POEM #35
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE DEFENSE, AN APOLOGY TO MY THESIS DIRECTOR ENDING WITH THE LINE FROM MILTON
Tony, because I’m an immature, American poet,
I chose movement over idea, the flag snapping
in the wind rather than the flagpole. I knew
that to be boring meant death without an afterlife.
So I chose shenanigans, ass buffoonery, the jesterly
sleights of hand which meant you’re stupid, not me.
What else did I know, unable to lure the intimations
of the world into the bedchamber of my ear? Nor
was there (in the Hummer and strip-malled, coke and fry
roadside of my mind) any such ball peen hammer
bursting open the dorsal metatarsal ligatures
of my right hand or left, whatever. Why or what
did I have to confess to the world that matters? I chose
sound and not the representation of sound, hiccups
and burps of Mozart’s lunch, and not his score.
I sacrificed you, dear reader, who necessarily apart
from me, are still a part of me. How could I
admit shame to my other self? The voice of reflection
terrifies, shows just how shallow I am; whereas
the depth of self-consciousness was boring
an inescapable hole. But I decided if I must
be all surface, the sky upon the lake, and not the lake,
I’m gonna dazzle you, shimmy sham across the stage
of myself, tap-dancing to Lite Rock with the sweater
wearing crowd. Just imagine my Fosse jazz hands
flapping to a Phil Collins tune, which is to say,
better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven.
Tony, because I’m an immature, American poet,
I chose movement over idea, the flag snapping
in the wind rather than the flagpole. I knew
that to be boring meant death without an afterlife.
So I chose shenanigans, ass buffoonery, the jesterly
sleights of hand which meant you’re stupid, not me.
What else did I know, unable to lure the intimations
of the world into the bedchamber of my ear? Nor
was there (in the Hummer and strip-malled, coke and fry
roadside of my mind) any such ball peen hammer
bursting open the dorsal metatarsal ligatures
of my right hand or left, whatever. Why or what
did I have to confess to the world that matters? I chose
sound and not the representation of sound, hiccups
and burps of Mozart’s lunch, and not his score.
I sacrificed you, dear reader, who necessarily apart
from me, are still a part of me. How could I
admit shame to my other self? The voice of reflection
terrifies, shows just how shallow I am; whereas
the depth of self-consciousness was boring
an inescapable hole. But I decided if I must
be all surface, the sky upon the lake, and not the lake,
I’m gonna dazzle you, shimmy sham across the stage
of myself, tap-dancing to Lite Rock with the sweater
wearing crowd. Just imagine my Fosse jazz hands
flapping to a Phil Collins tune, which is to say,
better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven.