this is how it all began

I wrote this poem in 1983 or ’84, I think. Maybe even 1982. People used to tell me they had no idea what I was writing about, but liked the music or the images. My idea of a poem was one of music and images. It wasn’t until some time in my thirties, or the 1990’s, that I decided to try to write poems that people could understand. I wish I had never done that. I wish I could go back to writing in a private language that annoys and puzzles people. Now i just write in such a way that annoys them. At least if they’re puzzled they’d think there’s something going on they should know about. I didn’t set out to obfuscate intentionally , I was just doing the best I could to get what was running through my head onto the page. But there did come a time when I realized that I was evading sense. It is a sort of free-associative clinamen. As you approach the direct statement you swerve away into a near sound or associated image. An intentional displacement. This seems dishonest to me. A lot of post lang po folks I see and read are doing this. They are young. They are more afraid of the cliche, of sentimentality, of being wrong than they are of lying. When you don’t obfuscate, your ideas and feelings might seem trite and stupid, but you will know them for what they are. They are no less stupid and trite when disguised, deranged or rearranged. So, I suppose, the naked expression, the investigation of logic and truth, is a necessary stage. The problem with poetry is as I move through it, as I read more and more of it, my understanding and knowledge outstrip my talent and crush my inspiration. Poetry is an art for the young an old, because neither give a shit what anyone else thinks. I never write a poem anymore unless I feel like it.

this is how it all began

on the street at night
in the rain
cars in wakes
green and red
skim and splash
the cut lime flesh
of ball top lamps
in concrete courts
east second street
yes
where the weathered
copper dome becalms
the sky

in a brownstone ‘65
white curtains
and geraniums
clay pots
on the sill

there were many days
I could have died then
this feeling
doesn’t go away

did it all begin at 5
o’clock, a deck
of cards a can
of diet coke
one foot hooked
on cowboy boots
and blue suede fringe
a cherry kiss
and winter tan

it was so hot
she took her dress off
and the boss
untied his shoes

no candle to light stars
by day

wipers pumping
water glugging
smoking under window pane

it all began beneath the heat
it steams and blooms in clay
it dangers every undertaking
simple things you say