Wednesday, January 15, 2014

draft/worksheet of unfinished poem

Since I caught the train at Le Depot de Big Bang
(wow, was that terminal crowded) how far have
I traveled is a question that occurs to most of us
on this journey, I think.  The other passengers
seem to agree though as always one can't speak
for all.  You can lean out the window and catch
Philip Larkin on his wedding Whitsun or similar
fictions in this ongoing card-spray of multiple
universes, each one splintering off if we sneeze
perhaps, heading out on its own branchline of
destiny.  The rails never end theoretically.  Each
nitwit aboard here can flick their wrist and start
a whole molecular new-load of shunt and offshoot,
a freight of filth and fulth.  No one seems to know
for sure.  Take me for example: Homeless mote,
at how many borderkneels, constant-contagious
as Chuck Berry's riffs have I stormed evenings 
gnawed with gauze on the Island of Palau (these
particulars are obscene, I realize: forgive me),
or worse, dawns of emaciated car-thief silences.
Was there nothing I looked against to fail?  While
every possible mixamanque of worlds and words
await the arrival of this choo-choo whose ETA
they say might be never.  Subatomic or subtle-
arced, Graham Greene Virginia Woolf bunkmates
on the Orient Express.  I wish.  All permutations
could exist as possibilities expressing our due
desires if desires can be due, if they have a time
schedule and destination to which they might
be late as one resort.  Vacations are a nightmare,
yes, but consider this: if we do arrive at that spa
where Szymborska and Chekov are soaking in
the restorative baths featured there, the water
so warm and mineral-new, so magma-medicinal,
poured out from the heart of the sun as it were,
could we really be happy in that serene shangri-la,
knowing it's just one of the endless encounters
and encoutrements available on this route, whose
contentment quotas lack specificity or spinach
(I like it, some don't) enough to satisfy each our
particular tastes.  In any case given my age they'll
soon take my seat and burn me for fuel back
in the corpse caboose, my flesh will inch this
dust even further in permutations and perverse
meanderings and yet, always, despite the threat
of climax I thought my concerns were shared
by all those sold the rare, the indiv'd miracle of
birth, origin tickling its boarding passes and ports,
old option of blood we wake badly toward.  No
wonder everyone likes to imagine they know
certain actors and actresses whereas in reality
such legendary tidbits function chiefly to delay
our sense of arrival, stalled always by the urge
to record each mile traveled, the captain's log
kept so merchant-mundane its rigged citations,
though history probably shuffles the deck daily
to see who's here and who's not: enemies all.


No comments:

Post a Comment