cab through springtime Central Park,
I kept my nose outside the window like a dog.
The stars above my bed at night are vast.
I think it is uncool to call young women Ms.
My darling is a platform I see stars from in the dark,
And all the dogs begin to bark.
My grunting gun brings down her charging warthog,
And she is frying on white water, clinging to a log,
And all the foam and fevers shiver.
And drink has made chopped liver of my liver!
Between my legs itâs Baudelaire.
He wrote about her Central Park of hair.
I look for the
minuterie
as if I were in France,
In darkness, in the downstairs entrance, looking for the light.
Iâm on a timer that will give me time
To see the way and up the stairs before the lights go out.
The so delicious Busby Berkeley dancers dance
A movie musical extravaganza on the staircase with me every night.
Such fun! We dance. We climb. We slip in slime.
Weâre squirting squeezes like a wedge of lime!
Itâs like a shout.
Itâs what
minuterie
is all about.
Just getting to the landing through the dark
That has been interrupted for a minute is a lark.
And sheâs so happy. It is grand!
I put my mobile in her ampersand.
The fireworks are a fleeting puff of sadness.
The flowers when they reach the stars are tears.
I donât remember poems I write.
I turn around and they are gone.
I do remember poor King Richard Nixonâs madness.
Pierre Leval, we loved those years!
We knocked back shots of single malt all night.
Beer chasers gave
dos caballeros
double vision, second sightâ
Twin putti pissing out the hotel window on the Scottish dawn.
A crocodile has fallen for a fawn.
I live flap copy for a childrenâs book.
He wants to lick. He wants to look.
A tiny goldfinch is his Cupid.
Love of cuntry makes men stupid.
It makes men miss Saddam Hussein!
Democracy in Baghdad makes men think
Monstrosity was not so bad.
I followed Gandhi barefoot to
Remind me there is something else till it began to rain.
The hurricane undressing of democracy in Baghdad starts to sink
The shrunken page size of
The New York Times
, and yet we had
A newspaper that mattered once, and that is sad,
But that was when it mattered. Do
I matter? That is true.
I donât matter but I do. I lust for fame,
And after never finding it I never was the same.
I roared into the heavens and I soared,
And landed where I started on a flexing diving board.
I knew a beauty named Dawn Green.
I used to wake at the crack of Dawn.
I wish I were about to land on Plymouth Rock,
And had a chance to do it all again but do it right.
It was green dawn in pre-America. I mean
Great scented forests all along the shore, which now are gone.
Iâve had advantages in life and I pronounce Iraq âIrrock.â
The right schools taught me how to tock.
Iâm tocking Turkey to the Kurds but with no end in sight.
These peace tocks are my last. Goodbye, Iran. Iran, good night.
They burned the undergrowth so they could see the game they hunt.
That made the forest a cathedral clear as crystal like a cunt.
Their arrows entered red meat in the glory
Streaming down from the clerestory.
Carine Rueff, I was obsessedâI was
possessed!
I liked your name.
I liked the fact Marie Christine Carine Rue F was Jewish.
It emphasized your elegance in Paris and in Florence.
You were so blond in rue de lâUniversité!
The dazzling daughter of de Gaulleâs adviser Jacques Rueff was game
For anything. Iâm lolling here in Mayfair under bluish
Clouds above a bench in Mount Street Gardens, thinking torrents.
Purdey used to make a gun for shooting elephants.
One cannot be the way one was back then today.
It went away.
I go from Claridgeâs to Brands Hatch racing circuit and come back
To Claridgeâs, and out and eat and drink and bed, and fade to black.
The elephants were old enough to die but were aghast.
The stars above this jungle poem are vast.
To
Weston Ochse, David Whitman