Fare
forward; unmind the atheist, hollowman.
Who
hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.
&
put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,
touch
gently, as when He replaced & heald
the
severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,
awake,
nor doze like the disciples leaning
lax
against the olives, for He Who made kittens
put
snakes in the grass, now brace your heel
for
a good stomping, remember good men,
and
good women, persevere, endure,
&
gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd
Midway,
I had any, his legs spindly,
fear
racing thru him like electric current,
guts
a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,
right
breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head
&
chews the green it bit, off to the left,
sun
high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin
in,
& luhde sing cuckoo
&
springeth the woode nu
or
somesuch Pound's Goddamn
the
stupidest thing he ever wrote, to right
Osborne,
intersecting Claremont, crosses
everywhere,
telephone poles, crucifixes,
crossings,
Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast
tapping
his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd
upon
the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,
another
Billy, fallen to his knees
in
tears to see w his own eyes remains
of
Peter, how the vision came to him
for
Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt
&
must go thru again, now thru the door
he
turns the handle w the left hand,
&
first things first: to his immediate left
the
water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand
and
lifts it gently from the skiddish table
dressd
for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,
sombrero,
on soft browns & aquamarime
or
turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,
yesterday's
water at half-level, he grips
the
plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot
&
says his shy helloes to med-tech, business
office
manager & personal care assistant,
furtive,
his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,
scans
faux plants & posted regulations,
last
months Easter bunnies & piano,
all
the while in his head the secret question,
Will
it be fire or ice, as askd the poet
whose
lines of stonemade fences & swung birches
frilled
the waysides of his slim green brain
along
w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's
bardic
yawping: things like spate spring up:
a
young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,
his
mother mourning early for his glorious
bud's
demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains
in
that seafaring epic Spielberg made
that
made him many millions, for remember
God's
alive inside a movie (Reid)
&
speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,
to
you & only you, so don't be bashful.
I
lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all
young
& beautifully blueeyed, soldiers
warring
in deserts uncandied w lean bronzd
legs
& bellies of shaded tattooed virgins
drest
in my off-white hippie poet's shirt
hips
at a feminine angle on the couch,
I
watchd a film° & learnd, & woke hrs later
face
down, confused, a pain in my right side.
I'd
fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—
?
Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown D.C.
Blatty
& Friedkin's film had playd nightly.
at
last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—
Subdermal
hematoma, read
the
paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,
not
myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell
my
name loose on my girlish wrist,
purple
& red blood raised to the skin's surface,
spredd°
like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,
below
the waistline, 'round the back & belly;
but
I was glad for the wound & for the pain
wich
wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,
too
sound, too pink w health & too secure;
for
I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,
thus
grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,
a
baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,
sick
in the head & stupid, stubbld, red
w
razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning
the
Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?
&
why? & who? Later my father laughd:
whan
askd my name I answerd, William.
&
last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.
Late
5.2014
° Jarhead
°
spelld this way by Robert Bridges
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