Incidents of Rubber

I lived in a garage in 1967

And then I moved to a bus

This is what poets do

They build parenthetical habitations

For their beads & spatulas

Their wonderful antagonisms

Their meaningful babble

Their velvet & lingerie

What is the harm in writing a poem

What is the harm in pursuing a life

Of writing poetry? It is simply this:

When we feel a rapier

Of purposeful

Purposelessness run through our guts

We know we’re on to something

Lethal. If you’re a poet who knows plumbing

Or law you will find acceptance

And the resistance of a metal

To denting. The dime shines

That is romantically awkward

Like a profession

When the abstractions become personal

And form is more than its content

It’s a consistency that cuts across the continent

Without leaving a trail of tears to secure

The idea of rope which is partially frayed  

Nor is it consummate like a stepladder

But acoustical like a railroad

Moving toward the sun

Of a particular feeling

Concerning Argentina. Vividness

Has a price. If the friction of life

Propels enough feeling that the water

Churns and the blood summons a purge

Then please join me in swallowing reality

And we will hum our favorite song of thread

Sewing our voices together in rhapsodies

Of something instead of nothing

I need a good camel

To the get to the end of the next sentence

And murder distance with a little velocity

Here is where the proverbs grow

In poverty & hardship & structures like oars

Bring us to the shore for a quick meal

And because the narrative necessitates a sag

In the bulk of time I will open a box

In the air & let the sounds find mouths

To say them, sing them, and otherwise snap

Into incidents of rubber