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I order POETRY, & read that poem with some relish. :) KS On 15/02/07, Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Poetry Daily: Albert Goldbarth, To Be Read in 500 Years > > > To Be Read in 500 Years > To think of today ... and the ages continued henceforward. > -Walt Whitman > > She bring me love love love love, crazy love. > -Van Morrison > > > > If they're right, the whizkid physicist-theorist thinktank guys, > suggesting that every acted-on decision of ours produces a brachiation > in the timestream (therefore, two simultaneous independent futures: > for example, one extending from my use of "brachiation," > one extending from my almost-use of "fork," so that > tomorrow-"b" and tomorrow-"f" are equally real in parallel > and coexistent tracks), there may be, secretly among us, > a few-or even entire populations-of backward travelers > in time from not just one, but many, "alternamorrows," > so different from ourselves, it's like the thought that bitch-ho' rap > and the sublimities of, say, Chopin are kin enough to both be > reproduced by variant patterns within the same 88 keys: > in one > of these futures, everything essential, every attribute of humanness > even minimally desirable, is relegated to mind alone > -we look like cumulonimboid dendrite-structures > that have flowered out of small deflated flesh-pods- > and the reproductive function of the species now > is entirely exocorporal, a matter of frozen protein combinations > and gestation-sacs of complex bioplastic; > in another > of these futures-it's an after-we-squander-the-oil-deposits world > of post-apocalyptic, bare-subsistence living-a day > is a matter of thinning, granular soil: leached, > defiant of yielding to our human need and its desperate threshing > -that, and a rumor from over up north that dog troops > of marauding goons are on the march with pillage and worse > asquirm in their eyes-and there, and then, all softness, > all of anything without "survival value," has been bred out > of the race, so "interpersonal relationship" is no more > than a reflex of the genes; > or, au contraire, > another future makes an ornate, public fetish of the wooing game > -a codified fantasia of modes of address and rank and dowry > and clan and feather-on-cloak-by-depth-of-genealogy, etc.- > to a social architecture of such overmuch extent that, while it's all > intensely focused on the establishing of a betrothal-pair, it's > all at the same time so bound up in duty and cultural sanction > as to be even more devoid of anything personal-anything soulful > and open to flutter-than the future I've described > of petro-aftershock ... > and therefore none of these baffled representatives > encamped in our twenty-first century can understand, > can "get," the thump, the cupid-zing, the woe and the wow, > in our songs and poems, especially the songs, especially the glowing > uranium dump that malingers all night at the bottom of the blues, > oh especially the blues, especially let her light shine down > on me, especially by the waters of Misery Avenue, let's not forget > Heartbreak Hotel, let's not eschew its transient cast > of cinders-and-ashes clientele, but also the songs of tra-la-la > and marital abidingness, of how sometimes a body fits a body > as indivisibly as waves (or it could be particles) fit light, the poems > address this too of course, the let me count the ways, the roses > in their fragrant and meaty botanical abundance, and the doves, > let's not forget the doves, the old thou art a summer's day > and thy breasts are of wheaten beauty, let's not dillydally > in recognizing > the wedding under the laws of God, let's not exempt the quickie > under the snooker table, the flame in the bones, the one name > drummed > in a bruising tattoo on the heartskin, they don't comprehend this > sugartit thing, > this sonnet thing, this sky held in the mirror pools > of the Taj Mahal on a day of slowly promenading couples > thing, these people of the future as I've imagined them don't have > the apparatus of leisure we've had, in a special lotus of time > that's been vouchsafed to us, a mythos, a sequestering in which > this serotonin and this opium are grown to a lyric degree, they > wouldn't > understand me sneaking out at 5 AM to pat that ten-dollar valentine > tenderly into place beneath the wiper-blade of Phyllis's swayback > Dodge > (with the fishtaily brakes and the fanlight crack in the windshield), > they > don't know the drive-in, the down at the corner, the boardwalk, > the bridge, > the places where it happens and where we commemorate it, > also a night > of blind and driven howling I pulled like an hours-long ebony scarf > from the deeps of my brainstem once on Morgan's lawn, so sweet > it is, this ineluctable thing, this please let one of the harder sciences > objectify > the biochemical basis of our here-do-that-to-my-earlobe-another-time > thing, down by the riverside, at the gates, behind the stadium, > and Skyler my wife with the basement tiles and cowboy pajamas, > she lift me up, she bring me the dominions of the morning > and the thrones of the moon, they've never once experienced this > impossible night of her wanting him down to the vitamins > and the pepsin and the aura and the spit, and how she bring him > the molasses and the escrow and the skidmarks and the holy church, > the rock and the water, the star and the stain, together we heard > the otherworld hosannas of wind in the alders, not to mention > karaoke screech, the Gregorian chant and the triple-x rebel yowl, > it requires a certain coddled recipe of history and maybe economics > for this psychic condition, this giddiyap of the hormones > and the industry they generate, the castles and the sly decolletage, > I wanted to read her the works of Montaigne and Cervantes > and Emerson > and I wanted to slip her some tongue, I was enrolled, I stayed > the course from my first day in Agony 101 to my post-doc, > they will never > be burned by this ice, they will die without knowing the thirst > in this river, she bring me the spackle, she give me the flying tackle, > he build her up, he tug her plug and she drains, she becomes > a puddle of ouch, she hit me with the hoodoo, with the magic spell > and the candle, they will never know this candle, yeah > she lead me up the towpath got a diamond in my nose, she dress > in ermine and sable, she barefoot in the grass, I tossed, > I thought of words like chivalrous and serenity, I spied on her, > I wanted to kill for her, she bring me the cherry wine, the toxic waste, > the whole wheat and the half-shell, they will never eat of this fruit > and suffer its consequences, never beg for its juice, its family root, > she be my guide, she interlocutor, my Beatrice-and-Virgil > (and me behind > in my Dante sandals following her shake-that-thing on the stony path), > my rash, my silty unguent, she rob him, she rock and throb him, > she greet him in his guise as the charioteer of the sun in its vast > celestial passage, in the centuries forthcoming they will never know > this honeycomb of confusion and its confected delight, it happens > in the jazz bar, at the casbah, in the synagogue, under the sheets, > she lift me higher, she be my desire, she build me, she give me, > in the sand dunes, hot hot summer, on the roof, yes here, now here, > a little lower, she feed me, she give me, she lift me, she need me, > the sound of the continents as they first tore apart and the surge of > the oceans, > the music of that, the songs especially but also the poems, she take me, > the rosins of craving, the tables of lust in its periodicity, they cannot > and cannot and cannot partake of this feast and the terrible emptiness > that follows, she make me, she lift me, I freely give her one grand > opera rose > and hiphop dove, she under my skin, she knife in my mind, > this thing, > oh this millennial and hallucinatory and radiant thing, she bring me, > she lift me, she take me, she bring me love > love love love crazy love. > > > Albert Goldbarth > POETRY > February 2007 > > > > > > Copyright (c) 2007 by The Poetry Foundation > All rights reserved. > Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission. > > REMEMBER TO SUPPORT POETRY DAILY'S GENEROUS SPONSORS... > Sponsor PD! > > > HOME | Today's Poem | Poetry Daily - The Book! | News, Reviews & Special Features | Archive | Bookstore > Free Email Newsletter | Sponsor PD! | Support PD! | Friends of PD | Contact Us | About PD > > Copyright (c) 1997-2007 The Daily Poetry Association > > >