And yet that in itself is not enough. Mike Heller quotes Heidegger in his recent piece on Oppen: “it is a necessary part of the poet’s nature that, before he can be truly a poet in such an age, the time’s destitution must have made the whole being and vocation of the poet a poetic question for him.” So that one asks oneself at what point, under what conditions, does one feel that this “being and vocation” has been called into question. How does one recognize this in oneself, or more to the point, in one’s poems? After all, it is absurd (again, finding absurdity in such thought at every turn) to aspire to the status of a “foundational” poet, which seems to be something more than being merely great or even canonical. Rather, the point is that in “destitute times,” all poets must pose the question of vocation. And yet the poem, written with such a crucial question hovering over it, is still made out of, still emerges from, the least “poetic” circumstances and verbal stuff. Such has been the case for a long time now, though this basic condition has come to be treated, processed, in many ways, not all of them producing poetry of lasting value. Inside the scraps and random thoughts I mentioned previously, must be found the self-awareness that just here, in this “stuff,” is the question of “being and vocation” to be raised. If poetry is going to do something for us, something truly worthwhile, it must crack that “stuff” wide open.

      But then again, why? That is, why must the poem speak to the destitute time, why must such circustances lead to such radical self-interrogation? Might not the poem’s arbitrary organization of itself out of whatever, its quality as insouciant verbal bricolage, oppose itself to the (perhaps insufferable) earnestness, even the piety, of the “vocation”? I’m playing devil’s advocate here. I do believe that the poem on some level is always a “crisis poem,” that the poet’s vocation is always constituted by and through the interrogation of his vocation. And yet the form, the tone, the attitude of the poem facing itself sometimes comes as a surprise. Sometimes the poem has a bad attitude. Which is a good thing. Sometimes the poem acts out.

him drive; he was older, but still not
old enough. A sharp right turn. A street
sign reading “Restaurant Row.” A huge
esplanade of eateries, through which we

wandered. Husbands and wives in argument.
War in heaven, war among the colleges, war
in Disney World. War and commerce, war
and belief, the gunmen in the hotels.

I cannot bear more opinions, more
interpretations, more voodoo websites
asking us to perform bogus mitzvot.
Inside and outside every sect, the tribe

is constituted by the total activities of all
its members. Inside and outside every
dream, every poem, you make an end
run around meaning. Seeking a cure.

that it was meant to bring laughter, lighten the burden,
call forth echoes of momentous times, gently
mocked. But the uncertainty of the hour,

the uncertainty of the light, left him anxious,
frightened, even in the depths of sleep. What
were those ruins toward which they walked?

In the distance there were battlecries, or were they
shouts of exaltation? He could not tell. Giant
beings loomed above them, loomed above

the city from which they had departed. In the
depths of sleep, he moaned, thinking this dream
was not intended for him at all. Little tunes,

little pictures, occasional drinks or dinners
with friends. Then he remembered: he had
tried to explain that all he could do

was listen and be mindful of a momentary
impulse, and follow where it led. It led to this.

a language, starting with nouns,
our favorite.  Today we are thinking
in blue, today we are thinking

in numbers.  What is this thing
called thinking?  What is this
thing that will not act?  When

did the machine start, and why?
Today we are thinking of yesterday,
and of the day before that.  Clouds,

below and above.  Quietly, brood-
ingly, we begin to behave
like cats, like birds.  Today

we are thinking in music and little
else.  Today the machine has stopped,
has started.  Today we are thinking

and making, because that is how
we think.


__________________________________




“a deep, thick rim of dark blue light”

ization, but the first one says no,
it’s sounds, not words. The first
one sings, and it’s words, sounds

and words together. Then it falls apart.
The second one sits and talks, or
stands and talks, but never dances.

The first one always dances. This is
some time ago, some would say long
ago, but it’s still in the box. All of

them say that now it’s always
in the box. “could be could be”
Lately there are more spirit

drawings. When they show them
to her, they think she’s praying. Maybe
she is, though it’s not that kind

of spirit.

__________________________________

None of this is made up.

the long years, random papers found in a box.
The box is not a window. The papers are turning
to dust. I take myself out of the box and unfold

myself, to appear before a window, but only
in silhouette. Two silhouettes on the shade.
Kisses I could almost taste, or have tasted,

but what about you? They come in different flavors
now. I find them downstairs by the elevator,
a little sweetness, which is good, because I spend

my life going up and down. What about you?
To be sure, life intrudes, and in its company
unruly love, its emblem an unspeakable pun,

done not in red but gray. Diver, you had a taste
for rum, but the unendurably impacted results,
Phil, the ineluctably fatal flourishings, are still

the same.

a time when I could have gone on
like that. Not now. Do you know
what fortuitous means? It means

there is a house. That’s right. Where I
come from, there are many houses. This is
just one of them, furnished in Early

Crustacean. Lots of adding machines, lots
of sand. Hookahs. Young men buying
feminine hygiene products for their girl

friends. Got the picture? Now the picture
is framed and hangs in the Museum
of Modern Disasters. The architecture

beats the hell out of any show they hang
there, and thank god for it. Still, it is
a museum. You can’t live there

forever.

__________________________________

That’s easy for you to say.

he said, from a surfeit of mimetic
desire. There is only one solution:
turn it and turn it, not again, but into

a telephone. Yes, it may become
literature, or it may simply become
a crustacean and crawl away. We were

appalled by the movie, though some of us
actually liked it. Do you remember?
It was a long time ago, and may even

seem quaint now. So it goes. If you
keep volunteering, you will never be
picked. I’m so sorry for you.

__________________________________

You’ve got to be kidding. How much
longer will you be able to inhabit this divine
sepulchre? The demotic is no friend of yours.

Trust me.