WEBVTT

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Traveling-- I guess
the rhythm of my life

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is somehow moved between
traveling and retreating,

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between the privacy
that it takes to work

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and the traveling for programs,
different universities.

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You know what I mean.

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This is an age of
people traveling around.

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Here's a poem that
sort of went back

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to the very beginnings of
this sort of rhythmic pattern

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in my life.

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And it's been very influential
on my style, I guess.

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It's a poem called "Rubicon".

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And it takes place at
two different times.

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It takes up place right
after I got married

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and then back when
I was still a boy.

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My parents did a lot of
traveling to escape the--

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my father liked to
play golf and tennis

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and used to try to
escape the cold weather.

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"Rubicon".

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"The train from the
tail of my memory

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careens through the night
field South to the peg leg

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of America, Florida.

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Buried somewhere in the
swamps, the fountain of youth.

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A boy still trying to grow into
his face clasps and mother's

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hand on the station platform.

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He is aware of the
cop wearing rule

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on his hip, the silver
of his pistol teasing

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the clasped hand.

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Hand clasped is now I
hold yours teasing dawn.

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At dawn, the boy leaps to
the coupling between the cars

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where Negro porters take on
oranges as the train slowly

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moves out, swerving, bouncing,
rhythmic under his body,

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transport as a woman.

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In the wood pen
yards, young girls

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squat facing the tracks with
squalor, allure of the limbs.

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The suit of wool he wears
scouring his thighs as he

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sits erect in rooms of adults.

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This train bears sailor's
past Pensacola to Korea,

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taking their last leer at the
women aware of the jogging

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motion the Pullman
makes, carrying

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sweet aromas of orange peels.

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He was meant to be saccharine.

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His girls were meant
to have pedigree.

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His first girl had pink pants.

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She said, boys tickle.

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At Fort Lauderdale, Sunday,
'53, the weather is shut thighs.

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The train speeds
to its destination.

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An orange blossom special in
Ponce de Leon's nightmare.

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A vibration in the surge
as the brakes grasp.

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The boy careened through
thighs, letting his bowlful

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with silence at this station.

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Life slowly leaking out
into the tropic bed."

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