Another Fantastic Bill Kushner Poem

IT’S SOMETIMES A LANGUAGE


It’s sometimes a language that when you hear it
you think oh I’ve heard that. You may even think
you too could speak it, just repeat after me. You
may even think you understand it, well of course
I understand it. It’s when you’re on the sidelines
I mean on the wrong side no not even that you’re
just like a tiny listener standing sideways listening.
So don’t get too wet and upset about it, but that’s
just me talking in that language, or pretending to be
talking in that language and don’t I just sound smart?

“People don’t do things like that,” he would say,
chewing fast. Inhaling his wisdom, I sat at his feet
and listened, him wet paint splattered pure red, “I
got these great lists, kid, I got all these lists, alls of
do’s and don’ts and alls mostly don’ts, great don’ts,
and so don’t get all screwy, not to do.” Him jumping
like high up to heaven and then down and all the while
talking, are you one of them talkers, huh, too? “Like
think of Madonna, mother and child, and how trembling
they came to the window looking out over vast Wicked
City, and then turned back, and I mean they turned back.”

Me, I still sat as a thief at his feet and I listened, chewing
on air, dreamy as one. “People don’t walk, kid, like that,”
into Motel 8 round midnight, as if who gives a flying
you know, “my way or the highway,” and so there I was,
and such as I was, poor little Mr. Scarecrow, thumbs out,
and no ride for miles, “mmm,” licking it up. So he wrote
on my feet, “Careful, dreamboy.” We who walk around
moaning, bumping against all these earth things, the hush,
the mush. “I don’t require much,” I told the nice therapist,
who then told his wife, who then told her puppy, Lucky.
“Lucky,” she’d whisper, holding him to her and stroking
his trembling fur. He said there was no future for such a
one as me, and then he bit me hard, hard enough to draw
blood, it came out like red words red, and him licking it up.


Bill Kushner 10/2/07

A beautiful poem by Maureen Owen

Today I am rereading Maureen Owen's book Erosion's Pull. Every time I read the poem I'm typing below, I take a deep breath -- yes, that's it, exactly how it is sometimes ... Saint Maureen Thank you.

Now This Vague Melancholy

Now this vague melancholy adores     me

of hours spent in your facade

it's best described as she can

if she could     likewise bitterly

since the forecast dented

with     our dinner window cut in two

    , as if her life


her life dissolving

in what had been ageed

not to tell to one another

what was     is the danger

the story of the stories

And     this melancholy.


if then we couldn't stretch the seams

of our need     while being chatty

we could discuss


                  long into noted


all else

sweet melancholy     dished

each by itself     into a darker     ness

where the hangover begins before midnight

& I could talk to you forever

for no good reasons science could explain

for we are two of repelling cogs

set in their motion fast by some diligent

terrain rising flat as the prairie

as a word     I fell in love with you     then

with a word   can such a thing be done

because of a word     you said     Nebrska

& all the chairs drew back their doors

& all the floors burst into flame

& in the night a single fire swept

swept through it all     &     I woke kneeling on

charred ground     & it was as the saint


proclaimed