An instance made of little moments. Huh? Consider the lamp
which has no shade. A lamp, Master? Or the palm
covering a crotch that could be better covered by a maple
leaf. Master, I don’t understand. Sometimes, when you peel
back the bright wrapper of Metaphor, there is nothing but a lame
blank below. I—? What do you mean? Even at the apex
of your WISDOM there will be exam
questions, whole riddles, you do not know. [silence.] I wish you no male-
dictions, Disciple, but the time will come to cop a plea.
But what about Wisdom? Yes, make the S into an N; spin the M on its axle
& you will get a WINDOW. What? But beware: no one will catch you when you leap.

III. Conjure

III. Conjure

FRIDAY POEM

FRIDAY POEM

Japan, 1998

I ascend a few steps behind the women
because passion sometimes climbs a ladder
over the fence of good sense. Sexual Healing
is humping into my earphones.
I have a box of lemon tea a woman sold me
saying: “Takai,” meaning: “I am tall,” “You are tall,”
“They are tall” in a language without pronouns.
I think she was flirting. There’s no escaping
Spring’s drug. A young man will take an escalator
to the scalp of a ten-story building
lured by petals of a skirt, the scent of wonder.
He will enter the rooftop museum
because the walls are covered with women
painted in the name of what consumes him.
At the center of each nude,
a tiny pulpit where logic kneels in prayer.
You can tell what’s important to a culture
by the size of its buildings. In America
the superstadiums swell & dazzle
even astronomers on Mars. In Japan
the shopping stores are grand towers
packed with single women & housewives.
In my city the buildings are tall as the spine’s
supple steeple & men drag ladders
through the streets. How else can I explain
what I did with Friday? I listened
to Marvin croon something sexual
to the point of despair. I sat in the museum
like a monk who, after many days lost
without water, finds a woman bathing in a creek.

FOR PAUL ROBESON

FOR PAUL ROBESON

Ol’ Man River, he don’t say nothin’, He must know somethin’. . .

They have never heard a voice deeper
Than mud at the bottom of a bottomless creek
They have never heard gospel or the blood’s spirit speak
They have never heard a storm come down & break
The river free, they have never seen the river break free
They have never seen a stone turn the temple to meat
They have never seen a mother in flames or a funeral wreath
They have never seen a black man weep
Dear Paul, they come each night to the Opera house-seats
They have never heard a voice so deep
They have never heard the sound when a river breaks free

DIEGORIVERA—DAMADEBLANCO, 1939

DIEGORIVERA—DAMADEBLANCO, 1939