Mayhew's Mood


I am brilliant but not too smart

about things I ought to be smart about--

that argument overheard in 1975--

was I part of that?



If so, am I a Turk in love with a Swede

or a Swede in love with a Turk?

Do Danes know irony?

What would Henry Gould say?



I think the answers lie

in nonchalance.

That, and choral music--

lists of things to do.

___


All attack and no sustain.

That's the mood in the land.


To spare the life of a locust--

that's something I haven't done too much of.



Lately, I've been feeling...

That's it, lately I've been feeling.


___


I'd like to have a radio show.

I'm not very articulate though.



It doesn't bother me not to know a thing's name.

Since Creeley died I haven't been the same.


___

One blue, of the sky

One blue, of the sea

They argue, which one will give its name

For the blue of the ink?

___


Physical

comfort. What is

that?



Should I feel

reassured?


___


"These poets are narcissists with whom friendship would be perilous."




It's been months since I felt the cold. I miss that.




Each day I revise some slight thing.




A dysthymic, arhythmic avoidance.



Yeatsian swagger, layers of smells.


___


I broke the seal.

Remorse.



Schooled in disdain,

in inanity.



___


Construyo negligencias; el punto y coma como una araña insuflada de insuficiencia.


Según el poeta japonés, el viejo perro pone cara de escuchar el cántico de los gusanos.


___


Don't talk to me about the ghastly portamento.

The chickens are roosting;

Henry is clean-shaven.


__




What if we could only kill bugs with our hands,

only fight rats with rose water?

What if Ornette were a race-horse?



Squirrels fight but won't scratch each other's eyes.

Are there rules?

This is my new style. You like?

Me neither.

___


I will no longer transport clean laundry across state lines.

A gleaming exhaust vent will carry fumes to the roof.

Raucous flocks will leave that particular tree.


The junior high school band will play without rhythmic mistakes.

I will no longer be desperately unhappy in my life.

I will be an expert on breeds and languages of dogs.


___

The screen is warmed by the sun.
Nothing should ever be parsed
past the point of return.
If I were Clark Coolidge I would write like this,
forehead warmed, timed by belts.
The sky is not object,
cannot exist like salt or wicker.
I am not, cannot.

___

My attention alights on the world.

That is not my mood.

She transports steaming liquids
across town
sells her hair.

___

Yet "men die every day for lack of what is found there."

___

Here is what is left out.
The nitty gritty.
For your eyes only.

Ink smudged on watch.