The Emergent Infrastructure Reconsiders Its Assignment


A Man Awakening In The Open Air
Winter, slightly egg-shaped
rolls itself  through the brain’s underbrush,
in the folds of liberated tea, and in the cemeteries where we laugh
as  we swim between  the dreamer’s thrashing rushes
and December’s Russian trenches
where the gillyflowers grow.
And there stands the violence of father’s diamonds
more fascinated and not sea-borne
like my narrowing  magpie eye
as the missus nightly prepares the gazelles
juicy and crisp in our memory
of the ideal thought
of the final coordination
of some old inebriation
of a Trotsky
on a pony
doing math.
His massive head full of sentimental morning songs
formed of dog skeleton wit  & the willow of Mexican dresses
that cry out for butter as he is smoothing out his diary pages
attempting to pry loose agitating odes from his new Constitution
and evening out the blossoms
upon the withering blouses
of all those local girls
we will come to call
the Lamps of Cortez.
       Leon’s photograph of the Moscow snow was frightening
and the little visiting boy-child (as the wayward girls tear bones from cutlets
and cart the remainder to their fathers) dreams
of smug Surrey goddesses who turn silver handles clockwise
to open New York’s pewter cages
with pies or coffee slumbering behind
waiting for the mobilization (as the wayward girls tear bones from the cutlets
and cart the remainder to their fathers)
behind the barracks of his gaze, a philosopher’s cage
barricaded against the advent
of their sodden milky ways.
And we come to call them
the Lights of Broadway.
       “ A sausage is a sausage is a sausage is a sausage…” He theorizes,
then erases “but we are assuaged and suave,” he writes. Then defaces.
And while no one is waiting for the white tourist
to step out of the drawing room
and into that night’s flaky mille-feuille
to whisper a boiled “Christmas thought,”,
unsteady diagonal stairs skip down to the water stars
and to their blue Spanish corner,
and to the Byzantine umbrella carried by an artist
and to the toy guillotine of the mayor’s rising son
and to the Gideon Bibles being burnt by the rebels
and to the people fainting in their front lawns
grumbling about Marilyn Monroe, her proud distance kept,
and to the cow-bells – affixed with red nooses –
that ring acuminate in palmetto wilds and pine fellets
thousands of miles away, several careful pages away
and then erased. And erased once more to make certain.
To summon some ideal Woman who can breathe in roses
and breathe out gas-stations
like blue stars (as opposed to dumbbells and anchors
which are the twin subjects of his newest barrage).
       But now like St. Francis feeding the spring-driven birds
upon his own vanishing cream and wounds that burn,
quaint and perfectly specific and completely comprehensive,
his cotton voice soft white    white        white calls to his little dog
« Perdita Hercules! Perdita Hercules! »
and the swarm
of gadabout ghosts
of the vindictive commissars
of the soldiers in a drugstore buying Old Golds
of daylight quarantines
of some abashed waiter in Trieste
of several reductive club singers in New York
of a precise moment in an imprecise evening
continues to play bad balalaika
by the apple tree, singing.
And then erased. Then erased once more
To make certain.