Mercy (87 page)

poems, all these others, the common men, push it in and

come; I loved him, the words, the dreams; don’t believe them,

don’t love them, don’t obey the program written into the

poem, a series o f orders from the high commander o f pain;

bare the throat, spread the legs, suck the thing; only he was

shy, a nineteenth-century man, they didn’t say it outright

then; he said he wanted everyone, to have them, in the poems;

he wanted to stick it in everywhere; and be held too, the lover

who needs you, your compassion, a hint o f recognition from

you, a tenderness from your heart, personal and singular; the

pitiful readers celebrate the lyric and practice the program, the

underlying communication, the orders couched in language as

orgasmic as the acts he didn’t specifically say; he was lover,

demanding lover, and father; he spread his seed everywhere,

over continents; as i f his ejaculation were the essence o f love; as

i f he reproduced him self each time; with his hand he made

giants; as if we all were his creatures; as i f his sperm had

washed over the whole world and he begat us, and now he’d

take us; another maniac patriarch, a chip o ff the old block; the

epic drama o f a vast possession as i f it were an orgy o f

brotherly love, kind, tender,
fraternite
; as if taking everyone

were gentle, virile but magnanimous, a charity from body to

body, soul to soul; none were exempt, he was the poet o f

inclusion; you could learn there were no limits, though you

might not know the meaning until after they had touched you,

all o f them, his magnificent masses, each one; you could stay

as innocent, or nearly, as the great, gray poet himself, until

yo u ’d done the program; then you’d be garbage somewhere,

your body literal trash, without the dignity o f a body bag,

something thrown out, dumped somewhere, sticky from

sperm, ripped inside, a torn anus, vaginal bruises and tears, a

ripped throat; the tissue is torn; there’s trauma to the tissue,

says the doctor, detached, not particularly interested; but the

tissue is flesh, o f a human, and the trauma is injury, o f a

human, the delicate lining o f the vagina is flesh, the interior

lining o f the throat is flesh, not meant for invasion, assault;

flesh lines the anus; it’s already limned with cracks and

bleeding sores; mortal fools bleed there, we are dying all the

time; lo ve’s intense and there will be great, jagged rips, a

searing pain, it burns, it bleeds, there are fistfuls o f blood,

valleys o f injury too wide and too deep to heal, and the shit

comes out, like a child, bathed in blood, and there’s fire, the

penis pushed in hard all at once for the sake o f the pain, because

the lover, he likes it; annihilation is how I will love them.

Y o u ’ll just be loved to death, tears, like cuts, and tears, the

w atery things; it wasn’t called the C ivil War, or Vietnam; it

w asn’t a w ar poets decried in lyrics apocalyptic or austere,

they couldn’t ever see the death, or the wounded soldier, or

the evil o f invasion, a genocidal policy if I remember right, it’s

hard to remember; love’s celebrated; it’s party time; hang

them from the rafters, the loved ones, pieces o f meat, nice and

raw, after the dogs have had them, clawed them to pieces,

chewed on their bones; bloody, dirty pieces strung out on

street corners or locked up in the rapist’s house. One whole

human being was never lost in all o f history or all o f time; or

not so a poet could see it or use fine words to say it. Walt sings;

to cover up the crimes; say it’s love enough; enough. And art’s

an alibi; I didn’t do it, I’m an artist; or I did do it but it’s art,

because I’m an artist, we do art, not rape, I did it beautiful, I

arranged the pieces so esthetic, so divine; and them that love

art also did not do it;
I support art.
Walt could sing, all right;

obscuring a formal truth; as if a wom an had an analogous

throat; for song; then they stuff it down; sing then darling.

The poems were formal lies; lies o f form; bedrock lies; as if the

throat, pure but incarnate, was for singing in this universal

humanity we have here, this democracy o f love, for one and

all; but they stuff it down; then try singing; sing, Amerika,

sing. I saw this Lovelace girl. I’m walking in Times Square,

going through the trash cans for food; I roam now, every day,

all the time, days, nights, I don’t need sleep, I don’t ever sleep;

I’m there, digging through the slop for some edible things but

not vegetables because I never liked vegetables and there’s

standards you have to keep, as to your own particular tastes. I

am searching for my dog, my precious friend, on every city

street, in every alley, in every hole they got here where usually

there’s people, in every shooting gallery, in every pim p’s

hallway, in every abandoned building in this city, I am

searching, because she is my precious friend; but so far I have

not found her; it’s a quest I am on, like in fables and stories,

seeking her; and if m y heart is pure I will find her; I remember

Gawain and Galahad and I try to survive the many trials

necessary before finding her and I am hoping she wasn’t taken

to wicked, evil ones; that she’s protected by some good magic

so she w on ’t be hurt or malnourished or used bad, treated

mean, locked up or starved or kicked; I’m hoping there’s a

person, half magic, who will have regard for her; and after I’ve

done all the trials and tribulations she will come to me in a dark

wood. I’ve got pain, in m y throat, some boy tore it up, I rasp, I

barely talk, it’s an ugly sound, some boy killed it, as if it were

some small animal he had to maim to death, an enemy he had

to kill by a special method, you rip it up and it bleeds and the

small thing dies slow. It’s a small, tight passage, good for fun,

they like it because it’s tight, it hugs the penis, there’s no give,

the muscles don’t stretch, at some point the muscles tear, and

it must be spectacular, when they rip; then he’d come; then

he’d run. Y ou couldn’t push a baby through, like with the

vagina; though they’d probably think it’d be good for a laugh;

have some slasher do a cesarean; like with this Lovelace girl,

where they made a jo k e with her, as if the clit is in her throat

and they keep pushing penises in to find it so she can have an

orgasm; it’s for her, o f course; always for her; a joke; but a

friendly one; for her; so she can have a good time; I went in,

and I saw them ram it down; big men; banging; you know,

mean shoving; I don’t know w hy she ain’t dead. They kept her

smiling; i f it’s a film you have to smile; I wanted to see if it

hurt, like with me; she smiled; but with film they edit, you

know, like in H ollyw ood. She had black and blue marks all

over her legs and her thighs, big ones, and she smiled; I don’t

know w hy we always smile; I m yself smile; I can remember

smiling, like the smile on a skeleton; you don’t ever want them

to think they did nothing wrong so you smile or you don’t

want them to think there’s something w rong with you so you

smile, because there’s likely to be some kind o f pain coming

after you if there’s something w rong with you, they hit you to

make it right, or you want them to be pleased so you smile or

you want them to leave so you smile or you just are crapping

in your pants afraid so you smile and even after you shit from

fear you keep smiling; they film it, you smile. Sometimes a

man still offers me money, I laugh, a hoarse, ugly laugh, quite