Apologia, and: Even the Rhapsody in Blue

Apologia

I was raised on impudence and finger-pointing,a handful of addendas and nevertheless-buts.I want to argue your god with you, god of miracles,

the god who repaired the arthritic arm without surgery,who sculpted those beautiful oiled-up beautiesat the beach who listen to music made of two notes, maybe

three, whose conversation could be stored inside the skullof a finch. So whose fault is it I can't beartheir happiness? Why was I in awe when the Romanian

took a chisel to the Pieta, and even if that's technicallynot true, where's the joy in horseradishthat makes our eyes tear up? Why not throw a tantrum

as they break glass at the wedding party? I may be lowon mendacity, but a few items distress me dearly:how much time's lost on staggering betrayals, many

perpetuated by yours truly. I don't know who's insidemy body, strutting and squirming, twice the size of California,making the fir trees barely visible, the human race a thimble,

but something sordid makes my lips purse, something pureexhaust smoke. I step aside from thosewho've been anointed to hear voices: they're like bees

under your pant leg that sting and sting, so evenwhen they're dead because they hurt you, the fleshis still gristle, swelling and pulsing: that's where my God is.

Even the Rhapsody in Blue

For beauty I keep a ceramic antique swanAunt Millie gave me when I was three:it makes me think of muffins and cornbread

and a sour jug of milk that smells a littlelike baby puke, and why should that interest anyone?Or there's my father coming to tuck me in,

I'm dreaming now—to beg forgivenesslong after he's dead. Even the Rhapsody in Bluehas its rapid happy parts, its recasting

of street noise, its tap dance on the ceiling,so why can't I begin with an exultation?Never am I happier than licking pistachio gelato

at Perche no, strolling to the Duomoand looking up at all those heavenly faces.My reports from the planet earth have been dismal,

serpentine, prone to inspecting nicks and cuts.I always missed the passage where time stretches outand the human flesh is cloud-like and fragrant.

Imagination is a great gift, you can make it smalland call it escapist, transcendent, fancy,it's walking away from the accident, but isn't it

also the grassiness of asparagus that hauls youto a meadow somewhere between mordent and somber,with a rocky path to the water: a muddy

little river as you remember?