo,A cigarette succumbs to the voice asCarrion brought to life; all the tattered peopleawaken;And a man spits toward the tire of the busBut misses.[Religion is a lie!Everything is a lie!]And as he watches his own spit vanishFrom the hard crest of the world,And silently scrapes his lunch pail againstA corner of a metallic bench as if expecting the paleTo bleed...and hoping it would bleed...He tries to remember the anglesHe and his wife stood to projectThe intermingled shadows that bothHad labeled as their marriage.[Marriage, that sanctified legal rape, fostersThe child-man to be a destined societal functionAs he grows up in the family unit]He enters the second bus:Its coolness sedating the skin thatOverlaps his troubled mind.His thoughts pull togetherLike the light, cool flow of the air conditioning.He feels a little pacified[Come to thyself, human, the refuge from lies!]He knows the shadow's intangible depth:Its vastness having overpowered him these monthsUntil he could not reach the logic that told himTo find himself outside its barriers.As he stares out of the windowhe wonders why she has left.How could she have left without indicationWhen he has remained angled toward workSo that he and his wife can stay alive?In the bus window he sees his diaphanous face--thewindowsOf the Hilton, where he has a job in maintenance,Piercing solidly through its head.He rings the bellThe idea of her not home, and legally annulledFrom his life--her small crotch not tightened to hisDesperate thrusts--makes him feel sick.He gets down from the bus.He goes to work.He suddenly knows that he is not in love.
With its charm of a cocaine high--
Although the need for dominance
And the breaking of rules
Made her love him
Who still did not supply her with all of her needs--
But the composite smell of the factory and the drugs
That he sold after each shift
Would lessen the good feelings that made
That understanding.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beauty Shop Motif
Taking the boat two hundred miles
With her Ozark loving husband
Not having the key
And why I don't use
The hair dye she prescribed--
The one I had bought from
Her last time--
I say, "Yes, Honey"
And watch her lips through the mirror speed on.
My back aches in the chair stiff as a board.
Have I gotten as old as this?
Have I started saying, "Yes, Honey?"
Conscious of slight pains and discomforts--
Words as silent racing of lips.
Another shampoo is ground harder
In the grey hair of my scalp.
The long gray weeds that grow out of it
Will be chopped off another two inches more
Than what I asked her to do.
In a room of old women, like me,
Who let the buzz of dryers
And loud beautician speakers
Keep their minds active from remembering,
My bored and wayward eyes
See in the mirror
(Now seated in a once empty chair next to mine)
A young one:
Her fidgeting body willfully captivated;
Hair held high and hostage;
Curlers stiffly tightened;
Bulges diluvial by Cylenderic Bottle
Held ungodly above her head
And squeezed by gentle but firm hands
Of a male beautician--
And I remember that the noxious liquid
Dribbles under Cotton Crowns
Around one's head
As the eyes water from the sting
Of this thing called love.
Somehow I want to warn her
Although she may not be a stranger
To being whitewashed
In a man's liquids
And the click-of-the heels logic
Of women, as if
One's whole damaged life
Can be bounced from a mirror
In and to all women
Like an SOS.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sculpting of Winds
It was as if certain people came in.Those disliked
were
Disregarded and the rest kind of circled in and out
But at the time in and a small period out were
associated with
And considered part of that person's reality by
himself
The way a cat brushes against certain familiarities
Agreeable enough as it goes for its meal,
And so I befriended places.
Saltillo in Mexican mountains when the land shivers in
shadow
And the sun stretches through the air and beyond it
With an intent to overpower what is closer to man--
The River-walk and the Alamo and between both where
A Philipino in green shorts eats the grass
Where sidewalk and road intersect.There is a city
where I
Thought I could find myself less lonely,
And so I have returned home.Snow embraces
Springfield's earth to its death.
Under the sounds of the rolling drips of water in the
gutter
I am frozen, though fingers tearing apart the wet
leaves
I pulled off from a tree, wishing they had been
Dry to grind and become the physical appearance of the
wind.
Cracked and peeled back from a boot a portion
Of the snow is removed but refreezes more heavily
On one area of the dead.I stand as an outsider
Imagining myself to allow a job section of today's
newspaper
To become the thoughts that crash along in the mind of
the wind.
I need money but cannot find anything worth doing.
To change from a person to a commercial function to
eat...this..
This day I shall sleep away
As the night.In Springfield, Mo.
The Great God may also await for his eviction.
Two hundred Indians in Houston bow down to Krishna as
the gates
Men lock around him are opened and closed.
But in Springfield he probably awaits,
His red-sock feet on his sofa
As the furnace blows
The Soviet flag on the wall before his feet.
His walls may have many flags,
And his mind thoughts of glasnost and communism
Intermixed.. impractical thoughts
He must sacrifice so that
He can exist together more easily
With the community of the dead,
Unalone.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Post-Annulment
Afferent, the city bus cramps to the curb and brakes
through
Solipsistic muteness with an exhaltation startled and
choking
[People are play-things in one's reality!One must
look
Into other eyes or he'll be reminded that he is a user
too]
As the sun-god, Aten, blazes upon the terminal's
Scraped concrete--its graven image--
Making the place an Amarna,
The shelved rows of the poor men
Hear the sound humbly grazing
Through whispered reverence over
The glass-speckled pavement
In a gradual dying echo,
A cigarette succumbs to the voice as
Carrion brought to life; all the tattered people
awaken;
And a man spits toward the tire of the bus
But misses.
[Religion is a lie!Everything is a lie!]
And as he watches his own spit vanish
From the hard crest of the world,
And silently scrapes his lunch pail against
A corner of a metallic bench as if expecting the pale
To bleed...and hoping it would bleed...
He tries to remember the angles
He and his wife stood to project
The intermingled shadows that both
Had labeled as their marriage.
[Marriage, that sanctified legal rape, fosters
The child-man to be a destined societal function
As he grows up in the family unit]
He enters the second bus:
Its coolness sedating the skin that
Overlaps his troubled mind.
His thoughts pull together
Like the light, cool flow of the air conditioning.
He feels a little pacified
[Come to thyself, human, the refuge from lies!]
He knows the shadow's intangible depth:
Its vastness having overpowered him these months
Until he could not reach the logic that told him
To find himself outside its barriers.
As he stares out of the window
he wonders why she has left.
How could she have left without indication
When he has remained angled toward work
So that he and his wife can stay alive?
In the bus window he sees his diaphanous face--the
windows
Of the Hilton, where he has a job in maintenance,
Piercing solidly through its head.He rings the bell
The idea of her not home, and legally annulled
From his life--her small crotch not tightened to his
Desperate thrusts--makes him feel sick.
He gets down from the bus.
He goes to work.
He suddenly knows that he is not in love.