Well, I’d sure like to think that
“Henry’s girl” is his daughter, but I doubt it. I don’t think his daughters
were old enough to fly off to Paris before he died. Maybe the girl in question is
his student, which is not so good. Maybe she’s his mistress—but who cares? “Love”
can mean a lot of different things, but when you imagine taking your sock off,
the skin coming off with it, and the torrent of blood running on the floor
reminds you of your love? Some
definition of love that is. Something tells me a daughter isn’t involved. Times
like this we need to remember: The Dream
Songs were never meant to be understood you understand, they are merely
meant to terrify and comfort. This is a terrible image. It’s something, though.
A dream at the end, love with
those false front teeth as false as his anti-hopes. She wasn’t his mistress or
his daughter, she was probably some student he was pining over, and he was shameless
enough to admit it and write about it. Good for her making it to Paris
unscathed. His metaphorical disgraceful bloody foot wasn’t her problem. It was
his.
There’s candor, which is
generally considered a positive attribute. Then there’s the action of an old
wrinkled fart, his dirty underwear stuffed in the pocket of his raincoat,
flashing the assembled commuters in a subway station. It should be stirring and
scandalous, but New Yorkers, and Parisians for that matter, aren’t too flapped
by this kind of nonsense, and the old guy gets a contemptuous laugh or two and
a few hoots, and everyone’s nose goes back to their smartphones. Just another
day in the big city.
The risk you run with stuff like
this poem is that the bored subway riders and the few poetry readers left in
the world ignore you because you’re so pathetic there’s no sense worrying about
it. Bloody foot my foot. My patience for this kind of hoo-hah on a tired
evening, after an amazing day at a conference with people who choose productive engagement as a way to spend their lives, has bled away.
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