Such succous stuff, this thickness of sin
That sheens the body like the shine of sweat
And shines us in its slick heat.
Of snakeskin and ebony and humbucking magnets
Are slick sin’s thick songs made.
Surgery on the lake of fire
The will is amputated with a piece of steel,
The patient recovers
But does not live.
March 1, 1975—February 5, 2016
Talking Ring Out Ahoya Blues No. 43
They are very beautiful and
They have agreed on a smile.
Their mouths are worth several thousand dollars
(the orthodontist says)
And their bodies are made of the finest steel wire
With souls of paisley and hearts of madras
Guaranteed to blood
(they do not believe in premarital life)
BUT SERIOUSLY, FOLKS
When I think about the manyness of poets
And the poems beyond number already written,
And the thousand or so (ten thousand or so)
That get written every day, I get depressed.
I feel like Psyche scratching her chin,
Standing before the granaries
She must sort out to get her Eros back.
How can anyone find time to find fine
Kernels amid all that flax? How can
Anyone stay in savor with all the
New poems? Or ever hope to be saved?
When I think of the manyness of poets,
I am delighted. All this energy
Roaring up daily like constant incense
To the Logos. All these poems
a-swarm like butterflies, some
iridescent, some faint and pale,
some near China blue with flecks of black,
some madder red and dusty brown,
all of them flying up and out
in a whirlpooling come
flying up from earth
sucked out into the sun.
Mike Foster, 2004