- The Return of Coyote, and: Song of Innocence, and: Another Hymn to Aphrodite, and Plain and Simple, and: Making Sense, and: The Silence
The Return of Coyote
"Coyote Sighted in Central Park"
—New York Times headline
Yeah, that's me, spiky hair blowin' in the wind, tight black fishnet stockings almost cutting me in half, looking in throughtheir open penthouse window to a world like an installation made of hedge funds, real-estate mergers, and junk bonds,me drooling at the laden board in front of a big Basquiat with horns and Giacometti's L'Homme au doigt, whileTony Bennett and Lady Gaga drift out and over Central Park. Sure, I'd like to blow it all up, but it would all come crashing downon my head, like when I scattered the stars, and I can't suppress a bar or two of "Oh Happy Day" because it's as if Godlived up here, though if He were a celebrity He'd be better known, I think, until I'm distracted by a whiff of Joy and the sparkleof Château d'Yquem, but this time can't suppress a howl of delight so I have to slip off and drop down onto Park Avenue,a shadow of flaps and patches, pulling my fedora over my pink pussy hat, headphones piping in Jay Z or Monteverdi,trotting on down to Wall Street, where I give them my version of Giacometti's finger, squeeze the Charging Bull's balls,pinch the Fearless Girl, sell a tourist a bottle of 9/11 air, hang out with Crusties and their pit bulls until a cab flattens me, wipeout,but I pop back up, a bit wobbly, climb back on, after all, I made life then death so you'd take life seriously even thoughwhat I plan seldom turns out. I play my parts, double as myself, multi-me, my own marplot. Anyways, off I go again, sniffing things out,a scat here, a piss there, just truckin', hungry as hell though I make even concrete yield something, here where the traffic's terrible [End Page 109] and crowds worse. Return? I never left, and if we survive all this, or even if we don't, I'll still be looking for you, and so, Bella,ciao! Allons! I toss my red bandiera over my shoulder and set off. Though I have no idea where I'm going I'll get there. And ifyou haven't already forgotten me, and still want to find me, look under your boot soles, and take it from there. But what do I know,que sais-je? If you believe this you'll believe anything, so let's leave this story where it is and start another [End Page 110]
Song of Innocence
We can get to know the heavens, for instance, by hoisting the moon back the way we found it,give the tired sun a boost up, replace the planets in their slots, easing out a few just for kicks,and to balance bright asterids up there place a shadblow in bloom down here, even stir clouds in a swirlround Jupiter, flick sunflower spin-wheels at the center of black holes, and there it is,the universe laughing at itself and me laughing at myself standing by the window watching birdshaul themselves out to rest where night claims any light left in the deepest parts of trees untilit too is swept with its stars and moon like a flower into moths' antennae, throats of spring peepers,a new world reflected in the eyes of mice. [End Page 111]
Another Hymn to Aphrodite
I've always wanted to translate the Homeric hymnwhere foam had deposited the goddess on the high crags
of "sea-girt Cyprus," where the Graces placed flowers ofcopper and gold in her pierced ears, wove a gold fillet in
her hair and over her breasts draped a gold-inlaid necklace,readying her for the gods who all want a piece of her, but
she just stands there looking over their shoulders, listeningto distant dogs, catching in the corner...