The Blues Don't Change is an assemblage
of poems from three previous volumes.
And I thought perhaps I'd read a poem from each volume.
I'm not sure that there's such thing as growth in the arts.
I know that there isn't--
there's no such thing as progress in the arts.
A lot of writers, and painters, and dancers, and musicians,
and filmmakers like to liken themselves to scientists.
And they feel that there's such thing as progress in the arts.
But because spirit is a sort of changeless and timeless,
and art really is about spirit, and when
you go to hear somebody sing or perform music,
you're really going to hear the human spirit being performed.
And the more adroit a musician or a performer
is at doing this, the more you're drawn into it.
I don't think that art progresses.
I think it just sort of expresses
what's on people's minds at various times.
But when you look back through a new and selected poems
collection, you like to think, well, I was terrible then,
and I'm better now, and all of that.
And that's all arbitrary, too.
It just depends upon who's doing the reading.
And you're no longer the person that you used to be.
This is from the first book, which was called Dancing.
And Dancing was so named because I
thought that of all the metaphors,
the metaphor of the dance typified
what goes on in the world, that everything is
in a state of motion, moving.
This podium seems hard and solid,
but you who study physics know that if you put the electron
microscope to it, there's not much there.
It's all full of holes, and everything is moving around.
And to me, that's very exciting.
It means there's always hope.
"Dancing in the Laundromat" or "Dust--
An Ordinary Song."
I love you.
I need you, you in the laundromat
among the telltale result of the ubiquitous garment industry.
Shirts and blouses-- we have arms.
Bras and the tops of bathing suits--
you have breasts.
Briefs and shorts, panties, skirts, and bottoms--
we have bottoms, centers, middles, stomachs, bellies,
crotches, and cores--
on down to trousers, and slacks, and contemporary leg gear,
butt-lined white lined, blue lined,
rose lined, black lined, khaki lined, rainbow, clothesline.
Line up.
I blow you clean, low kisses from transparent lips, a vowel
shaped word, and no word.
The well-sudsed stocking feet continuing, the beds
and sheets, pillowcases, tender, towel, and rag.
Apparel we take for granted delight
of all but the nakedest eye.
What is it we wear that never needs washing?
What is it we wear that never wears?