Harry
CalhounThe
Vocabulary of Parrots
"Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of
the wise.
Seek what they sought. "...Basho
Only sin is original
for Christians. What follows the lamb
but sheep? Speaking the tale
in versions as limited
as the vocabulary of parrots.
One day I stopped following
and God led himself to me.
I would bow
but you know I cannot.
Something about graven images.
I pray to him
and the people say:
"See the crazy man
talking to himself."
But I am talking
to no-one.
I have killed the Buddha
and I am
writing,
praying.
Eternity
So after the moon lids its sylph eye
for the last time
and ancient dust on the catacombs' skulls
has cremated in the sun's heat death
wherever we are if we are is there still
a message? All we need is earth experience,
small experience - I love, you love, eyes
and feelings, and the universe is not made
of these - but largeness engulfs that.
The black hole swallowing a cosmic supper.
Nothing gets out. When we are born
we fall into it. We are compressed,
become dense, let no matter escape.
Then we are destroyed. But beyond that:
Out here after I die, is there anything
to write about? Reincarnate me
as the moon. Send me back
as the Big Bang. Maybe my passion
will be static on someone's radio
in another universe. Dancing with the atoms,
butting my mortal skull with electrons,
spinning their atomic cobwebs in their own time.
Atoms, the moon, the skulls, my meditation,
any symbols are too temporal for the journey
which passes as soul. And I, an ant
on the sandhill, pause tonight, alone and insignificant
before going back to the customary commiseration
with others. Even aloneness is shattered.
Destruction is the law. In another universe,
with another device and another hand, may I write this.
Why it happens and melts and explodes and dies
I don't know. Of why it lives I know less. I trust
all is as it is. I am afraid but that is my nature.
I like to think that the neuroses
under my skin are universal irritants
grit for pearls of this world
May cosmic dirt yield me
a univese soft and precious,
centered around surcease, until.
the next me.
Pray God I will wake
after the heat death
writing that I am afraid.
Even that nature
is blessed. I bow to it all
and I am dancing, yes toward death
come meet me I am dancing.
Dribble
Care too much, and play.
Sleep in the morning
after waking.
Leak semen in the night
like a young boy.
Paint with windows
so all is crystal clear
and easily shattered.
Drip on the sheets.
Awaken in the evening
after napping. Care.
Finish this poem. Love.
Or don't finish this.
Bounce it, hand to floor,
mind the sporadic contact.
Notice. That's it -
oops. Bounce it, hand to floor,
concentrate, refine
and still play. The basketball player's
dilemma. Ours.
Mind the sporadic
Comfortable
Between the snaps
of the fireworks
slips - and they miss -
a rare glimpse of eternity
yawning.
Weekend Beers
The animal trained to salute 8:30
and carry in its rapt pores every fiber
every day the familiar pattern, the flag
flying like a Seconal sun.
The animal wriggles tonight, mammal urge
and insect need, larva plantish crawling into,
out of, green. The hope of flight.
A little mouth, a leaf.
Chew. Think. Imagine a wing.
Development, life mayfly brief
but life at least. This sting in the center
of creature comforts, hops and malts,
the savor that paralyzes,
distances you from these weeks,
these people, yourself, this
overrated animal. Overrated?
Try escaping for long.
Trivia is so intrusive.
This drowse is so wakeful.
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