And as Morgan mentioned, that I spent many years working
on the papers of Jack Spicer, whose work I've helped to put
together into collections.
So this was written last summer, as I
was trying to finish that up.
"Now the Things That Are for Jack are Coming to an End".
Everything's-- [CLEARS THROAT] Jesus.
Everything's the same just faster.
An unusual amount of fracture, office worker, and eclipse.
Time wigging into amperes about me.
An unusual color starched and pulled taut over the skin.
The genetic text has become real touching me, touching down.
Are we not born of inequity, property, loot, grandeur,
flinty grammar?
Are we not bread-like, soft tissue, heat-seeking,
and fragile?
In a room of heady effort tomorrow is indeed
a fabulous sail billowing.
Any porous room billowing may be feathered and lined
with French verse cobbled from the vender's brute cries.
Not a jeering mass at mardi gras but telepathy.
The joker skull of yesteryear has opened a door,
fortress dust, human dust.
Tranquil snow-globe dust blanketing evenly, softly.
And now that the things for jack are coming to an end.
I'm a nursery run away from naptime.
To be out here on the other side, John, you're dead
but the water grasses waving, deep under.
Now to brighten the mood, some of you
people are missing winter, this is a recent love poem.