This is a poem about how not to cure diseases.
So it’s been a little while.
I was a cephalophore trawling
the deep trenches where the trains go.
I had never been a big fan of
When somebody asked me what Rilke to read
in English I said I guess don’t bother and off
went me back down the trench with
a little sashay.
There’s that element of the text that
bears a mark on it, I mean I guess
by a mark I mean
some aspect of a trench running
through it and beneath it that like
a falcon or hawk could breach
with horrible bird teeth and like
suddenly like a valve from a chute
comes some viscous black pulp heretofore
undiagnosed as a feature of the text
that nobody knows what to do with
put a little in the flask
it resists facticity
falcons can’t read
it dwells someplace or other
if a hawk could talk
I’d have no reason to ever stop howling
if a hawk could translate Apollinairre
I’d say that’s fine
but inside I’d be literally dying
my example would be that part in Matthew Arnold
where his whole life was missing the point
of how sad he got from the poem
of the guy who got so sad and went down the volcano
or how much I wanted to bite off Norman Mailer’s haircut.
Someone put his whole hand in the body
and it came out chilly.
What he described he described
in the fashion of ink or milk.
When I tell you I get paid for all this,
please be nice and pretend not to believe it.
This is the house that money rents
when I put my head in the catacombs
while my whole above-ground body cheers.