JOEY AWAKE NOW

Some poems,
right some poems.

I’m a lover of poems.
And yes, we lovers of poems

must stick together. Don’t mind me. Pardon? Glenn?
Glenn? Glenn. It is nice to meet you, Glenn.

You are thinking you are in luck.
Because look,

a strange old man has joined you at the bar.
How fortunate you are

this fine day. I beg your pardon? Indeed.
The secret’s out. I am indeed

a man with English, how do you say Raul, issues,
exactly, English issues.

No, not for fifty years.
Hoboken Italian now for fifty years.

I’m English when there are wars.
I was English when there were wars.

Oh no you don’t have to pretend
you give a damn. You came here to write, my friend,

then a sleepy old fool comes dropping by to tell you
what it was like in his day. Well I’ll tell you:

I was extremely handsome. It took me
seconds to go to the bathroom. End of story.

Raul, the same for him and the same for me,
he’s being much too polite. English, you see,

not like us. I’d have said Bugger off
by now. Raul doesn’t get that, ‘bugger off’

he thinks it’s some kind of cool
new vodka, don’t you, Raul?

Raul says he understands,
he understands

bugger off
it’s what I was afraid of,

no secrets now, no secrets
for the Brits,

not from Americans
Glenn, no secrets from Americans.

The war?
Ah-ha.

Look at him, pen at the ready, like I could say
some poetry. We lovers of poetry.

What’s so important in the world that you can’t
stop the ride a moment,

open a little black
empty book

and remind the world you’re blue? There’s not a thing.
Burning building? Nothing.

Love of a lady?
‘I am at work. Please ask her to wait in the lobby.’

His eyes are glazing over, he’s remembering
something he’s forgetting

something. If you ask me, to tell you,
Glenn, if you’re sincerely truly going to,

I may
do so. I may

tell you a thing or two, I wouldn’t do so,
I wouldn’t—muchas gracias—I wouldn’t do so,

only it’s Saturday.
Not Saturday,

Black Saturday.
And in sixty years of rinso white Saturdays

it never did find
one to hide behind.

You go through morning into afternoon
and it’s always sunny, Saturday, in rain

or snow or storm who cares?
you pass the hours,

you’re free and the crowd is free and the whistle blows
a goal is scored, the long shot by a nose

then you happen to glance at the sky
and I say you I mean I . . .

I say you I mean I, me
riding on my bike and I

saw this mass of planes
in patterns they were their planes

and with the sky so thick
the light was weak, your hold on it was weak

your life so far
some kind of lucky break. They were everywhere

and in the day,
not in the night in the day like your worst fear suddenly

figured it out and came.
What’s stopping us? I rode my bike straight home

to tell my gran and I’m pedalling for my life
I know they can see me up there! Hey Ralf

shoot zat paper boy or he’ll never stop!
Never stop

telling ze vorld on us . . .
Raul’s laughing at me. You’re not? That’s how it was.

Personal, kind of. Felt you were in their minds.
They were in our minds,

pale types, munching schnitzel! Here
well it’s true they had thejaps but not here,

they didn’t have them out of a blue sky
over the skyline on a Saturday.

September 7th. What do you mean it’s the 8th?
The Saturday was the 7th, it wasn’t the 8th.

He’s telling me. Where do you come from? Pardon?
Say again what garden? Well-in-the-Garden?

Oh there.
Shredded Wheat’s made there.

That was the sort of place we thought we’d get to.
Because we had to get to

somewhere, we were bombed out
on the first night of the thing. Or, we weren’t bombed out

precisely, me and my gran,
she always believed what I told her, did my gran,

Mrs Katherine Mabel Stone.
Truth of the matter is, I had my own

reason for getting out.
It isn’t a thing you know when it’s happening. But

you’re young,
you’re wearing a wedding ring,

we figure it out in time.
You’ll understand how it was if you give a damn.

And if you don’t give a damn it’ll still be there
a year or so anywhere

you find me. Soon I won’t be giving one either.
Then you and I can give not a damn forever.

  — Glyn Maxwell (b. 1962), English poet.

HEY ALLEN GINSBERG WHERE HAVE YOU GONE AND WHAT WOULD YOU THINK OF MY DRUGS?

A mouse went to see his mother. When his car broke down he bought a bike. When the bike wore out he bought skates. When the skates wore down he ran. He ran until his sneakers wore through. Then he walked. He walked and walked, almost walked his feet through so he bought new ones. His mother was happy to see him and said, “what nice new feet you have on.” —paraphrase of a story in Mouse Tails by Arnold Lobel

hey, listen, a bad thing happened to
my friend’s marriage, can’t tell you
only can tell my own story which
so far isn’t so bad:

“Dad” and I stay married. so far.
so good. so so.

But it felt undoable. This lucky life
every day, every day. every. day.

(all the poetry books the goddamn same
until one guys gets up and stuns the audience)

Then, Joe Wenderoth, not by a long shot
sober says, I promised my wife I wouldn’t fuck
anyone, to no one in particular and reads a poem
about how Jesus has no penis.

Meanwhile, the psychiatrist, attractive in a fatherly
way, says libido question mark.

And your libido?
like a father, but not like mine, or my sons’—

“fix it.”

My friend’s almost written
a good novel by which I mean finished
which means I’d like to light myself
on fire, on fire
with envy, this isn’t “desire”
not what the Dr. meant
by libido?
                         I hope—

not, it’s just chemical:
             jealousy. boredom. lethargy.

Books with prominent seraphs: their feet feet feet I am
marching to the same be—

other

than the neuronic slave I thought anxiety made me
do it, made me get up and carry forth, sally
the children to school the poems dragged
by little hands on their little seraphs
to the page my marriage sustained, remaining
energy: project #1, project #2, broken
fixtures, summer plans, demand met, request
granted, bunny noodles with and without cheesy
at the same time, and the night time I insomnia
these hours penning invisible letters—

             till it stopped.

doc said: it’s a syndrome.       you’ve got it,
                                     classic.

it’s chemical,
mental

circuitry we’ve got a fix for this
classic, I’m saying I can

make it better.

Everything was the same, then,
but better.

At night I slept.
In the morning got up.

Kids to school, husband still a fool—
hardy spirit makes
me pick a monday morning fight, snipe! I’ll pay for that
later I’m still a pain in the
elbow from writing prose those shift+hold+letter,
I’m still me less sleepy, crazy, I suppose
less crazy-jealous just
ha-ha now at Jesus’ no penis his
amazed at the other poet’s kickass
friend’s novel I dream instead about
the government makes me put stickers
on my driver’s license of family members
who are Jews, and mine all are. Can they get us
all? I escape with a beautiful light-haired man,
blue-eyed day trader, gentile.

gentle, gentle, mind encased in its
blood-brain barrier from the harsh skull
sleep, sleep and sleepy wake and want
to sleep and sleep a steep dosage—

             “—chemical?”

in my dreams now every man’s mine, no-
problem, perhaps my mind’s a little plastic,
malleable, not so fatal now

the dose is engineered like that new genetic watercress
to turn from green to red when planted over buried
mines, nitrogen dioxide makes for early autumn
red marks the spot where I must
watch my step, up one half-step-dose specific—

             The psychiatrist’s lived in NY so long
             he’s of ambiguous religious—
             everyone’s Jewish sometimes—
             writes: “up the dosage.”

now,
when I’m late I just shrug
it’s my new improved style
missed the train? I tug
the two boys single file

the platform a safe aisle
between disasters, blithely
I step, step, step-lively
carefully, wisely.

I sing silly ditties
play I spy something pretty
grey-brown-metal-filthy
for a little city fun.

Just one way to enjoy life’s
trials, mile after mile, lucky
to have such dependable feet.

you see,
the rodents don’t frighten I’m
calm as can be expected to recover left to my
one devivces I was twice as fast getting everywhere but
where did that get me but there, that inevitable location
more waiting, the rats there scurry, scurry, a furry

till the next train comes

“up the dosage.”

Brown a first-cut brisket in hot Dutch oven
after dusting with paprika. Remove. Sauté
thickly sliced onions and add wine. (Sweet
is better, lasts forever, never need a new bottle).
Put the meat on onions, cover with tomato-sauce-
onion-soup-mix mixture, cover. Back in a low
oven many hours.

The house smells like meat.
My hair smells like meat.

I’m a light unto the nation.

I’m trying
to get out of Egypt.
This year,
I’ll be better.

Joseph makes sense of the big man’s dreams, is saved,
saves his brothers those jealous boys who sold him
sold them all as slaves. Seven years of plenty. Seven
years of famine. He insomnias the nights counting up
grains, storing, planning, for what? They say throw
the small boys in the river (and mothers do so). Smite
the sons (and fathers do it.) God says take off your shoes,
this holy ground this pitiful, incombustible bush.

Is God chemical?
Enzymatic of our great need to chaos?

We’re unforgivable.
People of the salted
cheeks. Slap, turn, slap.

To be chosen
is to be
unforgiving/ unforgiv-
en, always chosen:
be better.

The Zuckers are a long line of obsessives.

This served them well in war time saw it
coming in time that unseeable thing they
hoarded they ferried, schemed, paced, got the hell
out figured out at night, insomnia, how to visa—

now, if it happens again, I won’t be
ready

I’m “better.”

The husband, a country club Jew from Denver, American
intelligentsia will have to carry me out and he’s no big
man and I’m not a small girl how fast

can the doctor switch the refugee gene back on?

How fast can I get worse? Smart again and worse?

Better to be alive than better.

             “…listen:” says the doctor, “sleeping isn’t death.
             All children unlearn this fear you got confused
             thought thinking was the same as spinning—”            
             Writes: “up the dosage.”
             don’t think. this refugee thing part
             of a syndrome fear of medication of being better…

Truth is, the anti-obsessional medicine works
wonders and drags me through life’s course…

About this time of year but years ago the priests spread
rumors of blood libel. Jews huddled in basements accused
of using Christian babes’ blood to make unleavened bread.

signs and wonders.
Christ rises.

Blood and body and babes.
Basements and briskets
and bread of afflictions.

I am calm now with my pounds of meat
made and frozen, my party schedule, my pills
of liberation, my gentile dream-boy, American
passport, my grey haired-psychiatrist, my blue-
eyed son, my brown-eyed son, my poems on their
pretty little fleet-feet, my big shot friends, olive-skinned
husband, my right elbow on fire: fire inside deep in the nerve
from too much carrying and word-mongering, smithery, bearing
and tensing choosing to be better to live this real life this better orbit this Jack

Kerouac never loved you like you wanted.
Blake.
Buddha.
Only Jesus and that’s his shtick,
he loves

everyone: smile! that’s it,
for the camera, blood pressure
normal, better, you’re a poster child
for signs and wonders what a little chemistry
does for the brain, blood, thought, hey,

did you know that Pharaoh actually wanted
to let them go? those multitude Jews
but God hardened Pharaoh’s heart against them [Jews]
to prove his prowess show his signs, wonders, outstretched
hand, until the dosage was a perfect ten and then
some, sea closing up around those little chariots
the men and horses while women on the far shore shook
their tambourines. And then what? Forty years to get the smell
of slavery off them.

Because of this. Bloody Nile. My story one of
the lucky. Escape hatch even from my own
obsess—

             I am here because of this.
Because of what my ancestors did for me to tell this
story of the outstretched hand what it did for me this
marked door and behind this red-marked door, around
a corner a blue-eyed boy waits to love me up with his
leavened bread, his slim body, professional detachment,
medical advancements, forgive me my father’s mother’s
father was the last in a long line of Rabbis—again! with this? This
rhapsody of affliction and escape, the mind bobbing along
in its watery safe. Be like everyone. Else. Indistinguishable but
better than the other nations but that’s what got us into this, Allen,
no one writes these long-ass poems anymore. Now we’re
better, all better. All Christian. Kind.

  — Rachel Zucker (b. 1971), American Poet, from Columbia Poetry Review #18, 2005.

Days of Me  

When people say they miss me,
I think how much I miss me too,
Me, the old me, the great me,
Lover of three women in one day,
Modest me, the best me, friend
To waiters and bartenders, hearty
Laugher and name rememberer,
Proud me, handsome and hirsute
In soccer shoes and shorts
On the ball fields behind MIT,
Strong me in a weightbelt at the gym,
Mutual sweat dripper in and out
Of the sauna, furtive observer
Of the coeducated and scantily clad,
Speedy me, cyclist of rivers,
Goose and peregrine falcon
Counter, all season venturer,
Chatterer-up of corner cops,
Groundskeepers, mothers with strollers,
Outwitter of panhandlers and bill
Collectors, avoider of levies, excises,
Me in a taxi in the rain,
Pressing my luck all the way home.

That’s me at the dice table, baby,
Betting come, little Joe, and yo,
Blowing the coals, laying thunder,
My foot on top a fifty dollar chip
Some drunk spilled on the floor,
Dishonest me, evener of scores,
Eager accepter of the extra change,
Hotel towel pilferer, coffee spoon
Lifter, fervent retailer of others’
Fumor, blackhearted gossiper,
Poisoner at the well, dweller
In unsavory detail, delighted sayer
Of the vulgar, off course belier
Of the true me, empiric builder
Newly haircutted, stickerer-up
For pals, jam unpriser, medic
To the self-inflicted, attorney
To the self-indicted, petty accountant
And keeper of the double books,
Great divider of the universe
And all its forms of existence
Into its relationship to me,
Fellow trembler to the future,
Thin air gawker, apprehender
Of the frameless door.

From Dig Safe by Stuart Dischell. Copyright © 2003 by Stuart Dischell. Reprinted without permission.

ALKALINE TRIO - WE’VE HAD ENOUGH

In the shadows where the heads hang low
You hear voices as the wind blows, asking “can’t you see?”
Reminding you to breathe
It’s only time before it catches up to you and all your broken luck
I found a better way to get even with my memory

That said, we’ve had enough
Please turn that fucking radio off
Ain’t nothing on the air waving the despair we feel
NO!

In the darkness where the angels cry
Give us water, give us back our eyes
Our bed’s this concrete floor, and it’s all we have left to live for
A day we’ll never face
We’re only second-handed, sick and lonely
Fighting back the tears and every urge to Van Gogh both our ears

That said, we’ve had enough
Please turn that fucking radio off
Ain’t nothing on the air waving the despair we feel
That said, we’ve had enough
Put “Walk Among Us” on and turn it up
Ain’t nothing on the air waving the hatred we feel
NO!

In the shadows where the heads hang low
You hear voices as the wind blows, asking “can’t you see?”
Reminding you to breathe
It’s only time before it catches up to you and all your broken luck
I found a better way to get even with my enemies

That said, we’ve had enough
Please turn that fucking radio off
Ain’t nothing on the air waving the despair we feel
That said, we’ve had enough
Put “Walk Among Us” on and turn it up
Ain’t nothing on the air waving the hatred we feel
NO!

This is our biggest fear
The only tunes that we hear
Come via antenna through your car raid-ee-uh-oh-oh-no

That said, we’ve had enough, we’ve had enough!
That said, we’ve had enough, we’ve had enough!