On the Clock and Other Poems

On the Clock

I read The Once and Future King
one summer on my bus rides
to and from the wire works.
The future king went flying with
a flock of geese. He did—
performed—those things reserved
for kings. I ran my drill press
faithfully as if I forged a shield,
and punched the strict anachronistic clock
that tallied up my time for my reward.
Yet truly, I myself retrieved the sword.
It’s all the same to me what you believe.

Tweed Cap

Bernard, my South Side uncle, drove a truck
delivering Chicago’s wants and needs.
I think he stashed a pistol underneath
the driver’s seat but never brandished it.
At twelve I showed him my new barbell set.
He reached down with one arm and raised the bar
and iron plates above his head. “Good weight,”
he said. The smoothest lift they’d ever get.
He’d listen to Claude Debussy up late
and sleepless from his job. That blue guitar
Picasso print hung on his wall. He’d struck
a balance few achieve between hard-bit
and “Clair de lune.” For this, one wins no wreath
like those bestowed for gaudy words and deeds.

An Olive or a Purple Haze

. . . a shagginess remains, / An olive or a purple haze, . . .

—Donald Justice, in “Variations on a Theme from James,” 1960

In sun the haze is olive green,
in strobe light, purple.
The handle of a palette knife
leans half outside a coffee tin
across the open lip of which
a clutch of brushes lie
still moist but drying.
A studio’s a studio,
the record’s clear on that score.
Hearing colors, seeing sounds
remains a pastime, old as
handprints ochred on a limestone wall,
as flutes of reed
and horns of hollowed bone
cut from the shaggy world
and fashioned such that they must yield
to practiced hands and breath
a limpid timbre and a purer tone.

Emoticon

When Joffrey Stewart cried “de-MOCK-racy”
he twanged pronunciation like steel wire.
His sequel “DE-mo-CRAZY” let us see
as well as hear the nation’s case was dire.
We were of course, his audience, the choir,
Chicago poets, drop-ins, dropouts, Vets
for Peace, all passing through our phoenix fire,
a red glow and blue haze of cigarettes.
We’re circling in smoke rings now, our debts
forgiven, paid in full, defaulted on,
or slow-defrayed by lucky winning bets:
Spare, if you can, a stray e-MOTE-i-CON!
I hear you, Joffrey, strung along my nerves,
give each new word the accent it deserves.

The Making of Herdsmen

I oblivionize skyscrapers.

—Harry Crosby, “Assassin”