CHEZ MAX
Speaking of substance and shadow, what is
the matter? The table-wine is vile
and it doesn't matter, we keep on
drinking ourselves into indolent satiety or
sudden precise sobriety clapping its fists
at our temples the hard-rock horror of
electric snow cold sweat sweet melee
of bridges and tunnels disseminating blood–
bondage, gathering up
all
the bone-sherds
of my poor shattered neo-American head.
The moment it hits as it is not
god sees imploding perfectest agony.
But to speak of that is . . .
Here in the tower, underfoot, look! out there
the sky, the evident sky, the exemplary
silky innocent cloud-scant sky _
is sensibly blue and inarticulately
immaculately conceived like
celanese parachutes we drop out of the sky in
in falling out on the far side of the division
of love's labours lost or, misapprehended, we are
made out to be the first post-literate generation,
in
transit
with no direction home or without a home
beyond the palindrome . . . and,
well, and I guess that I just don't know
and I guess that I just don't know
if this is
de facto
where it's at, there being
nowhere else to go.
Hence: loathed melancholy strikes again
as coming down I seem to see you
drift nonchalantly into the dream I keep dreaming
where you are leaving and leaving me, my
