I was having trouble sleeping
I don't know how long I'd been lying there
And listening to the blizzard when I had the most vivid impression
That it was a blizzard in Minneapolis in 1959
And I found this disturbing
I knew it would now have to turn on its lamp, get out of bed, and try to write about me
And of course, no matter what it wrote, I would just sound like something it had made up
But in the end, it decided to stay put, turn over, and keep me to itself
I think that was the right thing to do
After all, it was only a blizzard in Minneapolis in 1959
How are you supposed to describe something like me?
And when you think about it, why should you try?
Why should you even care?

Be it ever so scarred and unstable
The table you write at
Belongs right in front of a mirror
So spoke the battered master,
"To my knowledge, the single other, that magnificent and winged lunatic Rambo ever deigned to admit admiration for, think of it"
At this time, the poet was fortunate to have the use of a table and mirror
Not to mention a room, where he could concentrate
As he occasionally managed to do
In spite of the distractions involved in dealing with some of the semi-literate individuals who then, as now, were known to enter the literary profession
As if for the sole purpose of hounding and tormenting anyone with the poor judgement to show some actual talent for writing
I have a preference for blank walls myself
Though, I certainly never would have said so in his presence
In his presence, I very much doubt I would have been capable of articulating opinions and thoughts on any subject whatsoever
Windows are out, no windows
I have enough trouble with what I can see through the wall
Only a minute ago, I was watching him pass by
And to judge by the look on his face
I am afraid he was going through one of his brief stretches of addresslessness
Caught between the gentle hospitalities of one poetry-loving landlord and the next
The austere amenities of one unflushing toilet of an apartment and another
He was limping slightly
As though he had on two left shoes
Finally stopping to rest, on the vacant apartment
It wasn't raining that hard
Vomiting, tactfully, first in some bushes nearby
Probably nothing, a touch of opiate withdrawal
There'd been no indication of alcoholic seizure
And as it was relatively unlikely that food had been ingested in a while, he made no mess to speak of
A mere ounce or so of some sort of green liquid
Which blended in well with that damp and verdant scene
As he did not appear to be carrying a notebook
Thankfully, there would be no need to make use of his aching knees
Which had so often served quite nicely as a desk
That allowed him to hunch his thin shoulders and slowly
Bend forward to shield his page
From the various forms of precipitation
So prevalent in his part of the world
Evidently, he'd misplaced his pen as sometimes happened
So his left hand would not be required to take the place of stationary
He was spared, as well, the possibility of injuring himself as he had once, unfortunately
During a mild and near-unprecedented instance of self-mutilation
Well... there had no more than a few shallow puncture wounds
Resulting from the understandable frustration that might accompany being reduced to recording on his own flesh
With a few lines of genuine poetry ever written
He remained on his bench for an immaculately, inconspicuous, and legal length of time
His somewhat deranged head on the roof he'd been enjoying for a while yet
His only mirror a shocking but swiftly curtailed couple seconds of eye contact with an elderly woman
Who happened to turn to him in passing
Her crumpled, thrown-away face
Putting up his collar, he slowly got to his feet, staggering in a manner that was practically unnoticeable
And doing a marvelous impression of somebody not crushed by dread as he moved on
Soon lost from sight in the rain
Which was not really falling that much harder
When I am done puking, I get up from the floor, wash my face, and
Slowly resuming an erect stance, automatically look in the mirror
Well, in the first place it isn't a mirror anymore but a window
And on the other side of the window, about ready to poke its head in, stands an enormous white horse
Very gaunt, its gaze electric blue, the color of desert skies shining through the eye sockets of a skull
Now, we are apparently going to get a sort of Mickey Mouse with bloody teeth
So, things do not appear to be headed in an especially auspicious direction
And it is with some discouragement that I exit the bathroom and walk down the hall toward the living room
Where, after a journey of several years, I switch on the TV with the idea of checking out the action on CNN
It's not long before I discover that it is possible to weep from sheer astonishment and rage
I never knew that
The stained glass gold light of the end of September falls through the window
Creating the impression of a staircase
A steep and absurdly inviting one
All at once, I am vividly aware of what this room is going to look like when I am no longer alive
When I am no longer alive
When I am no longer alive
When I am...

Seagull in the corn
Postage-stamp-sized cornfield in the woods
In the middle of the state
And how you ever got here
Weather of heaven, July, Massachusetts
The blue sky, what an endless goodbye
Give me a minute
Maggot-swarming preview of the future
Give me a moment
You can hone a blade until there is no blade
Or dwell with magnifying glass
So long on a word that finally darkened is not
And fire and whitening circles consumes the world
For a moment only, stay with me, estuary
Before you change completely into something other
Slow cloud, entrance, spell, not yet remembered, nay, stay
Tell me what you mean
"A dead bird is not a dead bird", I was once told by someone who knows
Strange
I suffered from none of these symptoms until I was so intensively treated for them
Now, I am always freezing and have evidently been shattered into five or six chattering replications of myself
All leaning in utter exhaustion on very thin canes made of glass
I remember the night we were torn like a page from our sleep
I, your telephone, command you to report to the ER without delay
The last thing you see is the first
This time it seems I woke up with pneumonia, anemia, tuberculosis, further tests will be required
Crucifixion by toothache, a shadow by night, and so forth
Clearly I will never be the same
Yet you are with me

To your entire satisfaction, has anyone described the look of love?
Mine neither, but I have seen it
I'm seeing it right now
I'm travelling up the beams of your eyes
I'm slowly being lowered into a place of light

Beneath the eastern hedge I choose a chrysanthemum, and my gaze wanders slowly to the southern hills

From my cell I was staring at a cloud
A dog decaying in the woods, et cetera
As I took up the long awaited sequel to my confessions
By this time, my hand was so far away that it looked like a small hairless spider whose progress I could hardly help but follow in the corner of one eye as it went on filling page after page in notebook with words too small for anyone to read
I looked up and noticed my bars had turned to gold
And before I forget, I'd like to be the first to congratulate everyone who has not committed suicide up until now
Camouflaged and candleless congregation, the world will never know your names
Never know that specter you, or what you suffered iss what I'm complaining anguish, you sacrifice the one thing I'll hold most dear, most have in common
The sense of being completely different from anybody else
It just vanished at some point, having attained its sexually mature and winged state
You had a great vision about it, but told you
We have misnamed death life and life death
You saw another world and it was precisely the same as this one
This time you told everyone until someone asked you very nicely to quiet down
And the weather, everything you have heard on that subject is a serious understatement
The scarlet horrors we're preparing to file in from my ignominious obsequies
Already they swarm freely over my body
And there was no body
I can't tell you how perfect that was
As it happens, I have been gazing up at the dusk stars as I can be found doing more or less day and night
For I like to think they are growing younger as I die
Come by sometime, and tell me what you think
Under torture, some atrocious form of tickling, for example
I guess I'd describe myself as a fairly good egg in hot water
Family motto roughly translates: "April Wizards Bring May Blizzards"
We tend to be apprehended eventually
After a futile but all-the-more spirited attempt at first degree self-impersonation
However, this is not the time for levity, we happen to be speaking of a serious medical goodnight kiss
Traditionally, we are then detained at a local mental facility known for its celebrated alumni
Though, in recent decades, secret and permanent socialist elements in the government have seen to it that the lowest scum of humanity now appear to have open access to those once hallowed halls smeared with our shit and vomit
What I'm getting at is this: after a relatively brief stay, we are invariably released with some deranged doctors or others blessing
A mixture of relief and disgust on the part of the staff
Now the secret eye signal that will get you into any movie house in Milwaukee, free, for the next year
Some of us like to get together once a day, rain or shine, and gather furtively at the picnic ground under those tall, wavering candleflame pines
Where neither moss nor rust can reach, nor faintest scream
And exchange ribald tales verging on satanic perversion
Each drawing his iridescent injection from the same oceanic martini, very dry
About two tears worth of Vermouth in an unremembered dream
The small, silver, crucified man hangs between her breasts like an arrow directing attention away from the face and its nimbus of unasked for beauty
All that stands between her and apparition
While pointing away to the ever-inexplicable V
All that's left of her animal, damp, like the tip of a painters' brush just dipped in darkest blue
She has put the thing on like a necklace and gone to admire it in the full-length mirror
In muted light, the color of gold shadow
At this late afternoon hour, there's a light that enters houses with no other house in sight
I describe it
But- then there are more important things to think about than light
It lies on the dresser blackly glowing
The one object that's completely self-explanatory here
Just look at you, child with the sun-colored eyes
Waiting in line with loves immemorable patience
And their grievances, at scarecrow-like standstill
How slowly, how badly they mend
Just one more being tested in need of two devils a-a-coke bottle glass
Straining in the poor light
To make out the oversized letters of their own obituaries
While they're waiting to be born
Soon, soon-oon, between one instant and the next, you will be well
There is a sound that comes from houses with no other house in sight

Wysteria rain
Where is your child mother?
This must be the last bee on Earth
So, you find no more grandeur or mystery here?
Perhaps you neglected to bring any
Peddling sparrows
Vast electron cloud of gnats on windless water
Night-blue volume in a language that no one reads
Are we tired yet?
Are you finished debating the blind who insist that light doesn't exist, and have proof of it
Nobody's alone
God is alone
If you liked being born
You'll love dying