All You Can Eat


We swarm upstairs.  Deviled eggs, mini-quiches on trays.
*Don’t stuff yourselves* is not what a leader says,
and I half-believe I can be leader here
after life on the fringe.
So I change it at the last moment to *Those are appetizers –
there has to be more.  Let’s check it out!*
Dork.  But there is: a smorgasbord filling
a ballroom.  Lobster, pad thai.
Then a loungeful of mousse.
The guys are intimidated, almost sift back
to the basement, with its cheeseburgers, balloons
and Grand Theft Auto.  But soon, food is flying;
someone discovers
he can shatter the Louis Quinze chairs with one leap.
Not wanting to be leader any more,
I find a dark corner, eat and regret.
A caryatid from the fireplace comes to life,
stands straight in her transparent shift with a fist on her hip
and glares in disgust.  I stop chewing.
Is it puberty yet?




Wild and Crazy Guy


I don’t drink.
I know too many alcoholics.
They are the most boring organisms.
Lichen, slugs are comparatively vivid.
When they’re hostile I flee,
asap.  When they’re maudlin
I observe without compassion
the shakes, tears, slurring,
but leave before they puke.  I imagine them drowning.

Likewise with gambling.
Which isn’t, they admit, about winning.
It’s about becoming music – their music,
the machines they used to work and should still,
electricity, the grid, money itself.
A part of something.
Walking through crowds of them, through pinball lights and noise,
enjoying contempt,
is as close as I’ll get to risk.

I went into a bar, once.
There was nothing else,
no diner or coffeehouse
on the low, endless, treeless, sun-blasted street.
Predictably ravaged faces without interest.
The sort of place that’s known as a “bucket of blood,”
and it was blood they drank.
Trying not to be noticed, I pulled out my book.
But one must either bleed or drink
or both.  Or else they loudly think
abusive thoughts, and tear at you, however
dimly, and you forget what you’re reading.




Eburnum


I was asked to compose an eburnum.
I had to look it up.
1) A commemorative poem
of indeterminate length
in a formal but natural style.
2) Words fit to appear
on a monument.  3) A monument.
The honor, the job
attracted me, those commissioning it

less so.  For they were everything
I wanted, everyone, in a sense,
I wanted.  They were neat enough,
but after a day
of organic farming and endless
repairs I couldn’t stand.
They discussed their own, each other’s greeds,
jealousies, pettiness, laziness; it was less
Maoist “struggle” than AA

or “group,” but Christ, I was bored.
And I didn’t believe
they’d stick with it: charisma
would eventually rear its head, religion,
bullies and serfs.  They tried
to show themselves or me
how sensitive they were: weird flocks
of birds over the settlement, the sea,
rambles in fern forests, lengthy breathy

rhapsodies, and I thought, Give me
a break.  If you’re so talented,
why hire me?  And: they probably think
they can dictate my ode,
give it input and values; no way.
And: what is this
enormous, empty space beyond
the perimeter but the worst kind of
imperial fantasy?  (Or were they saying that?)

I can’t add, “Then I woke up,” however, having
spent my life in that moment of waking.