412
KARL SHAPIRO
In
Bombay the vegetarians storm the hotel: "You are eating the
flesh of the god!" A dirty cow stands in the doorway of the
office building. A Hindu gives it a kick in the rump and sends
it off in the rain.
I teach the emotions: I. The head is a hugeness already. Sin
is
ruled out. A tropic laugh splits heaven up the middle.
The disciplinarians stalk between the flowers. The whips crash on
the bitten fingernails. It's war from the start. The books are
weighted with lead. The catechism demands more algebra.
Down on your knees.
Who teaches manners of fear? Who teaches reverence of wealth? Why
so many books? What fabulous detail, what attractive bindings!
Did you
ta~e
the Intelligence Test this morning? Would you like
to learn Russian?
The mind, the mind, cleaned like a car, purring like a fan. And
the feelings matted and stuck, scratching the lice of love.
Do you hate your face? It is your sex you hate. Worship has pigged
your eyes.
*
*
*
o
love, phenomenon of attention, hear me out! I hold the shaving
mirror to
all:
To you at breakfast with folded newspaper,
You with the telephone in your hand and the glass name on the door,
You the alumnus, recipient of telegraphed congratulations,
You on election night, you in the driver's seat,
You in dutiful coitus, you in social drunkenness, you in parental
storm;
At the cornerstone, near the triumphal arch, on the cruise deck,
in the ad for bitters,
In
the photograph of the first lieutenant, signed "Ages ago,"
In the vestry room with the males and the white flower,
In
the waiting room of the daffodil maternity ward,
At the elegant tent beside the open grave (the coffin glows like a
fine piano);
To you saluting, you baring your head, you holding the scissor
to the early rose-
