Here's the last poem in the book.
I have a-- this is timing-wise, we're doing good, perfect.
And I wouldn't mind a Q & A if people had any questions,
but I don't want to--
I don't want to rock the boat.
So I'm just going to jump into this next poem.
It's called "This is the Assemblage."
And I imagine this is--
as the last poem, in some ways, the book kind
of talking, saying goodbye to me.
This is the assemblage, speaking, do you read me?
We have been waiting for you here
in the shadow of our metaphor, under the seats
of this thunderous theater, in a hacienda
loud with parakeets, which is itself
an assemblage of assemblages.
You can see how there is no end to this.
Times like these we are immortal together.
Say the word and you're our conqueror,
find the treasure and we split it like an atom,
find the portal and we'll take it like a day
trip, a trope, a paratrooper at the bomb bay door.
We are what we are, only infinitely better, old-school,
ostensible, and not all that hiding stuff up our sleeves--
it's just arms and arms, which we admit to freely.
They extend to meet your needs.
And how they keep you company: like a burgundy
you can attune yourself to accordingly,
sip after sip, golden apple, yellow pear.
We are not worthless here, but cradled
in a hold the escape from which is ever imminent,
even after it happens, even when we
stand for nothing in particular other than the motion of it,
more than furniture, more than vehicle with wheels or wings,
we are the voice you choose when you can't choose
to, we are your portion of all things,
so if you feel as if a spell is cast on you
or you can't quite account for yourself,
remember we'll always be here at the bottom of it, over,
all we have is life.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]