I cannot speak the things I must.
They haunt me where I flee for air.
My heart is in the dust.
No speech of longing . . . just a prayer.
I cannot say what others say!
I cannot speak what others speak.
I cannot hear my heart aright;
I cannot speak my heart at all.
I cannot please the idle few.
I cannot please the gifted many.
I cannot run from the contention.
I look for hope: I haven't any.
Can't run, nor stay nor hide.
I face the brazen world, and utter
My mouthings too of brass.
I cannot explain, cannot propose!
I mouth my doctrines through the glass . . .
And others see, and seem to hear
My grotesque mouths, my garbled speech;
Perhaps it lifts their hearts;
I cannot hear their feelings speak.
I've no tongue to reach into their minds
Or strike the anvils of their ears;
Must be content to catch my few --
And let the others call me "queer".
Perhaps the deaf matter
Little to me; perhaps fatigue, illness, madness
Paralyze my voice. I don't know -- I try to listen;
I feel I've little choice.
I can't hope to please everyone,
I should know that by this time!
-- But the longing to be understood
Sickens me, like too much wine --
Like -- love did, when I felt it
Stiff in my body years ago.
Since then, Power has been my longing,
Once again to know that warmth.
But power . . . is like a black seduction.
It makes my heart pound without rest.
A man could die of that affliction:
I'm a baby wanting the breast.
I must assume my (petty) anguish matters.
I must assume a patient reader.
I must a assume a patient audience --
I cannot be an idle leader.
We are all dying, and going down in silence
Protesting that we must not speak.
Objections are too obvious:
"Beauty's world must never break
Under the weight of passion." "Perfect form
Must at all times be maintained." "Absolute order's
Our one refuge from the coming doom."
Or . . . nothing lost must be regained.
For this I should break my heart
With a locked silence? I will shout
my name, whisper at least this truth aloud:
it makes me shit to hear
and think: with this youth's mind is plowed . . .
I cannot avoid rhyme or steady rhythm
that comes packaged
begging to be spoken;
cannot abide superior smiles
and see my purest feelings broken.
As in this poem I speak the truth
as I see it, in my rhythm,
and build a center from my speech,
and howl my heart across the chasm --
To you who seize 't,
whose minds are wide enough
to let it settle
and make its mark and plant its tares
It may be my fruit is rotten.
It may be my grain is weeds.
Reader, sift through flash and fashion
To find your seed to last the years.
Breed the thoughts you find with others,
'Til at last you make a better hybrid.
Adapt me to your home and culture;
Create your own, your native pure-bred.
Then, as in me, your effort
Will be worth the labor.
My verse will have taken a bold new root
In work controlled by your rich flavour.
Let it be done, God of Angels:
Deliver us to Eros' friendship.
Let beauty serve with quality,
And all progress . . . to what it is.
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Copyright 2001.
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