Two things: America’s “perpetual self-laud” was a problem
then like it remains a problem now. We fly like eagles, everyone else verminously
crawls, and we come off like the cowboy who was asked if he didn’t feel at
least a little bit sorry for the cows he branded and drove to slaughter. His
response, “It’s their tough luck for bein’ born cows.” And the other thing is
that B.’s “large work largely done” (i.e. The
Dream Songs, but maybe his overall body of work) means that time is on his
side, he’s won many of the prizes and accolades he sought, and now is free to
work and think for himself. For a person who knows how to think clearly and deeply,
that is always a gift. It takes a chemically liberated brain to pull that off, of
course, but he had been able to think once. The poem is looking forward at any
rate, and with some healthy anticipation, to B.’s being “masterless.” That’s
the real gift. We do become overmastered sometimes:
Money masters
through the specter of its lack.
I don’t wanna
die.
I would live
motivated by my body’s flow of energy, but energy flows toward master pain like
streams of water down a sinkhole.
Fatigue. Sleeplessness
swells my eyes into a focused pressure, bursting.
I desire status,
glory, accolades, fame. In truth: I crave your envy.
Fat, sugar,
alcohol, smoke. Fine pointed chemical drugs, through which I will gladly switch
a moment of cascading physiological joy for the endless mastery of need.
I was afraid to
walk home alone. I was cornered by four. I felt the hot bursting light of his
fist on my teeth. I bent and cried, mastered by shame, terror, humiliation.
“I’m sorry but we’re
going to need you to work again this weekend.”
Uncle Sam wants you!
I’m starving.
I’m freezing.
No!
KZ
Another hopeful DS. Who is this new JB?
ReplyDeleteOn yours, leave off the 'No!' 'I'm freezing' shows it perfectly.