Compulsion Because he did not write yesterday, today he must write twice. Having switched on a lamp, he must turn on a second lamp. He must not waver in his intention lest he have to make a correction on the opposite side: a man who, having fallen on his left side must touch his right knee down to placate the forces of equilibrium. Extreme, yes, but not uncommon where mumbo-jumbo hides in sidewalk cracks and issues from the throats of chickens in times of slaughter. We have lawns from which all happenstance has been yanked, bagged and delivered to an inferno. Burn the evidence to lose both sides at once. He believed he could sort any hodgepodge into groups but how? Weight, color, transparency, utility? – locks, pens, ashtrays, balls, matchbooks, spoons – and the doctor waiting while he ran through the possibilities. The idea, which the doctor could not fathom, was to even things up so that nothingness remained whole. It was always his argument with time, which, he was certain, symmetry eats in space. [End Page 49] Geezers Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld It was a breeze to grow old. The dust settled. Some dunes moved. I left Long Island for the plains and mountains, and here I am, a bit retired, a bit unstrung, a little off my rocker still, but still first out on the dance floor, as quick as ever to defend the duck and the swan, the soft soap if innocent, the quip if it zings a Yalie or a social engineer. I am, like you, a witness to the coffins that were Viet Nam and Iraq, to a political machine that came up three lemons. Not every geezer is old, not every prez mature. I am the big ears and the wide eyes to whom time happened. I lived in stormy weather writing songs of love because, tell me if you know, who can help it? Variation on a Theme by Wordsworth "The world is too much with us . . . " "When you're dead you're done," sings Ray Charles, so we rock and roll long after nightfall. We woke seeking in the sweating grasses at dawn the rising gods of the earth, and we cheered beautiful Apollo when he slowed his chariot to give us longer days. But the sun bowed in shadow, and the pale moon lowered its face. I'd like to spot a few immortals [End Page 50] myself, now my time has grown short, so much to be done and still the music of the spheres in my ears. Nature was a sour smell of seaweed and dead fish belly-up in the canal, but then the sweet fennel by the path, and wild clouds of roses. And the sea never stopped sweeping the ocean floor of wreckage and unspent coinage. Stirred While the cream swirls in the eddy of your coffee, and the roasted scent opens some place within you that sleeps unless stirred, you may contemplate the sly incineration of your dreams the first cup of morning accomplishes. Where mournful sounds wrapped you in an endless elegy to nothing, where there was no escaping your pursuer, where the car was hurtling, brakeless, toward the pier, now the warm fumes percolate the day before you. Thankful you feel, to be awake instead of aware. Two cups to be rewired for the day. Three, perhaps, to reenact your dreams. Never to know when enough is enough. [End Page 51] The Poems I Want to Hear Poems in the spirit of those who know they will die. In the swell of the horizon over land or over water. In the exaltation of gulls but also crows. In the bursting of the sun exhaling before the mirror of its body. Also in the pull of the moon that moves tides above and below ground...