My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer

SONG FOR BIRD AND MYSELF

SONG FOR BIRD AND MYSELF I am dissatisfied with my poetry. I am dissatisfied with my sex life. I am dissatisfied with the angels I believe in. Neo-classical like Bird, Distrusting the reality Of every note. Half-real We blow the sentence pure and real Like chewing angels. “Listen, Bird, why do we have to sit here dying In a half-furnished room? The rest of the combo Is safe in houses Blowing bird-brained Dixieland, How warm and free they are. What right Music.” “Man, We Can’t stay away from the sounds. We’re crazy, Jack We gotta stay here ’til They come and get us.” Neo-classical like Bird. Once two birds got into the Rare Book Room. Miss Swift said, “Don’t Call a custodian Put crumbs on the outside of the window Let them Come outside.” Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 69 69 Neo-classical The soft line strains Not to be neo-classical. But Miss Swift went to lunch. They Called a custodian. Four came. Armed like Myrmidons, they Killed the birds. Miss Munsterberg Who was the first American translator of Rilke Said “Suppose one of them Had been the Holy Ghost.” Miss Swift, Who was back from lunch, Said “Which.” But the poem isn’t over. It keeps going Long after everybody Has settled down comfortably into laughter. The bastards On the other side of the paper Keep laughing. .  .   ’ . Butterflies. I knew there would be butterflies For butterflies represent the lost soul Represent the way the wind wanders Represent the bodies We only clasp in the middle of a poem. See, the stars have faded. Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 70 70 There are only butterflies. Listen to The terrible sound of their wings moving. Listen, The poem isn’t over. Have you ever wrestled with a bird, You idiotic reader? Jacob wrestled with an angel. (I remind you of the image) Or a butterfly Have you ever wrestled with a single butterfly? Sex is no longer important. Colors take the form of wings. Words Have got to be said. A butterfly, A bird, Planted at the heart of being afraid of dying. Blow, Bird, Blow, Be, Neo-classical. Let the wings say What the wings mean Terrible and pure. The horse In Cocteau Is as neo-classical an idea as one can manage. Writes all our poetry for us Is Gertrude Stein Is God Is the needle for which Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 71 71 God help us There is no substitute Or the Ace of Swords When you are telling a fortune Who tells death. Or the Jack of Hearts Whose gypsy fortune we clasp In the middle of a poem. “And are we angels, Bird?” “That’s what we’re trying to tell ’em, Jack There aren’t any angels except when You and me blow ’em.” So Bird and I sing Outside your window So Bird and I die Outside your window. This is the wonderful world of Dixieland Deny The bloody motherfucking Holy Ghost. This is the end of the poem. You can start laughing, you bastards. This is The end of the poem. Spicer: My Vocabulary Did This to Me page 72 72 ...