I can read & read
& read
but mostly
fingers slick with natural oils
or grease, one could say
(as if sneaking across the DMZ and speaking of the enemy)
nothing comes. The tip snaps off
under some enormous privilege
singular, impregnable
& now I’m stealing words
slick
from Philip Levine’s poem about pubic hair
(I once read that his poems —
(slick and stark —
(are about … people! a collective gasp.)
but anyway, the tip regenerates
a process more painful in full measure
snaps off again by some impregnable pleasure
the whole thing pinks
like the volcano long ago
by which some insufferable Italians
are snuffed out — tell me more
about the Italians — their terrible
airplane fetish, their terribly boring
crystal balls. Just so totally wrong.
Yesterday while reading I don’t remember what,
I thought about my diet
being chased through the Temple of Doom. Look
at the fat, pink writing tool whimpering
(absolute, admirable
(though thrift-poor and truly profit free)
“You don’t
like it but you get used to it.”
I know now
