Poem 81: The New Tragedy

cruel chamelion-eyed king

living in the moment

while feral cats devour

the hands and feet of his children

by which we mean all his subjects

but also including his natural

and unnatural children

if he has any

he really can’t remember

the Master of Them that Know

would look askance

at our tragedy, certainly

it’s too weird

he would say, in Greek,

'That’s just too weird'

but we are, right now, at this very mo-

ment

writing the unconceived

and uncaused final chapter

of his very own Poetics

encompassing conditions unthinkable

where there is any memory

of what is tragedy

these are things which could only hatch

in a sixth, or in a seventh act

and which in all future history

no theory shall ever subtract

Now Athenians are silent

Now Dionysos is silent

and on Olympos, the Olympian gods

are incapacitated

But other gods, ones plunged

anciently in darkness--

Hell yes, they say

paint your faces

get Aechylus up

it is time

we’re going

Poem 80: Closer

joy division closer
such therapy might produce
a thousand-years result
for a mind
of sufficiently
ruinous aspect

if that mind
could be strapped to a chair
in a place
        of utter darkness

yes
if we had a chair
and a place
and a thousand years

Poem 79: Poesias

Manuel's poems
are a little warmer than mine
not as warm as Jesse's
but you know
Jesse's are not warm as all that

check out 'Elegy for a Hayrake'
and get back to me

but
be fructuous
and that in little space
death is barking over my shoulder
even now
"transparent
words that break"

POEM 78: DES SAUTS DE CABRI

IT WAS A SLUGFEST
A NOHOLDSBARDE
FRENCH EXCHANGE
OF BITCHSLAPS VERBALE
EVERYONE GOT THEIR HANDS DIRTY
SUCH A PASSE D'ARMES
IT WAS A SPARGO OF
BODYPARTS POLITICAL

I SPEWED MY COFFEE WHEN I HEARD IT WAS
A GODDAMN
POUDRE DE PERLIMPINPIN!
I KNOW I CAN RELATE

BUT WITH SUCH GALIMATIAS
Monsieur le Président
SUCH FRENCH AS YOU COMMAND WILL LET YOU
EASILY CONSTRUE
N'EST CE PAS
A TIRER VERS LA BAS
BUT OF COURSE YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS
YOU ALSO HAVE FELT THAT  PULL TOWARDS THE BOTTOM
EVERYBODY
Monsieur le Président GETS THEIR HANDS
DIRTY N'EST CE PAS

YOU ALSO IN TOTAL DARKNESS
 HAVE MADE  YOUR GOAT-LEAPS
THROUGH BRUTAL HOLES


TOUT EST

BITCHSMOKE

BÊTISE

INTOX

Poem LXXVII: Der Werwulf

Who does not know Christian Morgenstern's exquisite
werewolf poem?

If,
as the werewolf does the magister defunctus in that graveyard
 a werewolf conjured me
I hope that I could be
 one-half as helpful as he


though it is hard to know which half
if any
of the schoolmaster's werewolf-declension
the werewolf found helpful
the werewolf in taking his leave showed gratitude
and decency

such are the dark continuities
between the wer and the wolf
the singular and the plural
such
as the pale scholar must have reflected
is life's
lycanthropic amphibology

and death's

Poem LXXVI: On Tragic Duties

If you learn that your daddy is a dirty fungoid
Vampire, you will have, alas,
A brief while only in which to mourn.
Now, before your eyes, a tragic law asserts itself.
Knowing, itself, imposes hard necessity, but clarity too,
As to what it is you now must do.

Poem LXXV: Spargo for the May Queen

you may live with fuckos and asswipes
but today
you have been made magical
yours is the laurel crown

for the full glory of its term
until it wither and wilt
wear it
continually
even in its season of decay
when it is buzzing with flies

then fling it away
to be fought over
by fungoid inmates
as their peaceful demonstrations devolve
into chaos

that diadem is  unretrievable

but then your head will be free
from such
concerns