Through Jack
I love Leigh's new work, and for those of you who haven't seen more of the Diane poems, they're just splendiforous, n'est pas (spelling)? I wrote a new one too about Jack Graham from UNO. Well, not about him, but he's in there.
THROUGH JACK
Jack naturally led the movement from color to color.
Jack had himself to blame, so I say and so you say.
Jack says hollow trunks hold the fevered acorns.
How about philosophy? "When Sartre came on the scene,"
paintings in the window of an Indian Gallery
big wampum he done said, cat's wild for his bread,
Mr Bones: there but for the grace of that rare old bird
the begonias have blossomed like the thick tips of your breasts,
you whose heart I was born to hassle, that movie
Jack saw with the skull-scattered painting
A cold house
the skyscraper branch
bears no fruit
fruit being symbolic for my new children
real holy laughter! Jack! Through the river!
Don't expect me to know your Kerouac breakfast
lunch dinner, my Jack is a terrific Jack, 61,
fair hair, confined to the bed, raises his hand each christmas
O that this too too solid Jack Jack raced his wheelchair
remember dear Autolycus, to thine own Jack be Jack
leaf, folded in paper, the note's ink paints the brown vein
whose amazed citizens stare heroin dumb in the basement
feeling their cold hearts, O love me Apollo! Bring in thy sum-pump!
laying flat half of downtown New York is Jack's bilious whale-skin tongue.
Purple, a new phrase, a color for the civilized age.
And done.
THROUGH JACK
Jack naturally led the movement from color to color.
Jack had himself to blame, so I say and so you say.
Jack says hollow trunks hold the fevered acorns.
How about philosophy? "When Sartre came on the scene,"
paintings in the window of an Indian Gallery
big wampum he done said, cat's wild for his bread,
Mr Bones: there but for the grace of that rare old bird
the begonias have blossomed like the thick tips of your breasts,
you whose heart I was born to hassle, that movie
Jack saw with the skull-scattered painting
A cold house
the skyscraper branch
bears no fruit
fruit being symbolic for my new children
real holy laughter! Jack! Through the river!
Don't expect me to know your Kerouac breakfast
lunch dinner, my Jack is a terrific Jack, 61,
fair hair, confined to the bed, raises his hand each christmas
O that this too too solid Jack Jack raced his wheelchair
remember dear Autolycus, to thine own Jack be Jack
leaf, folded in paper, the note's ink paints the brown vein
whose amazed citizens stare heroin dumb in the basement
feeling their cold hearts, O love me Apollo! Bring in thy sum-pump!
laying flat half of downtown New York is Jack's bilious whale-skin tongue.
Purple, a new phrase, a color for the civilized age.
And done.
posted by Adam Wry at 4:26 PM
2 Comments:
Adam, you old flatterpuss.
Nicely done... a little different for you. Love the haiku buried in the second stanza. It's always fun to see how playful you can be with language sometimes.
Not to be a stitch in your side, but I want to challenge you to remember that you can be do something deeper than "breeze" poetry even as you're being playful. Some of this poem sounds a little flip.
Good work, friend.
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