SORRY, I DIDN’T GET THAT
My iPad keeps coaxing me to ask it a question,
but I refuse. I’m not comfortable seeking advice
from or giving orders to – a what? A program?
The class difference between us embarrasses me.
I’ve never had a secretary or a cleaning service.
If I had sex with a robot, I would probably worry
that I seem too mechanical.
RIVER OF STUDENTS
Everything in my life seems vague and elusive, yet for the most part,
my sense of impermanence has turned out to be rather solid.
How else is it possible that for almost forty years I’ve been teaching –
sitting in any number of nondescript rooms, in front of blackboards
I never write on, exchanging pleasantries with the students as if we were
simply passing time by talking about books we happen to be reading.
I think of all their names, the papers they’ve handed me, the papers
I’ve handed back, and together we form a current – a kind of river
that has drawn me – drawn us – forward towards I’m not sure what.
Perhaps the larger ocean of language itself.
ALIVE WITH MYTH
for Vincent Katz
A myth is more insistent
than a rumor.
It has a thick skin
like the atmosphere
of a planet.
I’ve known Saturn’s
Neptune and Vulcan’s
deluge and volcano –
the watery fire
of my father’s temper
meant to be.
Jupiter, always ready
to place a bet.
Gemini’s good and evil twins
gadding about the forest
one can enter from any country,
any century -- spread out over time.
I’ve seen how these old gods operate,
push and pull us
this way and that.
Though distant, they are not dead –
still whisper inaudible
words of warning and good cheer.
The poem keeps retreating
further and further
from global markets
and technological progress.
It claims to require
more privacy --
a certain semiotic
grottos where its words
can be enshrined
in hermeneutic headdress
and opalescent ambiance.
I write to impersonate words and give them a more human quality.
I write so I can taste test a word for myself.
I write to discover what can only be said in the moment – because it is –
no matter how stupid or obvious that sounds.
I write because it’s an inexpensive habit – except in terms of time.
I write because I can’t sing.
I write to embellish facts.
I write to spite an old nun who punished me for telling the truth by having
me write “I will not tell lies” one hundred times.
I write because certain combinations of words really are magical.
I write to create a body of work.
I write to converse with the dead and pay my respects to the unborn.
I write to procrastinate and avoid not writing.