sentry
In his greed
A lamp beneath the mountain
Is a hieroglyph
For love. A man
Should never want
Less than he need
Fit Music
California Songs, 1970
PROEM
When poets beg acceptance for their lines
It’s when ephemera and wisdom intertwine
When dull biography engulfs a poem
The poet shores his patron with a Proem
To raise his thought above the dross of life
Since life intrudes, the Proem is a gloss.
Déjà vu more or less. Most likely, more
Should fit you now to hear this song of strife.
You spent childhood rehearsing the Korean War
You fucked up in college and picked the wrong major
And in 66 everyone faked concern for Asia
It was all more fitting than you thought;
The staging. When the orders come down
For the Nam fourth of July as is fitting
You implored the Muses to fly from their knotting
You totaled the Chevy out of meanness
You whined and wondered how to escape this mess
And Lord who to write to. There should be a Lord
If there must be a Proem you thought.
But there was none. Only your drunkard
Friends your dope fiends and pimps
Demon lovers and lovers. And girls dumb
To the morse code from space still arriving
While Zia suns crackled over the desert,
You fled through archives in your brain
Remembering acidulous hash and devotions
Consecrated by the pain of navigating through wine
In peaceful East Coasts full of bare bodies
And icy streets under neon. Now tropical death
Leaped before you. You wept. Wastefulness when
The car ran them down. And the orders came down
As your prophets demanded. Strange FM stations
And astrological phonecalls hastened to soothe you,
Saying, “don’t give a damn.” It was time
To be going. Vancouver or South Viet Nam.
And Kung said, “Without character you will
be unable to play on that instrument
Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.”
—Ezra Pound, Canto XIII
FIT MUSIC
I
Moon rays like pure snow
What here on this coast three ahem and wine bottles
Shining in the trash
This is my concern for the day
And something new in the evening
Another beautiful whore
Make me grateful O Lord
There is a time for everything
Let alone getting high
What. Here in beautiful California
The surf remembers another form
Of revolution. Nothing. But what
Else do you want to remember
Catherine or the note tacked up on the wall
Where is Bethesda I am lost
II
Wait. What is astrology when people still fucking up
Daily
III
And still it is helpful to be here
Gifted. Solemn. Ridiculously macho
This effeminate county. What
Remains is to be bargained away
For another souvenir medallion
The truth
So thank you Cathy we will get together and smoke dope
Another evening. Maybe tomorrow
And thanking lucky stars too
Sending back reports from the seaside
Sun Yat Sen’s final telegram
Sorry, all that
is CLASSIFIED
We not too sure where you’ll be
When worlds collide
Sending back reports from the seaside
