Sometimes, not often, I’ve said this before but this time i really mean it. Ya gotta watch - listen to the vid. It really comes alive when you hear it.
(entièrement de ne pas entre nous)
.
Thanks but I won’t be attending.
I’m afraid I can’t,
at the brink of the age of 67,
find much interest
or purpose in what amounts for me
to paying
transmogrified homage to having navigated
.
the fleet blur of
four years of late adolescence near 50
years ago (with
people I now mostly barely
recall) to jump, as
if I couldn't
imagine anything more fun to do,
into a tug of war
with other ‘classes’
(encouraged to
behave like competing
intramural teams)
similarly engaged
in what for the
college is surely
the motive force: to
see what
clutch of alumni
donates the most dollar signs
to it. I don’t
begrudge them this. Colleges
need lots of dough. And I’m graced
.
with the riches of unfathomed bliss
of a life in New York, skidding thrillingly
over the thinnest thin surfaces of a “fixed income” –
so fixed it has rendered me cleanly
unable
to fit any niche which depended on
spending more than would
procure me a split,
grilled kielbasa, boiled sour-
cream-dabbed pierogi, Ukrainian
sauerkraut (misnomered: it’s a bit sweet)
at Odessa (at 7th street, Avenue A). In the odd way
I register lessons from life, though, I have to confess
that the high-handed forced shrill-toned snark which
slits under and into these over-wrought lines –
.
(oh do beware
markedly visual strict-driven
grids clamped on "writing": as deadly
a march through the desert as college P.R.) –
.
bear the un-pretty tracks of defense scared of threat.
It resides in the fact I suspect I must here to the point
now espouse - I don’t
like Christmas for just the same
.
reason I dislike the
press of a college besieging us all
to love it. They're for people who barbecue chicken
and make love to those
of the Alien Sex.
People with
children.
.
I neither barbecue
nor much like to fuck, but
I very much warm to,
indeed am by rep held
by those with
legitimate claims to a firsthand
experience, as a candidate
rather more likely
than not to be placed at the head (the word
pointedly used) of the queue of things having
to do with the come-hither faux-pouty moue
.
of the Mouth.
From here it goes South –
.
as shall I go
mid-May,
for a scatter of
days, far away
from collegiate maneuvers,
august weights and measures –
to quite other pleasures:
.
to go,
oh to go!
go to, oh!
-
Mexico.
.
where what I will do
my sly eye
apperceives
(entièrement de
ne pas
entre nous)
.
I won’t tell anyone
(not even vous)
nor even the who
whom I'll be apperceiving -
and who anyway needs
no apprising of any
uprising, re-sizing,
down-sizing or moue.
.
“Yo!
People don’t speak French in
Mexico, Joe.
You forgot to learn Spanish,
you twit.”
(Oh, shit.)
.
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