I Am An Island

I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain . . . Rosalind, As You Like It



this strange account of my
thwarted climax
takes on the tone of a simpler melody
played once in the beginning
by a sweet reeded clairinetist
who rose eagerly to the occasion
of blossoming arpeggios

Hero of Sestos and a score.
of men who could only say goodbye
buried by the extremity of love.
outreaching the pleasure.

a balmy day.
the goodness of it.
in the heat the half-naked women are
walking the streets, still,
keeping up the expectation of
sublime evenings to come.
dispatched couriers tell
briefly of it . . .

Monsieur Traveler, you must marry
the woman,
tarry a little,
but capture the eyes of the beloved lady,
dazzle her beauty
until she can no longer live
within an hour of a promise
(the seductive disguise)
you are journeying through sad
experience with
the hope of rude awakening at your
feet.

the unwanted infant wrapped
in toilet tissue is inside a brown paper
bag,
a poor boy en route to school on a
51A Express
grinding the dirt of the city, smokes
a cigarette
and has not bothered to tape his torn
history book,
the deformed fingers of an ugly
manchild are filtching buttered popcorn
and he sighs for the maiden
on the silver screen,
G.I. of the latest war flys his
bicycle to the bank for another
veteran paycheck and comes gliding
home to cook steak and
corn for an ailing wife,
the handsome mastermind, engineering
Corporation Earth, sits
at his desk and fashions the alphabet out of
paper clips
while the mail is distributed,
too successful at his livelihood, a
middle-aged man with a beer belly
sinks his raped eyes to the glass
and mumbles to the bartender
that he needs another,
a wretched ragged man sleeps in the park
on his back, but does not dream.

Lover! the true delight that you had
intended will rain down upon me
pellet by pellet
exploding in a rapturous storm in the
wild wood
and I will be running through the
middle
with no mention of a curtsy and exit.