“I”

                                                                                                The building

                              is flat at the front and side, there are no seraphim

                              carved in or plastered on, there are no wise men

                              as frieze, there are no wise words added, except

                              the one thing I. in a moment of love in the midst

                              of his anger whispered, or he just thought it, he thought it

                              when he was eating bread and salted fish, or

                              he was rinsing the dirt from his feet, his ankles,

                              between his toes, he thought it while bending down

                              and he was dizzy from the bending or he was

                              overwhelmed by the thought and blood rushed through

                              the capillaries inside his eyes and he was

                              blind for a second for you go blind when vision

                              turns inward, or it was shock, though it was insight,

                             albeit nothing happened to cause it except the

                              fish maybe or the rag in his hand, so

                              thin the threads were visible, the purple of

                              kings, the red of priests, the dirty white

of sheep, he always thought of sheep,

                                                                                             and he was

                              full of joy for a minute, he could go

                              from sad to happy in only one fell swoop,

                              in one swell foop, or less, or versa visa

                              and it was the sun, or the wind, or it was a chemical

                              inside his heart or one of his brains or it was

                              seeing a river, in this case East, though seeing the

                              ocean, oh my, you know what death is? you know

                              what walking barefoot in the cold wet sand is,

                              you know what walking into the water is, now

                              think of salt, now think of riding a wave

                              and falling down at the end and holding your arms

                              in front of your head or scraping your elbows, and seeing

                              the plaster hotels, the minarets and palm trees

                              upside down, or sideways, finally turning them

                              right side up, the flags where they go, the flapping oh

                              as it should be, now think of two pelicans

                              thirty feet over your head, his head, now see

                              how graceful they are, and huge and strong and swift,

                              and you will never again say “pelican,

                              his beak holds more than his belly can” and I. said

“swift,” he never said “swift” before—

                                                                                                The building

                              also has a flag—it has a flagpole,

                              and could have had a flag, it could have been

                              Americano, could it have been Cubisto?

                              or Cubanisto? could it have been Norweego?

                              why was there just one flag when after all

                              it was a house for every nation it was

                              a house of prayer for every people—or all, it

                              measured 90 feet by 30 feet, a

                              perfect rectangle although it was small,

                              (we should say is) a better size for a house

than for a house of prayer.

                                                                                     He thinks he likes

                              the flat white stones the best, it stands out from

                              its neighbors, soft red bricks and fire escapes

                              and nothing for the imagination, he stands

                              on the sidewalk outside, in front of the East End Temple—

                              that is what it’s called but there’s no inside,

                              it’s boarded up, he reads the notices, he

                              reads the work permit, Department of Buildings

                              expires 6–29–04, approved

                              12–31–03, issued 1–

                              08–04, work permit no. 1

                              03677 610,

                              remove the area of damaged brick

                              on north wall and replace, provide structural

                              support, install steel posts and channels, attach

                              steel plates and ties; but now he thinks the work

                              will never be done, the building next door is for sale,

                              the high priest lived there, now the corner is doomed,

a derrick is moving up 23rd—

                                                                                   And in the Cosmos, at the

                              counter, in front of the salt and pepper and sitting

                              on one of those heavenly wobbly stools the color

                              it turns out of blood, it matches the ripped open veins,

                              he whipped up his rage and yelled, he pounded his fist

                              and shook the shakers, he spilled his coffee, he spilled

                              a cupful of blood, he pulled a handful of patterned

                              paper napkins out of the streamlined holder

                              to sop up the liquids and in the midst since he

                              was thoughtful as well as berserk, he watched the brown

                              which is the color of coffee with milk spread forth

                              as water on sand spreads forth, he was awakened

                              and walked, so to speak, at the edge so his toes wouldn’t turn

                              too cold too soon, or walked on his hands, he once

                              could do that, and at a certain point in

                              space as well as time, the brown on the white just

                              stopped forever, then he took his sword,

                              which was a fork as light as tin and cut

                              two heads off—shaker heads—and he was sapient

                              enough to know that he was not only I.

Cervantes but C. as well, at least a little, C. from

                              Spain, that maimed and stricken Lanzman who

                              saw everything at once—I’d call it a curse—

                              and tilted at shakers, and so on, then he charged

                              at enemies and he was alone in the field

                              and probably had a talking horse or an unarmed

                              jeep with a canvas top, and fuck the trees,

                              he wouldn’t stand behind a tree, and fuck the

                              holes, he wouldn’t dig one if his life

depended on it, and surely it did,

                                                                                                and what he

                              said to the waitress is “I have kept still too long,

                              now I will scream like a woman; I will squat

                              as they used to, I will lock my legs in

                              one of their harnesses, I will break their

                              loving needles, I will labor, I will piss on

their centimeters, I will sweat and gasp,”

                                                                                                Imagine now

                              what he has to do, if he walks, say, one block east

                              or one block south, what does it matter? that is,

                              what he has to say, not do, the most he can do

                              is take his clothes off like his great-granddaddy,

                              did, or sit down featherless and drink

                              a chai a la mode, except in America

                              there is no freedom to sit or walk naked

                              in public and anyhow the chill wind bloweth

                              and what about paunches and hanging breasts and flat

                              unfattened buttocks, and what about Everyday Zen

                              and Mu and Early Capitalism and Breath and

                              Eye to Eye and Erich Fromm and Wittgenstein—

                              and Comedy and Tragedy—was I. a

comedian?

Emily Dickinson Wait awhile, E., are her

                              poems comic? white and purple, E.?

                              Take one word in one poem—take “hazel”

Franklin in no. 739, “hazel” witnesses,

                              nor “blue” would have done, nor “brown” and it is shocking

                              when it comes, it is an affront, a heavenly

                              affront, to speak of eyes like that, or take

no. 903 the lark, and cut him open to find his song,

                              that’s the literal option, sorting through the

                              guts, or call it the stubborn, a clown say

                              cutting open a crow and looking up at

                              the bleachers and scratching his head with a crimson knife,

                              rubber, of course, and asking for help, maybe finally

Moses playing a tune on his baby fiddle, then M.

God, Abraham talking to G., or A. to G., a worm

                              and a robin, talking in Worm, of course, “oh, robin,

                              how could I look at your beak and live?” how you do

                              shake the ground with wonder, but I. is furious

                              at his own thoughts for he is not that which eats him

                              and G. is not that which eats the eater, nor will he

degrade himself that way.

                                                                                             And what is language

                              anyhow, if Worm, or Polish, or Upper

                              Chinese, or Lower Nebraska, and if A. talks

                              to G. it is that only he is enflamed and

                              is made a lower equal and lifted up,

                              so to speak into the upper registers

and not a worm, for God’s sake, not a worm.

(A.) And if he is delusional it is that

                              he knows not what it is he talks to, he talks to

                              wind, to bushes maybe, to water when there is

                              water to talk to, though he mostly talks to

                              Sky and he calls it Lord, and it is dust and

                              ashes that plead for he is moved by Sky,

                              though M. talked to thick darkness, to a cloud

Cecil B. DeMille of sorts, with trumpets to match for Cecil B.

was not so bad after all when you consider.

                                                                             And while he ate a bird he moved

                              one dish to the left, one spoon to the right, for he was

                              also compulsive and counted steps for starters

                              and with his mind and its fingers he moved the shakers to

                              each side of the dish for they were now cherubim

                              and underneath the chicken was the mercy-seat

King James which James in its wisdom calls the Ark’s cover

                              and it was made of gold which I.’s dish wasn’t

                              and there was a length and a width described, for G.

he also was compulsive as well as pure.

                              And I. had a mother who washed her hands three times

                              before she did the dishes and used in her wisdom,

                              only Ivory soap though she did kosher

                              when her mother lived with her but it was

(G.) all about a home for the lonely one

                              he called a refuge that they carried from

                              place to place by the staves which were inside

                              the golden rings and they couldn’t be removed

                              and so on, and as for the shakers they both had wings

                              and looked at each other’s faces and even more

                              compulsive were the tables and candlesticks

on which they put the bread.

                                                                                             And I. re-read

Ex. 26 through 31 although when he left

                              the Cosmos—just as they were molding the calf—

                              he felt ashamed for he had ridiculed history,

                              although he had two hearts, Red Emma, for example,

                              one of them, Voltaire, par exemple, the other,

                              and when he faced the music walking east

                              at 5 a.m., wasn’t it Kipling? wasn’t Brooklyn

                              “China ’cross the bay” ? weren’t the colors

                              the same colors, didn’t he love the rose

                              most of all? and didn’t he bow from the waist

                              and hit himself with the knuckle of his thumb

                              against his forehead just ten minutes before

                              and bend his knees and kind of spring and soar

                              above the others with that newfound tenor

voice of his?

                                                                                             And spring

                              is what he did as he walked down 23rd

                              and it was spring two thousand seven and G.

                              already forgave him now for each of his ears

                              were open for every roar but also his eyes

                              as he passed first the foundry then the derrick

                              and had the moment where he saw the long robe

                              and the roomful of wings, one of which touched his lips

                              as a moth does with a coal unbearable

                              reminiscent of the other hot touches

                              and the dreams he had of coal when he shook the lever

                              and dropped the red-hot ashes into the bucket

                              he wrote about a half century ago

                              and how his mouth was ruined then giving him

                              his sight at last he called his birth for he traveled

                              all over again through the passage with steel walls

surrounding him.

                                                                                   And there are many ways to

                              get down to the water, either by steps

                              or knee-deep through the mud or over the

                              rocks, my love, and what they say is the water

                              broke but it was not the water, it was

                              a kind of skin—though something broke and the fluid

                              poured down—should he delight you with his stories,

                              child after child, RR tracks, windows, bags,

                              sandwiches, taxicabs, snow, and water supreme

                              the subject, where cherses are made, and this is the street,

                              the corner supreme, and he has got to deflate,

                              (ah world deflated), and he has got to make

                              one of his cherses, look at him postulating,

look at him posturing.

                                                                                   He hates to think

                              of poesis negativa, he hates the Possum

                              more than he does the Pound, he longs for a thing

                              he only has a thought for, he regrets now

                              more than ever the language he used for that thought,

                              the stubbornness, and lack of knowledge, how he

                              struggled, how he just couldn’t focus, how

                              the words and the feelings took such a long time to come

                              and that is why in his eighties he does as he does

                              and it is blood now he thinks about for blood

                              is just underneath the skin and just prick it

                              with one of his needles and look at the meter and what

                              stands for meanness and what for stupidity

                              for which he closes his eyes to wait for the number, for

                              he has squeezed the skin already and watched the

drop of blood appear.

                                                                                             And at the gas station

                              where you’d expect a hundred Uzis were ten

                              or twenty sharpshooters and they had air guns

                              and shot the 22s for they believed in

                              giving everyone a chance and you could

                              hear the pumps clicking as they reloaded

                              and most of them were fat for it was too much

                              meat and cheese ruined them and I. remembered

♪ that twelve full ounces was a lot when he was

                              in his teens though nothing compared to the giant

sweet bottles they drank

                                                                                               Though no one

                              can make you cry anymore unless like I.

                              you have the heart of a dog for dogs still cry

                              and lick your mouth and eyes and those in the costumes

                              who turned into rags and remnants their hearts were still open

                              nor had the hardness entered for they were poor—

                              although that wasn’t the word—I got it from Stevens,

                              of all people, you get a free creamsicle

                              if you know the poem, though he meant more than money

                              or other than money, imagine Stevens like Amos,

                              imagine him like Jesus, the opposite,

                              what is it? What is a rich man, stubborn, blind?

                              callous, corrupt, cruel, brutal, haughty?

                              Or arrogant, or just indifferent? Or

                              most of all, entitled, as in the phrase,

Xerxes “X. feels entitled.” But is it money? Sometimes

it’s money, sometimes it’s partly.

                                                                                              I.

                              he should talk, he’s rolling in dough, and feels

                              compromised—and abandoned—he should change

                              places with the one in the dirty red T-shirt,

                              the one who asked him for four dollars to buy

                              a Metro card, then he could live with the fleas

                              and smell the river forever—maybe it’s hardness,

                              hardness is the word—that’s better, he thinks

                              than just “indifference” but he still likes “entitled,”

                              as W. is entitled, he sneers when he talks,

                              and he can’t bear opposition or disagreement

                              and scolds with a quivering voice; as there are skunks

                              in chairs who dip their tails in ink or their assholes

                              and spread their stink—though no one can make you cry

                              again for you are dry and what is the use of

                              going through that again; but I. can’t help

                              interfering for that is what he does, he

                              intervenes, he is insulting, he lost

                              jobs, he was shunned, he embarrassed his

                              wives, he was emotional, wasn’t G.

himself emotional? Didn’t M. make him cry?

                              I. studied the afternoon sky, for 6 o’clock,

                              June seventh, two-0-0-7, the color

                              was vaguely lavender, I.’s favorite, and Greenpoint,

                              because of the light, was all but illuminated

                              and he looked up, as if for instruction, but there

                              wasn’t even one cloud to distract him nor were there

                              pigs lying down with porcupines nor had

                              Grumman and Lockheed started making kiddie-kars

                              under the aegis of the Free Methodists or

in Cheltenham north of Broad Street the Reconstructionists.

                                                                                                And you have

                              seen a lot, but I. was almost exhausted,

                              sitting in state over his uncooked bacon

                              and shook the waiter up for he was from Naxos

                              and understood guts, but he was more used to fish

                              and it was walls I. talked about for he was

                              already ruined by walls and he said walls

                              destroy you and asked the waiter to think of walls

                              in his own life and it was Mexico too and

                              Palestine, for he didn’t mind the literal

                              and even he loved them too, and he himself

                              built one once without cement and spent

                              months on the puzzle and stood thirty feet away

                              with his right hand over his eyes, more like the hat’s

                              green peak than anything else and planned the table

                              next to the stone and thought of the path to the kitchen

                              and how the herbs would be at eye level

                              though sometimes it was abstruse and sometimes even

Cosmos Diner too confusing for both of them at the booth

third from the door looking out Twenty-third.

                              But he was angry—that wasn’t even the question

                              and there were words enough; and let’s agree,

                              I. barked in one of his New York City voices,

                              that you are alone when you take off your clothes

                              and slip into the water, and it’s too late to

                              learn another language, and what they should have

                              done is breathe quietly in the small space

                              below the shoulder to the right of the neck,

                              and maybe the Hummer can lie down with the Hoover

                              and birds of a feather, and let’s just see who gets

to live longer, and so much for straw.

                                                                      And he predicts the sale of body parts

                              behind the barbed wire fences, and there’s one thing

                              he’s sure of, if there’s money enough and the barbs

                              are rusty enough the ones outside will live

                              till fifty maybe and the ones on top of the

golf little knolls and fiber holes till maybe

                              a hundred and twenty, that’s the toast in the red-brick

                              glass-bound dining room the end table

                              by the unused fireplace, a bottle of schnapps

                              and three or four of them left for they are greedy,

                              and that was the toast they made before swimming over,

                              and there will be a difference between the chickens,

                              not to mention the corn and the creamed spinach,

                              not to mention the cushions they use and how

they look at one another and what they flee from.

                              And one thing more, there was some room for affection

                              and I. brought a flower with him, mostly he hid it

                              but on the bus he held it in front of him

                              as if it were a cup of wine or a candle

                              and he was going to proffer it—oh Lord—

                              eleven years ago—and when he walked

                              down the two great steps onto the curb he

                              raised it up, it was his own pitiful

                              candelabrum—one poor wick—and more for

                              balance than anything else and he was anxious

                              to put it in water so it could bloom again

                              and all for an older poet who was herself

                              younger than him, though she is dead now and I.

                              never talks to the dead for they have nothing to say

                              about their world but only yours, such as

                              does the apothecary still have ice cream,

                              or is it the Crescent that goes to New Orleans,

                              or how much do you weigh now—never never

                              what it is like or if there is consciousness

                              or where the others are—and she has written

                              one book I. loved and she adored the flower,

                              it was before she died; he used to give quarters

                              on this street, one day he chased someone for

                              two or three blocks to give him more money, it was

                              his dog, a black Labrador, who wore the

                              sign of suffering more than his master, I. felt

                              they were all helpless together though his quarters entitled him

                              and now he hates the quarters nor can he be free

                              for even a minute, you might say he’s on duty,

                              and he spends half his days studying ineptitude

                              and lying—you call it false witnessing?

                              You call it a crooked mouth part? You go to college

                              to study advertising? You lie in stink

                              for half a dollar? You fuck the language? You rape

                              nouns, verbs, adjectives? You like raping

                              adverbs? You like eating rye bread

at city dumps? You like creamsicles?

                              I. has eaten at the Cosmos veal

                              and chicken two hundred ways and he has studied

                              out-of-date notices posted with rusted thumb tacks

                              inside makeshift windows made of plywood

                              to keep the light out and also to keep the eyes

                              from too much watching and too much gathering,

                              and also to keep the glass what there is of glass

                              from too much crumbling, and I. can smell a rat

                              for he has lived with dirty nests in his cellar

                              and he sings love songs now among the spiders

for he hasn’t lasted for eighty-two years for nothing.