A place that his first poem in the book--
that obvious idea of wanting to gain as much about life
and experience as you can, without going over the brink
into death or going out of your mind or whatever
brink or threshold, you could think of.
OK I'll finish up with three or four poems.
This one is the only kind of political poem--
I suppose "Trifles Drop" was.
This was taken from a newspaper statement
by Ev Dirksen which I thought was rather interesting.
I won't imitate Ev even though I could.
He mentioned, "I don't want anyone to blow my head off,
because the flowers need me.
I told the Sheriff, I hope he, the killer,
waits till the frost comes and the barn swallows are gone."
This was in reference to his being threatened half a dozen
times in the last few months.
Remember when he had security guards over him?
So in a kind of Shakespearean tragic mask,
he mentions that he must wait.
He doesn't want to go until the frost comes, until the barn
swallows are gone.
And I thought this is interesting that, obviously, we
can't transform ourselves into that bird or that flower.
But to have this kind of involvement
in some kind of experience, or are being that dedicated.
Even if he meant it or not, doesn't matter to my purposes,
that he, or someone, wants to stay around
to be the caretaker of nature is of interest.
And so I wrote it along those lines.
Also the implication is that it's pretty damn stupid
when someone has to assassinate a man because he can't confront
him face to face.
Instead of going right up to him and grabbing him,
and say "I demand that you tell me what you're doing.
What your motives are."
To absent yourself, and be the detached killer
leaves the whole argument unsaid.
So that is the other major reason
for writing this anti-assassination poem.
"This is the sudden winter face off.
Not with words or a dark angered face thrusting at the window,
but unsigned bullets in flight to explode the breath away
and leave the argument unsaid.
Neither the swallows nor the marigolds
have willed his coming.
In a time of bloom, when a man must play God
and through all this disorder.
For the bulge above someone's heart is no shy
Cupid in disguise.
A cold breeze stirs from the North.
The barn creaks in his empty hull,
and flowers sleep in their roots.
Sparrows turn down ahead of danger,
and the County Sheriff's badge catches
the last rays of daylight.
The killer's target shifts in light,
and coaxes his own body into lust.
To be the bird, to be the flower,
and not drop a feather or a pedal
until the last unseen shadow's path can spring
gushes in the live blood."