once just stars before the dippers appeared.

Soon it was all scorpion, belt & bears;

sword & club; crown of queen (or chair or throne);

violence & bloodshed;  and now, they’re not

just lesser lights of heaven.  They’re connect-

the-dots histories of all our slaughters.

All those othersold deities,

cast out of a better heaven, stranded

in that dark canopy, that black canvas,

that threadbare umbrella that cannot, does

not shelter us nor fields nor trees.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table.

Then you have to know “Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802″ by Wordsworth, which reads:

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty;
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Then, you can read this from my exam:

“This unraveling of everything into complete disjunctive subjectivity ought not to be confused with the observational celebration of the beauty which Wordsworth used to embellish, muse, and extrapolate upon. When Eliot’s sky in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock” becomes a patient lying etherized upon a table, it may share a state of unconsciousness with the buildings that lie asleep on a Wordsworthian hazy morning, but anesthesia and hazy mornings are by no means analogous to each other in any other aesthetic way. One is prepped for the brutal modernist dissection to follow, while the other is getting ready to greet the oncoming sunshiny glory of the romanticized London day. Oh, be still my heart!—but, not as a result of the forthcoming surgery.”

I looked on from inside my car, which was now approaching eighty degrees, and I thought about taking off my coat. I looked down at my front seat and at the insulated fleece gloves that sat there, and I thought about the three other pairs I had at home.

The light changed, and I drove off.

It was only after a half hour of working with it,
and wondering if it were broken
that I remembered why I don’t need any fountain pens.

I’m left handed.

Seventy five percent of writing, for me,
is pushing the pen or pencil from left to right across the page.
Fountain pens only work when you pull them.

Now I’m sad.

I think I’ll go spill some India ink,
And scratch it around with the pen
Until the paper turns to pulp, and falls apart.

Arch your back a little further and you can see him.
What have you done that angels shun,
and even cavalry rides down to trample you?

At least they gave you a sheet.
That tiny Christ will soon be stripped again.
Clothes for mortals, while God has none.

Roll those dice for the robes.
There’s no help for you,
Piteous, broken backed, bag packed,

Thieving villain.

One last critique and this
will finally go away.

Yeah.

Well, there’s just so much
music out there, and
then I go home and every
radio station is just so
bad.

Yeah.

And I’m like,
“Oh, there’s a new System of a Down
song,
I
didn’t
even
know
about.”

Yeah.

(Overheard in the halls of a fine arts school)
5/6/05

A church marquis proclaims blind, dark, lost, sinners, who have avoided church, hate their family, and their life need to see the light, get found, confess, repent, come back to church, and love their family and themselves. Of course, the service times are listed at the bottom.

Immediately behind the marquis is a billboard. Upon the billboard is a buxom brunette sprawled out, making love to a whiskey, used car, Realtor, or some specific brand of bottled water. The driver had never noticed which.

Across the street from this, a father and son sword fight in the yard.
The top floor of the distant parking garage is, as usual, the resting place of seven cars. Seven consistent souls run on time and loathe the shuffle of the close parking spaces. Four will still be there when he leaves.

“Well, you can feel free to take this matter up with my supervisor; she comes in from 7:30 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.”

“Ok. Because—look—I know that I was the problem, but I just don’t want to have to pay that fine. I mean, don’t you have some liability to notify me that my books are coming due?”

“Well, we do send out emails three days before the books are due, and then again on the due date.”

“Well, I didn’t get any email. Doesn’t that mean that I’m off the hook? I mean, you didn’t notify me. So, uh, I shouldn’t have to pay this right?”

“Well, the due date is stamped on each book.”

“I know. I’m totally at fault. I just don’t want to pay this fine. You know? I’m just looking for a way out of this.”

And we may not get to the motive
anyway.

That

is to be implied by the reader
inferred by the critic,
or understood by the lover.

And we may not get to the method either
because plot is contrived,
conventional,
and downright
trite.

A fallback for others.

and sacraments
from clearance racks.

Sibylline selves
with failing health.

I’ll put my stock
on the blackjack table.

Deal me in.