- Mother, and: A House with No Attic, and: The Truck Driver and Me, and: Poems with Fog
my mother goes soft listening to a xylophone. according to the dictionary: musical instrument in the percussion family, made of wooden bars. the xylophone, not my mother. but if my mother wants to she turns into an instrument, she turns musical, she turns percussive, she pulls off a bar and gives me a beating that makes me go soft. it's all about suggesting it like Beethoven's father, who couldn't have been that bad when the son was so good. Beethoven's thing was the piano; his father's musical education. a xylophone looks like a piano. the xylophone, not my mother. but if my mother wants to she turns into a piano and she lets the lid fall on my fingers so i'm piano, so i'll never be able to come back from going soft, like Beethoven's father would do it. or even better. like the poet's mother does.
A House with No Attic
IMy love, think of the advantages of living in a house with no attic: you'll never fall from the ladder, the children who like to play there won't either, you won't have to clean it, even if it's just once a year. Think of the horror of discovering rats. I don't think you could handle it. Besides, there's no way for families to get rid of useless things, they just leave them in the attic. An attic is useless, except for hanging on to cadavers: broken toys, wooden saints, the tree with Christmas decorations. Cadavers from lost childhood, lost faith, lost happiness. And photos, hundreds of photos in shoe boxes. [End Page 58]
III lock myself away in the attic of a house with no attic. I lock myself away to write of life hidden from life. If they ask, tell them I've gone on a little walk. A verisimilar excuse friends will forgive. A real excuse. I prefer to stroll in winter so I only meet up with two or three people I know. Nothing personal. The best thing about misanthropes is that they'll never hold a conference. The best thing about misanthropes is that they recognize one another like a murderer recognizes another murderer at those tables in some café. If they ask, tell them I've gone on a little walk with myself. I lock myself away to write. I lock myself away to write. I lock myself away. It's so cold in the attic of a house with no attic.
IIIWorse than a house with no attic is a country with no attic. Where's the attic of a country? On the highest mountain? In its most lucid mind? In its best leader, its best hero, its best poet? Or its most innocent child? To dust off the country's attic. To keep an eye on the approaching storm through its porthole. Worse than a house with no attic is a country with no attic: a country of basements.
The Truck Driver and Me
the first time i heard a poem, a poem by Charles Bukowski, was in the cab of a truck. it was a radio program and the truck driver turned up the volume. i thought, this jerk is going to turn off the radio any second. but the truck driver kept listening. the Bukowski thing was incredible: he spoke somewhat proudly about his father getting drunk and beating him. it seemed like what he was saying was that drunken bouts and beatings hadn't been able to ruin him, Charles Bukowski. later on they played music and the truck driver put on his sunglasses. these radio programs, he growled, are pointless. the first time i heard a poem, a poem by Charles Bukowski, was when i was going home. sometimes a truck driver can fool us. [End Page 59]
Poems with Fog
poems with fog, horrendous poems with fog where you can't...