It is the heart. The heart cannot stay,
Marked with the storm of the titled page
With all the appropriate shadows
Long in the cranium, sung and webbed
And finally useless, like a wine bottle,
cut-glass breasts, Occam’s Razor in a kettle on the stove
And Jesus Christ Relleno
Bound at the wrist, face frank, black eye,
Easter, Eastern states, an ostentation.
what is the heart, if it is not these things?
As strange as a starfish in the bathtub.
The truth is this: we say these arteries
And sinews are something. They simply aren’t.
Hung to the post, ill-grown, ill-gotten,
A stone, a sort of Pentecost of weeds
Organic strange growth called Ephesia
Euphoria, dipped from the hand, two
chocolate wedges, a woman, a world
pius in its call-to-arms, sweet liberty
avant et dernier, in medias res, in the flesh
Insatiable black furnace, the gorgon head
fetid, anaerobic, Pleiades, and germane Germans-
the bout of sadness, the last arch before the road
wanders to gravel, glows slowly up the mountain
all the while, we wonder, touched vaguely
by something seen before the shrill steel Adam
Called America, called I-am-not-what-I-believe-but-make
Think of that bowled upside down horizon
Tilted city in the terrible nameless raison d’etre
Of push, punch, missile, top top top.
The abstraction, units of production, das kaptial
Higher than killer bees and college dropouts
Or the beach waves in Singapore, dead
Wood, bodies whose narrowed eyes
No longer blink away the sun, or salt
What are these hands that type, this tongue that wags
Found in my own poesies, my troubled longing
For fame, sense, sensibility, wonder, warm rooms
The rope, the knife, the pill, the essential.
No one knows what is really going on here.
We have small orders, functions, and then resistance.
This is all. The best are full of passionate insensitivity
The worst sell their compassionate
lies: the woman’s thighs, the endless sun,
the pulse, the glitch, the aspirin, the Adonis who
lays down hope: Sex is our savior, and the only thing
that binds us, still, to life, to each other. The heart is the
absentee father of sex, the heart phones it in.
But, before you can forget it existed, the heart
Requires itself, proves itself, usually through a
Sort of negative logic, an impenetrable moan.