I'm called "Palominos."
I tend to over talk this poem, I'll try not to in the preface.
In the poem, there are several unreal palominos and at least
one real palomino.
And I think of the palominos, the word palomino,
the speaker thinks of the palominos
as symbols of the imagination in some way.
And perhaps you could think of the way in which the imagination
can possibly save us in the ways in which it can't.
"Palominos."
"In Manhattan, when the flies gathered
around the mouth of a wino sticking
in the muscatel on his chin and dying, I was feeding a palomino.
I have always been feeding a palomino.
When the tanks rolled in Athens, the palomino
I needed for departure finished the last of my apples.
In Spain, when the guardia raised his machine gun,
I was feeding a palomino though my hands appeared
to be reaching into the air.
I could do it in my sleep in a room half the size of a palomino
if I had to.
It's a luxury, the way escaping through the window of an office
that never existed is a luxury, only men
who feed palominos really know.
Can you understand?
Beneath my shirt where my heart once was a small orphan palomino
moans when women slip their hands inside.
This is his only food and he hasn't been eating well lately.
Once in Aruba, the dark hands of a prostitute
turned him into a stallion.
And in Denver one cold afternoon,
I tried feeding him with my own hands,
but he knew the difference.
Bit at my shirt, bit at my invisible palomino monogram,
left me naked, open to ridicule.
But I would never stop feeding palominos.
At dinner last night in that peculiar silence that
follows burnt vegetables, overdone beef, several palominos
licked my fingers beneath the table.
One of them was pregnant, she ate like a horse
and I climbed on her and she took me for a ride
where other palominos were and the dinner became meaningless,
and I loved my wife.
That is what palominos will do for you if you feed them,
it is their special dignity, their hunger for the loose hay
we all have lying around.
Right now, there are carrots in my pocket that
look like palominos would love them
if the occasion ever arises.
But here on this farm outside of Syracuse, things are so quiet,
the summer is practically over and there's a palomino
out back who is so real.
I must feed her every day.
Happy or not.
She is very beautiful, but she cannot be counted
on in emergencies."
[APPLAUSE]