TRANSPARENT ALWAYS

for Holly

Edward Smith

[one: the text]

back in the 60’s

PL, the approximately Maoist component

of SDS, said join the military

because we must share the experiences

of our generation, or

was it Spartacist, one of ‘em

I can’t remember

my point being

that’s what I’ve gone & done

or darn near, which

makes me some kind of authority

on practically everything

there is, for example,

this poetry, simple

with deep feeling

no longer than it has to be

refuting the wacky nonsense

of as many academic birdbrains

as could dance on the tailpipe

of the Harley-Davidson

driven by the Adonis of Denver

and all his wordy, wordy friends

posing with chicks for their photos

in four-for-a-buck booths somewhere

churning out turgid ragas

of verbose verbology

entering the academy sideways later

on some odd bureaucratic dole—

this poetry, I say, better

than Ezra, eclipsing

a civilization down on

its luck, having spent most

of 200 years, since “Lyrical

Ballads” was published, slowly

losing its nerve

that’s one, then

there’s the corporate

hesitation, fired

again and again, for building

people—give a man a fish

and he’ll write a glowing description

of the fishing industry,

teach a man to fish

& we’ll fire his ass

because he won’t need us any more

Thank you, Fish Incorporated

for your mendacious misappropriation

of Drucker & Tom Peters

visit me in the garden

of the new Voltaire

that’s two, then

the church—leaving aside

its great, utterly orthodox

doctrine of the office work

of the Holy Spirit, convicting,

converting, guiding, reproving,

comforting & healing—

insisted

on doing everything itself

as follows:

come unto me, all you who labor

with burdens, and I will give you

more burdens, more labor

never take it easy

work your butts off

there are a few, just a few

tickets to paradise

left

that’s three, and then

may I just mention briefly

everybody’s bad attitude?

[two: the dream]

as I drove through the country

from Millstadt to Columbia this morning

trying to see as Du Fu, Su Shi saw

twiggy groves jumbled against wisps of cloud

blue Harvestores dwarfing a 30’s bungalow

and what these views

said of me who drove beside them

the mind reaching out, in

after the nature of what is true—

the thoughts of so many

entertain willed disorder

which may at times be exciting

but abandons our children

to chaotic dreams

Stephen called from Albuquerque

he teaches tenth graders Shakespeare

he’s still alive in his early 60’s

we laughed about the caftan party

where he astonished the guests—

a West Hollywood Jesus in 1970

with long, dark brown beard & hair—

& met a man he fell in love with

fifteen years before the AIDS epidemic

thank God he’s still alive

lifting his kids to art, kids

who are his ageless Dorian Grays

as he ages like Dorian’s picture

and I’m alive too

and aging like Stephen

emailing young poets

with eternal news

keeping it sweet & simple

our transparent always

dang ve que cua long minh

returning to the hometown of my heart

hiking with Karen in a Cascades dream

sipping cold water

from a spring in the Cuyamacas

with Clair, he is gone

he is forever here

and I ache for Karen

who is after all writing again

for Eugene who is old enough

not to be easily encouraged

for Sidley who is riding

horses & saving her pennies

I hope she is singing

for Evelyn, surrounded by mirrors

still trying to impress somebody

the question is, who?

for Lona, shivering

in the winds of El Paso

comforting Chicano children

whose daddies are at war

and I ache for Dawn

with the bad, bad stuff in her blood

may it be lifted, filtered, vanished

by the power of love

for Roberta, dying of cancer

for Margaret, cleaning teeth

who has no money for travel

for Bill Payne, who had me

in his sights, but I survived

for my enemies—all—

whose names are remembered, forgotten

Pat Wagner, John, another John

Serruys, S.J., the VC

Robert Creeley, with his

shallow, need-driven definition

of love, O lift him

in the mercy of the Great Buddha

out of the dual raging

neon-busted sandstorm

to the one great gift of “be”

and I ache for Joe

who stuffed the past

and has become so much more

that it hurts him to talk to me

may the power of love

collapse him, free him

and may you who read this,

hear this, listen

to the difficulties it presents

turn it over in your hands,

may it sing to you

of your own intense beauty

may it hurt you as it hurts

those who love you

as it hurts me to write it

not knowing through what deaths

it will be going

but knowing

we are together

at the end of everything

in your back garden somewhere

resting beneath the midnight stars

drinking margaritas

& toasting the spring moon

April 1 to May 19, 2003