Another Day, Another Dolor

Maryanne’s name fell apart. Two women, Mary and Anne, now consoled her. They were younger and prettier--blonde, while she was a brunette--and, almost dolls, their expenses were slight. Maryanne thought tenderly of Mary and Anne. The little images were real, they were sent to do the unpleasant things. Poor little Mary was a secretary, though Maryanne, when she worked at all, scrubbed floors. Anne walked the dog, especially when it rained, and the people admired Maryanne for her daughter (or servant, the role varied). Maryanne still walked Lillah occasionally, and complained gently of Anne, her favorite. That way she concealed her pride; why make people jealous?

The nude in the forest, worst
of breed, eyes me, like a fly,

in facets. The bear, eating cold
clammy fish, sniffs

us -- or the camp provisions. We hear
the fish, his water run away, cry

with ears of heron, coughing notes by

rote, a drill. Then the nude’s tongue --
hot, moist and curled -- snakes out all our curses.

The squirrels, their thermostat set on
wake, go back
to bed:
a storm deflowers the spring.
When the last snow succumbs, the melting water runs
in dark verbs under the ice. Yet now again
water coagulates and stumbles and
dies.

The mind with a brain tumor discovers new talents.
Unappreciated, they die with this patient dying
Impatient and pissed. See you in heaven, I scribble, then
Fold the page and place that letter in the drawer
Of his coffin. Yellow leaves do hang
Over the open grave. The piper wails. His widow
Asks his daughter, Who the Hell’s the guy
With the bagpipe? After the whirling reception
At Queen’s, once the friends leave,
And the flowers start to fade, and the widow
And the son are lonely again, and --
What can you say about the kindly engineer
Who loved children because they were so gullible
And whose charming absurd stories I’ll never
Sort from the truth because Dad told me
And I loved him? Goodbye. I hope
To love you as well as you loved me.

Kenneth Bailey Andre
29 August 1915

The best time to sleep is
when you’re depressed,

the worst time to sleep is
when worried

and when very tired.
I worry easily,

it’s exhausting. If

you can just give up
the bed’s a nice coffin.

What thought Thoth
Egyptian god of medicine
Of spells & magic & knowledge?

What thinkest thou Thoth
Of Aleister Crowley
Of Yeats, Keats & the Beats

Of Gregory, Allen and William?
Jack whom living, alack,
I never saw wrote

doggerel like Gregory.
Gregory

Was a junkie drunk and thug
Like Crowley, Thoth; thugs
Like them lisp

As they think in numbers.
Their reputation underground
Until they securely join it, then

Allen famous howling and
Waiting
For

John on the toy piano
And Andy, all of them
Picturing the late twentieth century.