Short Poems

at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.

Thinking hard about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
before discovering
that I was
alone.

Everybody wants to go to bed
with everybody else, they're
lined up for blocks, so I'll
go to bed with you. They won't
miss us.

After the dance we cross the oval in pairs
to the steep bank behind the softball field.
The hall is bolted shut, teachers pass in the dark,
smoking and talking on the way to their cars.
It’s cold on the ground, my buttons loose to the sky.

she tries to get things
out of men
that she can't get
because she's not
15% prettier

»Works« are dead rock, sprung from resounding chisel,
When the master is at work, chipping away at his living self.
»Works« announce the mind as pupas announce the butterfly:
»Look, it left me behind – lifeless – and fluttered away.«
»Works« are like reeds, Midas' whispering reeds,
Spreading secrets long after having ceased to be true.

One who runs away from the books,
Runs away from one’s mental liberation…
One who runs towards the books,
Runs towards one’s intellectual enlightenment…

185

"Faith" is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see—
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.

Admirez le pouvoir insigne
Et la noblesse de la ligne :
Elle est la voix que la lumière fit entendre
Et dont parle Hermès Trismégiste en son Pimandre.

If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I'm not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
And blind me to a standstill if it must.