OK, now I don't have anything that is as daring as that poem,
in terms of the use of language, as experimental,
but I have one that is a fairly daring
in terms of its use of context, and its use of history.
It's called "The Golden Jubilee"
As you probably know, the Jubilee Year
was the year in the Jewish calendar when
all the prisons were emptied, and all the debts
were forgiven.
And then it came to be the golden Jubilee, the year
of Queen Victoria's 50th year of reign,
and then that morphed into a song, which I think
was a Negro spiritual originally, the golden Jubilee,
and I use the three lines from that song as an epigraph.
This poem moves enormously fast, perhaps too fast.
It's in four parts.
It's a compression of history into one day.
And many of the things in it are absolutely factual,
but many of them are made up, and many of them are skewed,
but some of those figures are 30,000 at one point were
murdered, were killed.
I think that was in El Salvador, and those are factual figures.
The Golden Jubilee.
"In that far off sweet forever, just beyond the shining river,
when they ring those golden bells, for you and me.
One.
On the morning that lasts forever.
The neighbors are playing a tape of Tibetan monks
again, somewhere between groaning and flatulence,
calling it music.
We could take the dog for a walk, if we had a dog.
A famous contortionist has a fit of hiccups
while practicing the Bavarian pretzel,
and buggers himself severely before anyone
can come to his rescue.
He swears it has never happened before,
but he shows little remorse, saying,
such accidents are simply hazards of the profession,
and virginity is an asset only to the very young.
The skinheads are greasing their heads and straps,
applying for jobs as prison guards.
The prison guards are eating turnips, chewing thoughtfully,
dreaming of escape.
It is sunny.
The young president and his wife get into a convertible.
The seeds of death are in the flowers of death.
Who will catch the bouquet?
Soon, love will arrive, wearing a necklace of garlic,
and riding a crow.
Two.
During the afternoon that last forever,
a young earthquake ponders the laws of physics,
and the dictionary grows a new head of hair.
A thief steals a purse, and finds in it a living magpie.
He feeds the bird and cares for it, they become inseparable.
Years after the magpie's death, he finds in its nest
the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
God sleeps and dreams about rain.
It begins to rain.
A revolt breaks out in El Salvador,
and the government kills 30,000 peasants.
A hummingbird flies out of a dead man's eye.
An ex nun marries an ex priest, and they both
become prison guards.
A prisoner looks through the tiny window of his cell,
and sees the second, third, and fourth comings.
Jesus saves, he shouts, everybody but me.
Someone is still sobbing behind a curtain,
and will not be comforted.
Those with souls turn to those who have none,
and say, you don't look a day older.
Love sleeps triumphant on a bed of rice and mushrooms.
Three.
During the evening that lasts forever,
an old pederast sits in his basement room.
The light from his little, high window
becomes murky, as if the room is going underwater.
He waits for the phone to ring, for someone
to try to sell him something, for any voice in the world
to talk to him.
The president and his wife enter a box in the theater,
the audience applauds.
A mad carpenter and his fishermen friends
get into a leaky boat to cross the lake.
It won't work, the boat is overloaded,
somebody is going to have to walk.
Later, the Pope walks into a tough bar,
in the barrio dressed as a cowboy.
He orders a tequila, rolls a smoke one-handed,
and lights a match on the seat of his Levi's.
Everybody knows he is a fake, but nobody says a word.
The skeleton crew of the Inquisition
waits in his pickup, parked in the alley,
down which love staggers, stoned again,
and squats to take a pee.
Four.
In the night that lasts forever, the neighbors
are playing Mexican chicken scratch polkas, dogs howl,
the ex nun and ex priest are killed in a prison riot.
They go to heaven, where the thief admits them immediately.
The Pope objects and spray paints traitors on the walls,
his truck is riding low.
The contortionist continues to practice the Bavarian pretzel,
but never performs it in public.
The boat makes it to shore, with the carpenter treading water
beside it.
The fishermen will later exaggerate the story,
as fishermen always do.
The vultures in El Salvador get fat during the night that
will last forever, and an earthquake
destroys much of Bolivia.
The prisoner becomes a Pentecostal preacher.
Someone is still sobbing behind a curtain.
The curtain rises, it is a man with a gun.
He shoots into the president's box.
Blood sprays out onto the audience,
who accept it as sacrament.
Towards dawn of the night that lasts
forever, love returns repentant, bells are ringing, golden bells
are ringing.
[APPLAUSE]