A Short History

 

O my ancient father.

My little toy.

My waly water

My little boy.

Wild were my ways

and weird.

Sun blest.

Uber alle Gipfeln

Junior.

No rest.

No jaguar

anymore

no mercedes benz

ruh ist die

waly water.

Amen.

Twitch me a new one

baby

let me go down.

Christ's in the old one

honey

lay down.

 

Francis of the City of St. Francis (for Francis Muir)

Francis of the City of St. Francis

knows that there is

whatever the water wants.

 

Paddling on the river with Mole.

All these books foolish and beautiful.

 

One day the Earth says, "Let me guess.

You want it all strange and lovable.

 

Plateaus

lichen

 

 

the Bierstadt moraine

 

 

 

blue herons

 

Anglo-Saxon farms

the traditions of lovers

 

 

John Clare resting his cheek against a stone

 

a chamberlain of the moon

doves in secret books

 

 

rivers

rivers

 

Finn always Finn again

 

 

 

Dylan Thomas opening the French doors singing

 

"O Ewigkeit"

 

 

guinessess genitive forever

 

 

 

 

maple

 

leaves

 

blown by

 

a

 

wind

 

chasing geese

 

 

 

clouds

 

seas

 

 

 

and a fire of love from all this

 

 

 

from all this to

 

her."

 

"Yes," says Francis.

 

"No problemo," said the Earth.

And sent this.

 

"I shall keep in mind my looking in at whatever

it is that is to me you."

 

 

At the Hospital

Beside her bed

there is a vase with one flower.

Just before sleep

the flower seems a red-glowing cloud.

When she closes her eyes

the flower inside the cloud awakens.

Conjured by solitude and beauty it opens

as she sleeps.

This flower is a world.

Temples and palaces and

distant villages all in this one flower!

She dreams of a city.

Peach and plum trees shade the roads.

A white jade palace.

Inside the palace

gowns with women bright as green hummingbirds

sing "Celeste Aida."

Their wings hurt.

A slash of ruby at their throats.

They hope that radio will be discovered soon.

They dream that the emperor will love them

nevertheless

The flower beside your bed.

Not impossible.

 

Dinosaur Love

My friend, who is dying,

was reading Jurassic Park

I wanted to shout:

"Why are you reading that?"

You're dying!

You should be reading ...

You should be calling..."

"I always liked dinosaurs," he said

and then fell asleep,

one finger between the pages.

 

 

Old Father

 

Baby Belly Butter Little Face

I had a terrible childhood.

I had a problem with Pope Pius XII.

His picture hung in my fourth grade classroom,

St. Sebastian's Catholic School, Warrensville, Pa, 1958.

I beat him drag racing.

He drove his 600 ft. long gold and white Popemobile

Synchromesh transmission, etc.

I had my bicycle.

And a little luck.

I still remember his face in racing goggles,

the sneer, the Redman tobacco drool at the corner of his mouth.

He called me Kid.

However, there was no doubt who won.

You can't read about it.

The church bought all the newspapers.

The next day nuns descended on sports desks all over the world.

What you can read is: “Pope Beats Smart-Ass Kid."

Don't believe what you read.

They had World Youth day and I wasn't invited.

My father chased me with a belt.

"Why weren't you invited to World Youth Day?"

My mother wept.

Those were terrible days.

The nuns made me write religious poetry.

"The collies/at the funeral home/barked at my grandmother."

Kids fainted nightly from airplane glue.

We lined up to see the movie, "The Man With The Atomic Brain."

My father talked to a cough for twenty years.

We bought Remco telegraph kits

Strung wires from house to house.

Sent secret messages:

"You will be killed in a war."

We all wanted Ted Williams to be our father.

We all wanted our father to take us out and show us the stars,

Hand on shoulder, pipe in hand pointing to a

constellation.

In a field. On a hill.

But our fathers worked for guys who looked like Eisenhower.

They worked the night shift.

They were too tired.

They cried in basements.

They fell one by one into rolling mills.

They left $2500 in insurance.

They were driven to Fairview cemetery by big-knuckled drivers

wearing Masonic rings.

Our mothers were also tired.

Hands caught in mangles at the laundry

They had problems stirring the Kool Aid

They had problems hauling us to church on sleds when it snowed.

You will waste your life.

Someday you will open a book

that will not be the color of the sky.

You will blame the book.

We won't be there.

We will be wailing in coffins.

Wailing for the world to end.

Wailing with all the poor poor dead

For this shitstorm, this storm of shit, to end.

Baby. Belly. Butter. Little Face.

("Whoa," said Little Face. "Hand me down my walking cane!")