May 10, 2016

Reynolds & Midway 69

Must it be us & ampersands? he sd
& swishd & swiveld amid the booted girls
that throngd in leggy thongy fleshiness
& selfie-taking phone distracted clutches
all about him in the ailses of boxes—
goods squared up & shined to draw the eye
that some say came by accident & some

say was designed, like clocks & Swiss wristwatches—
Yes, it must be, by the mustard jars
which minds me of those mustard scansions I
could never grok nor reckon writ by Crane
Not Stephen but the other one, that Hart
who leapt into the sea to still his heart
& made those bridges clearer in our heads

for why & wherefore who knows only Who
wich is to cap the double you to say
we mean the Big Guy (Note the capital G).
in any case we hope that Hart found rest
& also John who jumpt, & Sylvia
who breathd her last to gain euphoria
oblivion or quiddity & Ann

who suckd death from an engine was it, sounds
easy, for I'm not one to cut or dive, I want
a bloodless slipping into being nothing,
or hell or heaven, who knows. Only One
wich is to say not witch nor majik— note
the tres chic ultra-modern spelling—but
One Only, whither wheresoever He

Or She may be has been discussd aforetime
& by much smarter creatures—let it be known
that there is nothing new under the sun
& everything that ever could be done's
been done a thousand times a million x
a trillion, also there is nothing written
that has not heretofore been written better

& brighter than our brightest, list to Pound's
Kung to his pupils in that brilliant canto
or to the horse's mouth, in ancient x
& all around the world was wisdom won
in heads of men & women thinking things
& dreaming, sossd or sober, in their tents
wigwams igloos clayhuts, caves & ditches.


5.10.16