Alternative Prosaicness for Jennifer/Stephanie, Pickpocket Prostitute Hit by a Car/Bus; Sure, Okay, An Elegy

This poem I write for the termites’ windows, the diesel fumes’

     sun,

the g.i. roofs, this poem I write for you, Stephanie.

This poem I write not for the light in the living room,

the terrace, the car, this poem I write for you.

Those poems I write for the coffeehouses,

those poems I write not for you, Stephanie.

Those poems may someday be out on sale, yes,

but this’ll always be

                                      for you.

Those poems may someday burn with the Sun,

this will always call cold for you—

from a living room desk to a black hole mess

this will always seek you, make you its guest,

and so I’ll write this one, two, even three,

jot lines down in a lavatory.

And I’m hoping you’d read them.

It’s very necessary.

On a train, in a lobby, in a wedding reception,

these poems’ll be here for your protection.

Bullets can’t kill them, Jennifer.

Black holes can’t blacken them, they’ll

always be here, lick the lipstick on your beer.

These poems aren’t meant to go with my sofa, never!

So sit back and relax in front of no coffee table, and may this

     last forever.

Am I being a sellout, a traitor to my art, Steph,

opting to write now for the common crowd?

But I often “converse in the nest of tailors”

while the bourgeois part of me’s with the interior decorator.

Today, out with the astronomers, astronauts, theorists,

and all those who call themselves political nihilists.

Consume my poem, sing my poem, go ‘head, curse my poem,

‘til your cellphone alarm tells a harmful omen, Steph.

I’m outside or inside a house or a building or transport now,

my poem’ll be there to decorate your bloodied brow.

I don’t believe a poem’s higher than bric-a-bracs.

It’s a snapshot that may turn away, a voice that may crack.

It’s a snapshot that may turn away, a voice that may crack.

May 16, 2007 - August 29, 2009