Clayton Eshleman
a poem
**
Upsidedown in Ypsilanti
There is no one in my tomb and I have to get him out.
I cut through the scrotal density of night
as if exit is non-vaginal.
Am I trapped in a generational pouch?
I know immediately when an image charge has been refused.
I know by closure. Something only the poem will reveal
kicks in exit and entrance.
There is no one in my tomb
and I must never kick this no one out.
There is no one in my tomb and I must not wake him up.
I must not apotheosize his hesitant breathing,
must not bury this green surrogate of self.
The poem must wander a knowing older than its prehistoric closure.
I must continue to protect, in my tomb, the spider sutures.
No One is not my tomb, Cycloptic spectre!
What honey do I bear? Is it black,
rimmed with quinine, bum desire in which to curl?
I watch no one climb into my tomb
and refuse to pull the lid.
Is he the self-pity in my self-respect?
Mind is a tenderloin of soup and brothel, all-night library,
hallucinogenic hitching-post, mansion, lotal gold.
I would like to push on forever,
but “I am” is wombed in tombal fortitude,
expanded in curtailment.
**
return to sawbuck 2.3
**
Clayton Eshleman's most recent books are An Alchemist with One Eye on Fire (Black Widow Press, 2006), Reciprocal Distillations (Hot Whiskey Press, 2007), a translation of The Complete Poetry of Cesar Vallejo (University of California Press, 2007). Fall of 2008 Black Widow will publish an Eshleman Reader, 600 pages of poetry, prose, and translations, to be called The Grindstone of Rapport. Eshleman lives with his wife Caryl in Ypsilanti, Michigan, and each June leads a tour to the Ice Age painted caves in southwestern France. His website is www.claytoneshleman.com.
**
Upsidedown in Ypsilanti
There is no one in my tomb and I have to get him out.
I cut through the scrotal density of night
as if exit is non-vaginal.
Am I trapped in a generational pouch?
I know immediately when an image charge has been refused.
I know by closure. Something only the poem will reveal
kicks in exit and entrance.
There is no one in my tomb
and I must never kick this no one out.
There is no one in my tomb and I must not wake him up.
I must not apotheosize his hesitant breathing,
must not bury this green surrogate of self.
The poem must wander a knowing older than its prehistoric closure.
I must continue to protect, in my tomb, the spider sutures.
No One is not my tomb, Cycloptic spectre!
What honey do I bear? Is it black,
rimmed with quinine, bum desire in which to curl?
I watch no one climb into my tomb
and refuse to pull the lid.
Is he the self-pity in my self-respect?
Mind is a tenderloin of soup and brothel, all-night library,
hallucinogenic hitching-post, mansion, lotal gold.
I would like to push on forever,
but “I am” is wombed in tombal fortitude,
expanded in curtailment.
**
return to sawbuck 2.3
**
Clayton Eshleman's most recent books are An Alchemist with One Eye on Fire (Black Widow Press, 2006), Reciprocal Distillations (Hot Whiskey Press, 2007), a translation of The Complete Poetry of Cesar Vallejo (University of California Press, 2007). Fall of 2008 Black Widow will publish an Eshleman Reader, 600 pages of poetry, prose, and translations, to be called The Grindstone of Rapport. Eshleman lives with his wife Caryl in Ypsilanti, Michigan, and each June leads a tour to the Ice Age painted caves in southwestern France. His website is www.claytoneshleman.com.
Labels: 2.3, clayton eshleman
