Mountain Song

 
Albacore and hot meds
Certain fires lit under certain beds
And a tempest, flagging on a mountain ridge,
held up and holding,
while the bay sits on edge,
and Oakland is smoking.

Trees tire
Fast as funeral fires
Shadrack, Meshack and To Bed We Go;
I am doing
all I can
But
I
am
dying
slowly.

So
not for nothing
I make the butter hot
and watch
the cold-blooded lovers
succumbing.
Hot gin, cold rum
and lots of fun–
I wonder,
is the way she plays it
better than others then?
She sits in the window
just the way I like her
surrounded by words
sitting on the finest linen,
Bloomingdales gains
another pheasant
I’ve lost
my x-ray glasses
and so
naturally
I’m desperate.

But on the mountain it’s different.

I drown out sounds with water
I blow and I bury
I create scars with fire
I find ways to fury

I shout down to the little
boy that waits, by and by;
“You will never come out!
Not while I am prepossessed–

All the fresh air in the world
could not cleanse me of this.”

Save me, mountain men!

And they gruff and haw,
haw and hem
And take out their guns,
comparing them tangentially
to the best women,
checked by rote and file;
A discourse
where the killing of beasts
meets territorial leanings

I am fucked.

Oh there are decisions;
Two rocks on a mountain
The flood that moved them
The lightning that I saw again
The fire that flew
across the landscape
but
there is no bastion
of love forming.

the
Third
floor
elevator
is
jamming
no
room
Four
for
having
supper
with
the
land
Lord

(nor the world)

So I am here, terror-forming
new earths, half-alarming
Phaeton, the man who
boasted past his worth;

Here I am
and whatever
hopes to love me
may carve in my hearth
the sacred words of yore;

I am NOT
in love
but love
whores
me
to
it

I am not
from above
though
you
might
think
me
through
it

I am an amateur soul
in a starring role;

I look the part,
But
there’s
just
so
much
more
to
it.