Romance Economist

The phrase “romance economist” actually appeared in my brain in a dream when I was about 23 years old.  I just thought it was the greatest idea so I tucked it away for some later use (I knew not what).  When I became a famous poet, it just seemed logical to poemize the concept.

I’ve admired Ezra Pound’s “The River Merchant’s Wife:  A Letter” for a long time.  The Asian twist here probably comes from that.

__________

he, peasant grandson

of peasant grandsons,

tied embroidered sash tightly

round employer’s waist,

using ancient knot,

inspecting rich linen garment

for creases—

many days ago

he had found her:

peasant granddaughter

of peasant granddaughters,

in village far up mountainside—

she of beetle-black hair

and modest movements—

and made arrangements,

his search complete—

now through opening

made by silk curtains,

he glimpsed her walking

in best finery

to place of meeting—

he did not speak to him

of beauty of match

or of bargain of price—

nothing was permitted to sound

but murmur of drops on stone floor

(2008)

Tilt

One day, going about my motorized business in my central Florida panhandle town, I saw this cyclist.  He wasn’t one of those sleek pros with the colorful outfits and thousand dollar bikes.  The only thing that separated him from the other hobos on Highway 90 was his pair of wheels.  Suddenly I was hit with a pang of conscience as I wondered if the task I was headed for was as important as the task I was passing by.

__________

the ghost of Sisyphus

in bodily form

push-walked

his stony bicycle

and all his stony possessions

along highway ninety,

the gulf coast flatland

a welcome change—

he made good time

despite the hitch that halted

his every-other step,

making him

appear apprehensive,

distrusting of the levelity—

he wasn’t either

(resignation had set in centuries past),

his limping merely

a leftover of

millennia of tumbles—

you the hill

and I the hill

tilted

(ever so slightly, nearly imperceptibly)

in our imperceptive passing-by

and sent him

tumbling again

(2008)

The Queen of Cass Park

I met Geraldine in Cass Park, Detroit in August 2006.  She was a large figure in every way.  People like that just stick with you and are worthy of poems.

__________

Detroit’s end-of-the-line.

Next stop:

crazy house

or morgue.

Nothing to see here, folks,

but the scattered remains

of a sad and furious

ticker-tape parade

thrown by the homeless

for themselves.

Oh, and needles

(watch your feet and wear shoes).

Geraldine

sits on a stoop

in her street attire:

blue hospital gown over men’s pants,

castoff sandals

(not afraid of needles).

“I’m a livin’ testimony,”

she chuffs

in her breathy,

always-out-of-breath baritone.

And she is, I think

a living testimony

to the God

in whom she

lives

and breathes

and has her being.

And to me, too,

because of whom she

dies

and chuffs

and has no being—

except

when I stand

in Cass Park.

(2007)