For That One True Sentence
Joyce had bouts of poverty.
Poe died dead broke. Federal writers
got a New Deal. Remember Hemingway
and his long-suffering first wife, Hadley?
It was her trust fund that launched him
to Paris. He drank rum St. James
in the cafes while she shivered for lack
of a winter coat. His second wife’s uncle
gave him the dough to go on safari.
Fitzgerald couldn’t buy a break,
falling in love with Zelda who held-out
for success, crazy and jealous of its source.
This is being written between questions
of when will I get to cutting the grass
and fixing the roof. There’s a cafe
not far from here, a place I’d find as
comfortable as a hemorrhoid the day
after chili and beer. Some work devoid
of stimulus-gratis, others are successful
stereotypes, lapping up the milk of pretense,
cats paws scratching the hands that feed them.
And what does it matter?
We all pay the vulgar coinage
for that one true sentence.
To a Place
Light lies
in wait of day to spread
rumors of color.
Let all truth rain
down in bloodless drops
from leaden skies:
molten dome
over water not silver blue,
boyhood days ago.
Same water,
flat, wormy taste,
gray eyes
see color
as color is:
a smoky fire,
the dingy ash
of white lies
floats silently.
Let them rise,
bubbling foul spring,
from gray watershed
eyes to a place
of all truth,
to a place
of all lies,
past blank stares
into albescent skies.
