Not At All

The cultural gambit,
the card slipped quickly into the sleeve
that saint who not sinning quiet winters lay
in the ever-green carpet
of analogy
seeing things
and not seeing them,
stuck to one.
‘How will I know when it’s done?’ I said
And he said, ‘Son, it’s always doing. Screw
the system.
‘and how do you do that?’
he said, ‘you’re doing it.’
and for weeks I wondered
what he meant by this.
For weeks I didn’t see him
[he was probably standing so still]
before I boom-boomed him.

‘Guru,’ I said– ‘Fuck you.
You said I would do it but I don’t.
I thought of God but I still didn’t leave well enough alone.
I am so often wearing a frown.
I cry at impulse,
there’s a pressure building,
O holy man
I am certainly not


and in the mirror
the water drips over my
nose and mouth
and it looks like
for a second I thought I was with him
and now I can’t

and in a lazy, coarse scrawl
on the bathroom wall
somebody had written:

“that’s not it,
— not at all.”