To Find Something Not There
I never heard goddamn songs
or heard my heart beat like trumpets.
Life has had too many blind crowds
pushing against my psyche.
I have been trimmed
by the ugly eloquence
of prodigy after my idleness.
Wanting me to work to work.
I am capable of little except complaining.
But you don’t want to listen to that.
Still, listen to some of my Caucasian suffering.
Hell, the eternal longing is my desirous vulture.
One day I saw a lady, the next day I missed her,
the following day I lost her. I forgot to think
about her as I awaked to go to work and perish.
Work and the arduous task of readying myself for it.
And I. And the little money that comes from being good.
Deep down I wish to be dried up in a spring.
Dying as I see water, cold water, rush over
my head. And a lady, a cold lady, blurred
within my watery eyes. My mother complaining.
My never to be seen son five times my size.
I am his sea to slough as his wings never spread.
Why do I get women coming into my old brain
and planting seeds as they are tossed out and out?
My mind, mind entranced,
infused, cut still by feelings
that admiration is always wrong.
I suffer from no emotions.
My mother keeps coming into
my pictures even though I
do not ask for her, for her.
The sovereign marvels of dying novels
do not save dear mother from my gloom.
The actives, the octaves of hill music
keep crawling into my left brain.
Mom comes in. And is all over the thing.
But love. No.
I have no right to wear the purple of poets.
No perfection of tongue. I need a golden Helen.
Never will she come. Without baggage. And be
ugly to boot.
Quintessence float by in front of my face.
And I just laugh. Ha. Never touch them,
because they are not mine. But the mans
down the st. near the store that sells
cigarettes and lovely lettuces and grapes
to eat after sex. Or as I should call it—
One day when I grow old I shall have one day
with candlelight (a la chandelle). Au soir
is with God and love and women who are real.
I wish only to get grayish old and sleep a lot.
The higher you think of me,
the lower you think of thee.
Old worms creep. So do I.
Just to see a woman walk by the house.
All merits have sleep after they arrive.
Women make me wish for being awake more.
The higher you think of me. The lower
you come diving into the sea.
Yes, I have melancholy. Ask God.
He never touched a woman. Neither
did Jesus. And hell, the Holy Spirit
just stood by as worlds, whole worlds
turned into syrup in heaven. I have
not asked God why he hasnt wed.
Sure, he just has not meant the right
girl. And Jesus just dreams of things.
The man across the st. saw me one day
outside and asked me who mowed my lawn.
I told him a beautiful woman. He
licked his chops and asked when. I
said, When she comes. He kept licking.
I went inside and went to bed early.
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