No tone of voice being sufficient to the occasion
Flash that’s all, that we’re here. Are you ever
sarcastic and unlikeable Mentally we are the
cast of one epic thought: You. How many
of you sweep through me, as I ride the métro
leading you, because I have to and not be poignant
oh who’s written anything poignant since . . .
An old woman of indeterminate race, in white hat
and scarf, no teeth staring back at me.
He sounded brittle and superior last night, do the
dead do that; Grandma had a plethora of tones of voice
compared to anyone in this anthology. Our
anthology, he says, being mental is complex
as hell. How do you keep track of your poems? Any-
one remembers what they like, but you have constantly
to emit them . . . Everyone’s at me, Drown it
out, thinking of an icon emerald-throated.
I see the alley house at night dark I’m trying
to be pure again, but I want all the tones.
When you’re dead you can have them . . . thick
marine dark from the fencelike oleanders and a moon
calling to white boards. Enter. Lie down in
your own bed, in the room where Momma found a scorpion.