Statements on Images
FOOLS RUSH IN
The past like fallen trees,
silent deeps and pretended
coherence to gallimaufries.
West wind at my back
tracking each step
away from monoliths
stumbling with child-like
wonder, alone from stage
to stage, dragging my heels.
So, waiting is waiting and
something is ending
at an end or has ended.
So, send in the clowns
where are the clowns, those
lovable, laughable clowns
quick send in the clowns!
Oh wait, don’t bother
as I look around, we are here.
Wait until the day says it’s closing, and public is put away.
Write by the light of a pay phone your list of “I meant to
say.” Like, “Winter comes too soon,” or, “Radiators hum
out of tune.” Out under the Disraeli, with rusty train
track ties, we’ll carve new streets and sidewalks, a city
for small lives, and say that we’ll stay for one more year.
Wait near the end of September. Wait for some stars
to show. Try so hard not to remember what all empty
playgrounds know: that sympathy is cruel. Reluctant jester
or simpering fool. But six feet off the highway, our bare
legs stung with wheat, we’ll dig a hole and bury all we
could not defeat, and say that we’ll stay for one more year.
Bend to tie a shoelace, or bend against your fear, and say
that you’ll stay for one more year.
Cum neminem ante nos de vulgaris eloquentie doctrina quicquam
inveniamus tractasse, atque talem scilicet eloquentiam penitus
omnibus necessariam videamus, cum ad eam non tantum viri, sed
etiam mulieres et parvuli nitantur, in quantum natura permittit: volentes
discretionem aliqualiter lucidare illorum qui tanquam ceci ambulant
per plateas, plerunque anteriora posteriora putantes: Verbo aspirante
de celis, locutioni vulgarium gentium prodesse tentabimus;
non solum aquam nostri ingenii ad tantum poculum aurientes,
sed accipiendo vel compilando ab aliis potiora miscentes,
ut exinde potionare possimus dulcissimum ydromellum.