I took the post-ultimate step
The one past the top of the stair
That you take when you know
There’s a step yet to go
When really, no step’s there.
Somewhere between plan and forget
I planted a foot in mid-air
Then I stepped up and stood.
Now I’m stuck here for good,
On the step past the top of the stair.
sense, the way a dog
is a machine for barking.
And just so, there are side effects:
the mess that takes you by surprise
(the wondering when did that happen?)
the licking your face
when you’re trying to sleep
and unless you take precautions
always more poems.
Siddhartha as a boy is willful:
shirks his chores and doesn’t listen
to his Mom — who maybe knows,
but doesn’t really care that his en-
lightenment one day inspires
a needful world. Instead, she’d quite
prefer Siddhartha do his homework.
Tell me (she says) this enlight-
enment, it pays? You’ll need a job,
it’s no fun living always tighten-
ing your belt, believe you me.
At least a fall-back when enlighten-
ment won’t make ends meet! — It’s well
Siddhartha pays no mind, content
to poke about, mindfully aimless,
ambling toward enlightenment.
Honest Al got a yard full of cars
always tells the truth
about them anyway he wouldn’t
bother to lie about a thing like that
if Honest Al wasn’t being
honest he’d probably just tell you
anyway This one’s a piece of crap
you want it?
got a junkyard and a junkyard
dog an alley and alleycats
got sufficient military firepower
for this neighborhood because
you know you never know
Honest is one thing but
no rule you gotta be stupid too
got a lot of other shit
to deal with too like banks
and trucks and insurance
and taxes and traffic
and rising sea levels and
bad air and this raised
brown spot on my arm
it’s been there
a while it’s probably nothing
anyway
Honest Al’s going to the beach
to lie in the sun for a while
forget his problems watch kids play
and read some fucking poetry
Later some said
You’d all along been practicing for dead
But I believe it wasn’t in you
To practice something you already knew;
You, far more wise,
Were already plotting your rise.
When you’d died
and they’d taken you away
and burnt you next day
all we were left with
was your whole life
packed in between the walls
nothing thrown away
nothing recycled
everything jumbled
interconnected
inextricable
a path through it
doors that opened or shut
boxes drawers cupboards
dressers trunks folders
presses shelves
garages attics
I’d think I knew you
revolvers
cast-iron pans
bank statements
photos in cigar boxes
notebook lists of anecdotes
from the presidents’ lives
then find another thing
jar full of beard trimmings
secret mailorder magazines
bag of your own teeth
ticked list with the dates
of every half- or quarter-cigarette
you’d smoked recently
which were smoked with Larry
boxes of paperbags
medals bills
diagnoses
draft wills
that letter that ashtray
that hint of a romance
or was it nothing at all
in the end
all that was possible
was to just invent you
and say I’d known
that man
1.
Then there was
that morning: you, the sun;
and I woke
thinking: the world
will always be this way
full of you.
2.
The waiter came
bringing perfect coffee, perfect spoons,
not knowing yet;
took one look
and gave you your name
saying: Happy Girl!
3.
You, oh you
were my first only; be
my only last.
Bag of Anything 