Karl Shapiro
THE BOURGEOIS POET
I am an atheist who says his prayers.
I am an anarchist, and a full professor at that. I take the loyalty oath.
I am a deviate. I fondle and contribute, backscuttle and brown, father
of three.
I stand high
in
the community. My name is in
Who's Who.
People
argue about my modesty.
I drink my share and yours and never have enough. I freeload
officially and unofficially.
A physical coward, I take on all intellectuals, established poets, popes,
rabbis, chiefs of staff.
I am a mystic. I will take an oath that I have seen the Virgin.
Under the dry pandanus, to the scratching of kangaroo rats, I
achieve psychic onanism. My tree of nerves electrocutes itself.
I uphold the image of America and force my luck. I write my own
ticket to oblivion.
I am of the race wrecked by success. The audience brings me news
of my death. I write out of boredom, despise solemnity. The
wrong reason is good enough for me.
I am of the race of the prematurely desperate. In poverty of comfort
I lay gunpowder plots. I lapse my insurance.
I am the babbitt metal of the future. I never read more than half
of a book. But that half I read forever.
I love the palimpsest, statues without heads, fertility dolls of the
continent of Mu. I dream pre-history, the invention of dye. The
palms of the dancers' hands are vermilion. Their heads oscillate
like the cobra. High caste woman smelling of earth and silk, you
can dry my feet with your hair.
