Four Poems

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

I heard something or another
about the Sermon on the Mount
and I immediately thought
“Ethel Merman on the Mount”
and wondered if such stupid wordplay
warranted a poem, and here I am

in this poem. I did some research first.
The Sermon on the Mount
was things that Jesus said. He was
sitting down. His disciples crowded
around him. He said, “Life is just
a bowl of cherries.” He said,

“Anything goes.” He said, “There’s
no business like show business.”
He said, “You’re the top.” No.
Wait. That was Ethel Merman,
who was born Ethel Zimmermann.
(I know that sounds Jewish, but

Ethel was Dutch Reformed.) Do
you like the way I have divided
this poem into six-line stanzas,
to give it more gravitas? Serious
poets divide their poems into
stanzas. It would be great

if this poem had six stanzas,
too. Six stanzas of six lines
each. But then I’d have to think
of more things to say. Maybe I’ll
say hello to John Levy. John is a
poet in Tucson, Arizona. We’ve

never met. We became friends
through our mutual friend Michael
Dennis. I wonder if John likes Ethel
Merman, or if he likes Jesus. I know
he likes Cid Corman. Cid Corman
liked Lorine Niedecker. Hi, John.

ELEGY

An image tried to get away from me. It kept
squirming out of my hands. I taped
it to the wall. In the morning it was gone
again. The police were no help. A dog
who sniffed good also failed. I shoved
everything out of the way but couldn’t
find the image. Fucker. I tried to get on
with my life. I read the stupid news.
I had some kind of job and I went to it.
A phone call said my aunt in Vineland
had died. She just dropped dead in
an Atlantic City casino. She was ahead
sixty dollars. They wired it to me. In bed
at night I read some novels about something.
I couldn’t concentrate. It was like there
was music going on, like a soundtrack,
but when I focused it was just
the humidifier coughing. I heard a fight
happening in the street. A man was
screaming and it was like metal
striking the pavement. I looked out
the window. Just a cat on the road,
swatting something about, maybe a
broken butterfly, maybe someone’s
old lipstick.

INTERROGATIVE

Why is the deer
lying dead on the highway?
How did the sun wind up
in the sky? Does the idea
of a third shoulder appeal to you?
When the forest shudders, does
the lake care? Is a poodle a bicycle?
Who is the idiot who, when
faced with the ripped-out pages of Ulysses,
plugged the toilet with them and
denied involvement? Where do
the silverfish go to dance? What
is four apples plus six dead
philosophers divided by nineteen
lawn mowers? Ethel, why the silly
grin? When did the lightning
destroy the weeping willow? How much
is too much for one of David Bowie’s
molars? Who killed your ambition?
Do what to the sentient ocean?
Where will the television put
down its roots? Can you swim?
Given current circumstances, why
do they insist on dressing penguins?

THE MORNING IS A CENTURY

How many ants does it take to carry a ship
across an ocean that hasn’t yet formed?
Poor ants, their burden is so great and yet
they march uncomplaining across the vast

wet desert. One of them, I’ll call him Tango,
reads every night while the others sleep.
He is deeply into Gertrude Stein’s
The Making of Americans. He looks

at me and asks where I plan to push
this poem to try to save it. “Right now,”
he says, “my legacy is tied up in a directionless
poem by a third-rate Canadian poet.”

Heave ho, comrade ants! Brace your
magnificent thoraces and hoist that ship
upon your glistening shoulders.
The morning hours are a century

in ant time, and the sun breathes fire,
the planet roars like a dictator, and
on the far shore bottles of champagne
await you. Emit your alarm pheromones!