Mr. Glinting as Seen off the Atlantic Seaboard
In a long line of long lines
I turn the page of Rimbaud’s Illuminations
and read two stanzas in French before realizing
I’m reading in French and I don’t read French.
This is your Saturday morning idea of Saturday morning.
You’re the blue man: shirt, pants, lunch, eyes–
anything else you can think-it’s all blue.
You take little offense at being called “a willing puppet,”
a corrupted file,” or “a sketch quickly drawn.”
Giant white, giant blue, and 420 miles of green
are good to look at between NYC and DC.
A persistence of vision isn’t exactly it.
Perhaps what I’m talking about is what you think
while you hear this, not what I’m saying.
But that isn’t exactly right either.
Still, there’s a frame-by-frame freedom.
A shot. Another shot-in the arm.
(Stainless steel belly of airplane overheard)
Calling the sparkling blue of the Chesapeake “cartoon-like”
or “cartoony” isn’t a put-down.
But last night’s gossip, the phone sex gossip,
the bitchy gossip won’t hold up to the reality of this morning’s
It’s a Saturday that calls for a few answers,
not a few more questions.
Let’s not talk about whether it’s safe to live in America.
Your degree in Manipulation Theory
with a concentration in the “calculating wag”‘
will work itself out;
you’ll get paid-we’ll cut you a check.
Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 2002
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved