A poem is occurring every moment
for example
that flutter of mute flies
over 1 package nobody manages to decipher
how much of it is trash & how much miracle
for example those schoolgirls with their books tight against
their chests
that turn the head of 1 gray-haired man with crooked glasses
while the breeze––lubricous––plays beneath their miniskirts
For example
Laurel & Hardy who take their siestas
dreaming the same mischief
where cake wants to serve as makeup
& 2 feet are foolish enough to enter where only 1 foot fits
for example
the 1 who just yesterday––disguised as a woman––escaped from the psychiatric clinic
& doesn’t get tired of standing on his hands & runs like 1 mad kangaroo
wondering about the meaning of life
about some antiseptic ointment to erase his inner bruises
the scars from the insulin & electroshock
while he sings in ballad form that line of Guido Cavalcanti
Now that I can never hope to return
for example
that readheaded boy who dips his feet in the water of the fountain
& feels like Huckleberry Finn traveling on 1 tree-trunk raft
/ in the middle of the Mississippi /
or 1 bearded clochard filling his lungs with Turkish tobacco
on the banks of the Seine
seeing his name written on the water: Lord XYZ
while reality sails on like 1 loud & tossing steamboat
because he knows that life can kill & resurrect him
at any instant
––in 1 time & 1 place
where neither Euclid nor his stuttering geometry count––
& the immediacy the difficulty of the days running by
are seen represented by any guy who
screams Help1
& dails the 911 of his
consciousness
to find out what brand of life or garbage it suits him to kiss
to spit out or to look at in horror
any guy who screams or tries to & can’t
while astonishment is painted (as if with burnt wax)
on his stony retired workman’s face
that seems & in what a way
like a time bomb
At times / in the rush when 1 second vomits & turns white
everything is tragic / even happiness / whichever 1 you want /
Aeschylus & Harold Lloyd playing chess with beer bottle caps
but without knowing how the heck to make the creative leisure rise
to the level of 1 earthquake that would truly wipe the slate clean
When Chaos appears all-powerful even bestial
(bull-faced & faggot-voiced)
when it goes without saying that he’s economically screwed
(You / Me / Us)
not to mention the homemade neurosis & anemia
& what’s the use then what’s the use of
the hurricane the raffling off of things
that strip & invade you like amoebas
what’s the use if you don’t understand why overpopulation
why abortions
1 pregnant woman smiles at you /
if you don’t capiche whether it’s from desperation or from joy
that she pats her belly like Piero della Francesca’s Modonna of Childbirth
if you only manage to stammer to dilate your eyes
when the pickpocket’s capable hand goes to work
/ that disciple of 7-armed Shiva: God of masturbation