streaked song sparrow pecking up seeds from table in right
foreground, blue jay on pine branch above it, green passion
vine-covered fence on left
   Ashbery's “today it is possible
not to speak in metaphors,” Eliot's “gasworks” calling forth
the whole history of human thought
   man in light blue shirt
reading Eigner's “footwork/skateboard/middle of the street/ between trees/sunlight,” its “direct experience of event
in its actual condition,” Zukofsky's “I” also the “eye”

curve of white spray blowing back from wave breaking
across channel, wingspan of pelican gliding above it

horizontal line of a pink cloud above still dark plane
of trees in the lower left corner, sound of wind moving
tobacco plant leaves, wingspan of a jet passing overhead

woman in green sweater recalling arriving with 105 degree
fever in Tahiti, thinking she was tired because of jet lag

woman on plane with bad back asking man to get her bag down
from overhead compartment, older woman in window seat asking
him to “get mine too,” man saying “no”
   plane of grey-white
cloud slanting across pale blue-white sky in the upper right
corner, sunlit slope of the sandstone-colored cliff below it

sparrow landing on tobacco plant branch in upper right
foreground, sound of drop falling into watering can next
to green glass back door, waves breaking in channel
   woman
leaving message on phone machine noting her mother left her
glasses at reading, “Calvin Klein glasses in a black case”

woman in maroon sweater standing in front of the brick-
red plane, who says “I want to lead us from one form
of reality to another, and I've got myself up a tree”

white gulls moving behind circular green pine on tip
of sandspit, blue-green wave breaking across channel

dried hemlock stalk slanting across still dark ridge, green
passion vine-covered fence below it, cloudless blue-white
sky overhead
   man on the radio calling Jayne Mansfield
“the swansong of pre-nude sexuality in films,” noting
“her immensely voluptuous body”
   woman on the phone
recalling the ocean “too green to be cold,” the sun's
“bisected orange ball throwing alien pink on the water,”
so many stars she thought she was walking in technicolor

blinding silver line of sunlight reflecting across channel,
whiteness of gull on triangular orange tip of the GROIN sign

Timmy and Tommy break a bar of taffy in the gutter

Their tan lines are showing

Their hard taffy candy breaks in two pieces
that is its attraction.

Even if you had no friend to share it with
you would still break it, and eat both pieces.

The atmosphere is crisp and cold.
You would break his back at the tan line

His friend sat back, according to his will
Up to the balls, up to the balls

The day comes to a succulent close

Distinctions disappear, you're better
off by yourself
or with somebody else

Maybe two people

These ribcracking boys Timmy
and Tommy of the Stadium

Three friends have I, Mr. Potato Head
with bumps on it, and pink glasses,
and Lady Bracknell, a broken record
who always says the same thing twice,
       and then there's my image in the mirror.

This image, the most Lacan of my friends,
is writ in water, won't shut his eyes.
Even when I'm bad, he takes me,
and unlike my woman friend the broken record
      never repeats what I say, what I say

Kevin's his name, and Kevin his reflection.
He's got a bad bite on the side of his neck.
Where I thought it was love, he knows
what the fuck I was doing with
      a glass of wine in human form.

Under the influence of your love I
broke off with Mr. Potato, the Irishman.
Once I'd adored him and gone round the world.
Under the influence of your love I
      made a few mistakes, I see, in my mirror,

in the mystic ball mounted in the garden.
The sun seems to whisper what time it is,
and rows of flowers bow and curtsy,
stately as diplomats. Daisies who don't tell
      what the fuck I'm doing in a garden,

under your influence, in your wine,
hearing your whine across a hollow of
dark tarn, friendless now in your love, in
your urine like a string of blood
      churned in a vodka, so, where am I?

The blind now
forces paper to put
upon itself. What was read
is blackened by the name of blood.

I, says the cat, will sit
upon the chest of my conquered curl.
I, says the gun, will kill
anyone who comes between
the pressure of my trigger??
and what? Did I intend rain?

Evidently. The sufferers line up
to petition our please.
And-and-and the stutterers
sing the siren's curse.

Now is the season?ñ
the reason for our furrowed brows.
Pop-pop!
the gun goes.
The stage is empty.
there weren't any heroes.

Los Angeles, 16 April 2002