Anthony Madrid


THE MASCULINE GOD OF PASSIVE LONGING IS RIDING THE HEAD OF A FLOWER

THE masculine god of passive longing is riding the head of a flower.  He fits
An arrow into the corner of his bow and draws back his right fist to his ear.

27 August 2009, last days of forty.  With the Fifth Decad of THE CANTOS about to begin,
I must find a way to trick my grief.

I must find a way to trick my grief, to outstrip it—or dodge it as one dodges a cop.
For is this done by wreathing myself seven times round with elegant quickness.

The WHITE ELEPHANT is my witness.  I have set up a table out front
Of the INFORMATION KIOSK that can be found at the top of his spine.

Spieglein, Spieglein an der Wand, wer ist die schönste im ganzen Land?  I’ll run
An extension cord up to the sun.  Robe and tassel, cap and gun.

Not saying I’m a good person.  I deserve what punishments I get.  And yet
When it comes to men and women I have my head screwed on straight.

I know how to draw a BEADED CORD through a justbarelybigenough aperture
And then make the sound of thát into | a new kind of prosody.

Where the Monongahela River meets the mighty Allegheny
Is a jewelrybox metropolis that dare not speak its name.

And it’s obvious the Founding Fathers found | the very thing they were looking for.
The busywork and distraction that come from living in a hostile environment.

And the NOSTRIL is a great conduit of the Temporality-Boggling Dharma.
But, Bhagavan, I am quits with the Temporality-Boggling Dharma.

Halloween last, I got trashed, wound up at the wrong party, fingerfucked a Sleestak.
Captain Lou Albano shook his finger in my face, but I flicked my skirt and ran around
      and jammed a fork in an avocado.

Well, cock-a-doodle-doo, Sacagawea!  Fuss factor fifty, and you coulda got us all killed.
You know many and many an astonishing thing.  But now the CHILD wants to lecture you
      for a while.

IN SORROW AND DEFEAT THE HEART HAS ITS ONLY CHANCE

THE eye is not the source of tears.  Tears come from a long way off.
And the heart does not make the blood.  Nor the human being the book.

In sorrow and defeat, the heart has its only chance.
Seize the opportunity, heart, to become a thing pleasing to others!

The exertion of the intelligence is our only source of heat.
By the exertion of my intelligence I have singed the sheets on this bed.

Whither the knot when you untie it?  When you untie it whither the knot?
When you break the set on your shoelaces, the knot escapes into the air.

And now, you’re sitting on a pillow corner.  You don’t even know it hurts.
You take it away and the relief is strange—you didn’t even know you were hurt!

You try to get something out of your pocket; you get disgusted and pull off your glove.
How is it the glove was getting in the way?  Yet, it was completely getting in the way!

These things tell you all you need to know about how it’ll be when you die.
That day, you don’t just pull off the glove; you pull off the hand itself.

That day, you finally see how all the earth was just like that pillow corner.
The couch, your bed, your softest clothes, and even your flesh itself—!

Madrid says it’s true; it’s why we’re right to cut corners. 
We’ll cut so many corners, the thing becomes a sphere:—

A turning SPHERE off the surface of which no light can ever escape.
For we must trap the light, we must wring all the Christianity out of it.

AFTER SI NISI NUM AND NE EVERY ALI- GOES AWAY

AFTER si, nisi, num, and ne, every ali- goes away.  But after
Seeing Nadya in her shirt, my every nerve was on alert.

GUSTAVE FLAUBERT lay in a revery.  Wrote a snarky book for every
Dixie, Daisy, Ray, and Sue.  Le Dictionnaire des idèes reçues.

The MOVIES, boy, they’ll ruin you.  Best cool your jets.  But there’s no
Point in taking a Sex Ed. course, ’cuz they don’t teach you jack.

“Didn’t shut Milton down, won’t shut me.”—Such is my new motto.
And why not play the lotto?  Only costs me a mouthful of air.

My rare little Russian camera || padding across the floor!
In her panties and ephemera, she could spark a Trojan War.

Who spoke to ya, Monkey?  I know your estrogen and tricks.  What the
Rumpus Schmitty McSchmittfuck is your problem?

And here’s little Mr Ticklebug with his idiotic sidekick.  Watch ’em
Run up a hill and swat a gong in hommage to the three little witches!

How is it these privileged mean girls always have such expressive faces?
Mr Ticklebug!!  Look out for that upright | fox with his tail shot off!

Gustave Flaubert leapt out his chair, rewrote the whole enchilada.
Bury the Muse.  After all, this is | the Century of Overreaction.

BURY THE MUSE; she is dead.  Her braids have come undone.  You don’t
Wanna be that girl.  Believe me, you don’t . . .

No motion has she now, no force.  She neither sees nor hears.
Rolled ’round in Earth’s diurnal course—with rocks and stones and bears.

SHE WANTED TO HAVE SEX WITH THE DEVIL

 

SHE wanted to have sex with the Devil—and she thought that I was the Devil.
What is one to say about these horrible young women who want to have sex with the
      Devil?

Haircutter, lay into me!  I want to see the workings of my brain.
Strike quickly, strong-armed haircutter, with your long-handled axe-like sheers!

She hasn’t lost her bloom, it’s true, but her hair is all SILVER.
I throw my scarf over my shoulder!  I throw my scarf over my shoulder!

Fly homeward, noble Memmius!  The sky is not clear!
Unless you wanna get wet, you’d better run, noble Memmius!

I picked up one of her Martian books and asked her what it was,
And she said with mock solemnity, “That’s the word of God, my friend.”

And now I’ve picked up her ironic smile: lips closed, one dimple showing. 
It is the smirk of a person acknowledging the truth in a halfway-playful rebuff.

Oh, MADRID was virtuous, no question about that.  You want to hide something from
      him,
Just put it behind | a young woman nursing her baby.

THE TIME CANNOT BE FAR OFF MY FRIEND WHEREIN I SHALL HAVE YOU BEHEADED

THE time cannot be far off, my friend, wherein I shall have you beheaded.
I shall give the order for your beheading and I | shall do so with joy and relief.

Indeed, the time is not remote when I | shall find it right to have you beheaded.
And yet, though I do so with malice and with joy, mixed in is a spot of regret.

With what joy—and more than joy—I shall hear myself utter the words:
“TAKE HIM, and have him kneel down by the block. Bring down a FAT AXE on his neck.”

And yet, though I stand next the window | and listen for the sickening thunk,
I shall do so acknowledging your many merits, my friend—your talent and your deep
           soul.

Though I step out on the balcony to see your rolling eyes and your mouth opening and
           closing on the air,
I shall do so still thankful for our many frank discussions and for your wise and tactful
           advice.

Yet, the time cannot be much further staved off. I shall be required to descend the stairs.
Required by custom to fetch the heavy box | blessed by a succession of Popes.

Years from now, I know, I shall feel keen regret. I’ll express it freely; I’ll unpack my
           heart,
Taking care, naturally, to give myself credit for the moral progress I’ll have made by that
           point . . .

Yet, today I see the time is at hand. I must command that you be beheaded.
You are my brother; you have my love always. Guards. Take this man, and chop off his
           head.