Conversation Poem (unathorized)
Robert Creeley—Chicago, December 29, 1999
Hey, let me
tell you
this: he
as the ultimate
good person, as
the art of lying,
by the throat and
throttle it.
The sawyer of
the mind seated
in the rocking chair,
so the neighbors might
see. Variously
culminating literature
of tacit
horror: the willing
suspension of
culpability.
Taking the XXX Cantos
to war: just read
this and add
water, for which no
academies exist.
Sit with a book
and sound it, quote
get it right unquote.
You couldn’t
break it. It’s not
a product, much as
music is, the
activity of forgetting
the apparatus.
Meaning begins to,
as the ascent
beckons: the materials,
the house I was born.
To, to get to,
much, much too
particular: I rock
on the porch. There
isn’t room. A
mirror of someone
seeing themselves, where
lyric begins: Look Ma,
I’m dancing! At
85, what the
hell? When the whole shift
is so simple: Socrates
asking what you mean.
If you haven’t been
hit by a club, how
can you know? Translating
into standard English: why
one must be the
subject of a sentence.
Works on paper,
painters, especially
what’s seen.
It’s a vocab-
ulary, a place,
place of seeing the
world, a different
pattern, a friend of
a few years.
Apart from other physical
human persons: like
cluttering, like chickens.
The salt pond,
so heavily
salted you can walk
on it. I never
realized how I smell.
A kind of civilization
vs. barbarism, this
adversarial relation, the
possibility of class,
again back to that
time in the 40s: then there were those
that were not. Why this
person of that place, the
phony energy? I felt
a great and social
father, mine dead when
I was 4, 8 miles from
Concord—Jude the
Obscure, an eye
for a college.
In this country
I heard a woman
talking about, about
government, a super-
market, a sense of
completion and production.
What else are they
going to do?
I wanted a poetry
like the soapbox derby:
go to your own
dictionary. All American
poetry is homemade.
What’s, what’s, what’s
to happen? The Cantos
had sold a modest
number of copies.
She writes poetry
for every occasion.
She has a
situation. The nearest
thing would be
a dilemma.
I began by reading
the door, the measure
of four. Quoting
some other poet
gets you started.
This poem originally appeared in Mirage #4/Period(ical) #99.
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