An American Papyrus: 25 Poems | Page 6

out Land's blessings?And piss and shit out onto her graces,?But himself happily not knowing the language of the?Mexican people...?Himself not wanting to know the language?Of any people that his sister, Cindy, and college pal,
Dave Broom-Up-The-Butt?Echo.
He does not wish to think of them?Or the vaginas that are not his to put on?Or the illusive woman who would be sick with him?like a child lying on the sofa in fever and hoping?That in the shadows on the wall and the?Passing sounds that are concentrated on her mind?One will bring deliverance--only placing the?deliverance?On him and yet loving him for himself?Beyond that need. And while unlocking the door of his?car?He feels that the recreation in life is also a?routine:?A routine of sharing and parting,?And at the end one is grounded and tossed?Before the validity of his own?Perceptions is resolved. But he is alive,?Now; and he will put away his groceries;?Read a chapter of his Biblia,?A cenotaph of the dead..?maybe a verse; think of forgetting mass?and mailing in his tithing?And to veg' himself away a few hours?Before he would have another night?Of throats, lungs and?The air of the masses.

Come?(Camp Wonderland for the Retarded, Lake of the Ozarks)
Grabbing the already read letter,?Slipping out hot and wet?From the bare mattress--?Like Sweet Pea's turds?Right before?His psychomotor seizures,?Only without a softness to stub myself?Into--stiff and hard I drop?From the cold rim of the bunk?(Even if I awaken?The idiots below).?With non-syllables and vowellessness?A pitch that is language enough?To keep this man, Jim,?From wherever?The unassimilated disappear?Howls "He does not want me here"?While its flesh of Jim beats the plastic urinal?On the walls barricading a pillowed head.?The joke is on him this time...?All over him for the next hours.
The letter's impression?Writes and rewrites in my mind:?Come, my sister calls to our father?Like Ronnie's suppositories butting back.?Only suppositories are meant to do so.?Come, she speaks to me,?And the shrink?Shall put in touch?All that he did to us.
Tripping over Keith's mattress?I step out in humid silence?And wipe my cheeks.?Two cabins, beside ours, simultaneously fry?Bugs in blue, electric lights.
Keith, a crippled rocking horse of autism,?Scrapes the feet of his vibrating body?To the bench where I sit.?Sit, Keith; go back to bed, Keith;?Go to the bathroom, Keith:?In this camp I shape the minutes of his life?To some acceptable pattern.?He rubs his hands together?As if trying to spark fire?For the inhabitants?Of his imaginary world.?Stop that, Keith, I say. Sit, Keith.?keith sits: There is no coming out?For him after twenty years?This way,?Or perhaps for me.?The pale gas lamps are strewn around?A small area of limbs?In a corner of the sky--?All but patches are aflame?Like a roof of a tent around?The stakes, ready to break off?And fall.
Rock, Keith,?As the sun is stroked?So far into the lap of the night,?Suffocating and as good as gone.?The folding and unfolding?Of a crinkled letter into squares;?The imagining of the counselor?Of cabin four?And what a pulse would have created?If her head had drowsed?To my hand on the back of her seat?On our way here;?The general silent howling of "Come!"--?Keith does not cripple to this.?He has no sister that calls a stranger back?To erase and draw back?Them both.?He does not say "come!"?All hours.?He comes.

A Gentleman's Right
He must have thought?That there was some covenant of the old?That bound each to move around it?In a square orbit.?he was fifty now, so there?Must not have been any question:?Lessen the speed at the train tracks;?Stumble his car over their ribs;?Swerve closely to the drive?At a slower pace, and hope
That where men dodge the bumping?Of their tails from Parks?For a private club,?That one would come?Out from the doors, partnerless.?If not, he would have?To go around the block?Another time?Like other old fags before--?The railway crippling with?Its iron in each return raising,?Cracking up from the skin of the street;?Limbs of that bar's tree?Waving down (some?To the windshield), warning.?Thoughts that the energy of youth?Had some pivotal focus?Made each imagined man to him?Like a lollipop,?but the parks would not do:
There the man with the smashed fender?Might be obligated to 69?A winner without a face--?a drag race ending in the winner's backseat,?And on his tools which would rib in.?And inside that bar where women snuggle?Away their faces in equality,?And where men rotate hips on the dance floor?Like an earth's axes...this would not do:?For there were no friends to affect?Mutually and faggishly in embraces;?And the young and sensitive?Were Oriental and fonder?Of the cigarettes?They put in their faces?And the beers that suddenly appeared?Before them. This would not do:?Mouth-hugging the earth?On its bulge of life?Or moving to songs?Where the dances never end.?He was an old fag and must retain?A square orbit.?It, at least,?Was a gentleman's right?And in accordance with the?Manner of the fags.?The block was long.?In the shadows and oblique actualities?He felt its length. His stomach tightened?In fear of the length.

Transitional Mendacities
No, the supremity of having been split off from?A larger entity by being spit out?From pussy lips