During a poetry symposium in New York City,

                   Sharon Olds was asked: "What is poetry"?

                   She answered without hesitation: “I don’t know.”

                   And man, was I relieved.

 Considering my condition

When I completed writing the poem

titled“Why Raga?” I instinctively began searching

for the book containing the poem "Why Patterns?” 

by Morton Feldman in order to be certain there was no

adverse correlation between the two poems. 

The situation lasted but a brief moment in time

as I recovered my senses.

You see, Morton Feldman isn’t a poet, he’s a composer.

And although I'm not an idiot, I am old.

  

Why Raga?

It’s the push from those on the moving train which caused you

to hit the concrete platform head first which broke your jaw.

The densely occupied car is probably replaced by now,

all new with better exits and appropriate warning signage.

At the least, one raga should be penned in remembrance of

the occasion, but––

during the crack of your bones did you come to see your short

life in review, or fantasize the beauty of your unborn daughters?

With what did you toss the extracted tooth to the tracks, pure rage?

And cursing the mad hand of God, didn’t you simply hate India?

  

extreme locomotion 

1.

after observing a young violinist

throwing her body into her violin, her hair

flailing like to escape the bonds of her scalp, the bow

burning through the strings presenting a fire hazard,

Jascha Heifetz seemed perplexed asking the youngster:

"why such unnecessary commotion"?

some have proposed while others agree

that to avoid the commotion of war

the two leaders of the opposing nations

shoot-it-out in a duel, with the one left standing

declared the winner of the war. the whole war.

2.

I'll clear my head of this morning's suggestions with

one last spit of toothpaste into the sink observing the last of it

falling into the drain and proceed to whatever comes next.

 

the past

last week perhaps

or more likely

a less familiar last night.

a dreamless sleep.

in other words 

like death is.

what do we know

of sleep without dreams

which approach

without crossing

the borders?

if we are sleeping

while plugged into

the apparatus which

keeps us living

are we not dead nonetheless?

christ. this poem’s a drag.

I need a refreshing

Hallmark greeting card

with a cartoon elephant

saying something funny

and when the page is turned

a peanut saying

something funnier.

I need the comic

awkwardness of the jitterbugging

old timer freewheeling

to the delight of

the guests at the reception

just before he

falls with a broken hip

and hits the floor like

an old shoe at bedtime. ha ha ha.

 

driving the "Grand Army of the Republic"

route 6, and my oldman drove a heavy car.

an expert on the road. no fatalities. not too fast but 

tenaciously onward! single-mindedly toward the ocean

the foamy head at the Head of the Meadow.

straight up 6... northward and eastward the sea alongside,

parallel to him,–– a true nor’easter!

(none of weatherman or weather-girl, although

weather-girls were sure alright,–– tight dresses, perfumed

and hair-sprayed pointing the way to Provincetown!)

heavy Roadmaster king of the road guzzling gas. a buck a gallon.

the real good stuff agitated by lead and the man at the wheel.

salt at the brim of his soft fedora. a sales ledger in his pocket.

knock 'em down booze to sell like a champ’s Susie-Q.

the never-ending road. –– like to kill him. maybe it did. but I’m well fed.

food in my belly and Corso’s “Gasoline” makes sense at the table.

 

                    the events of the day

It's a sensationalized morning

and the rising of the Sun is seen as a rare event

although once a day it is pulled-up by the hand of God

to service our necessities.  it ain’t easy.

the Sun's a hot item and God seems to have

second thoughts about the usefulness of the Sun

given that it services one greedy planet.

I myself would care for the Sun, watering it

and refreshing it like I would the rare and thirsty

asphodel if one could be found in my garden.

William Carlos Williams wrote: "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"

referring to the asphodel as "greeny":

"Of asphodel that greeny flower,

                    like a buttercup

                                     upon its branching stem..

save that it's green and wooden.."

"greeny", a word which my spellcheck refuses to acknowledge.

but after a fierce battle with spellcheck I’m accepting “greeny”

as a word, as a form of green, as a value of green because

the poet said so. but––

I won’t use “greeny” in day-to-day conversations

or when corresponding with my bank due to an overdraft,

although "greeny" could work poetically when referring to a dollar bill.

"hey, buddy. can you spare a greeny for a veteran of foreign wars"?  

so the day begins with an abstract pulled from a complete

observation as with all abstractions like this one here.

 

                    "America! when will you send your eggs to India"? / Allen Ginsberg 

when I first read that line I ignored its plea.

but in the morning there it was lingering

on page 39 and me with my early morning urge

to commit some sort of mortal sin and get away with it.

TV time:

God's sitting on the couch at "Fox and Friends"

with his mouth shut while they badmouth Chelsea Clinton.

as for me, my eggs are in the cooler at the "Stop & Shop"––

but christ! who knew India was hungry for our eggs?

not me, that's for sure.

well, I'll never get to India, that's clear.

but I can't say with certainty the same thing about my eggs. 

well, well, well.

the chubby fabulist George Santos is set free

serving only three months in the hoosegow,

three months shorter than William Zanzinger

who killed poor Hattie Carol with drunken menace and

careless forethought.

"well, well, well..."