Sacred Heart
By Ron Padgett
Last night I dreamed that my sister-in-law and I were snugly bedded in a dark cocoon, talking softly, safe and alone. With that part of me that once was in love with her, I said, "I missed you when you were gone."
"Oh," she said, "you missed me because I speak English."
"No, I really just missed you."
It was deeply satisfying to open my heart this way.
My father had torn off his oxygen mask, flung his gown onto the floor, and now, stark naked and peeing into the air, was clambering, tubes and all, over the bed railing, giving loud grunts.
I sprang up, grabbed him by the shoulders, and slowly talked him back down onto his pillow, where he drifted off again. After mopping the floor, I went back to my cot.
It was still dark out.
I lay down and thought about my dream, the dream that was filled with the same rush of sweetness that had come over me the day before, when I had looked out the hospital window, at early light, and far below saw a person walking down the street alone, and felt the words thank you bursting from my chest.
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The bull has a scheming gleam in his eye. The bullfighter is wearing many buttons. The bull runs in a triangular pattern. The bullfighter is an echo. The bull has just turned four. The bullfighter’s mouth sets as though above an ocean. The bull. The three sticks in his hide. The bullfighter forgets to acknowledge the crowd. The bull is a burdensome law. The bullfighter in front of his girlfriend. The bull at pasture. The bullfighter trumpets. The bull allows for the possibility of growth and change. The swell of the stadium. The bull’s luscious gravity. The great handsome moustache of the bullfighter and all the tireless spinning in the galaxy. The banjo playing. The bull lifts his horns as if to stitch the crowd’s noise together. The bullfighter has a can-opener. The bull’s leaking stride. The bullfighter could build a boat of this. The bull has a pulse. The bullfighter thinking of a smoky basement. The bull confronts the other in language. The bullfighter rolls aside the stone. The bull dreams of snow. The bullfighter belongs to a longitudinal fraternity. The bull self-medicates. The bullfighter can feel his hair growing always. The bull is the sand in the air. The bullfighter is the hooves that stir it. The bull is the patterns they make. The bullfighter, the light, the expectation of evening. The bull finding a new muscle. The bullfighter mid-thrust.
Published in the Boston Review September/October 2010
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ARGUMENT FOR MEDICATION AS AN INSTRUMENT OF CELESTIAL NAVIGATION
What if I told you I could take it all away?
The early grief for those you've yet to lose,
the future floods, the deadly accidents, the tedium
of days, the way they accumulate in a pile
that grows so high it blocks the moonlight.
Remember the moon? How you loved to say goodnight
and have the others say it with you?
What if I told you I could bring all of that back?
Old bedrooms, old lamplight, all the dead.
I could return this park to marshland,
line the expressway with palm fronds, re-animate
the museum dioramas and dress the skeletons
in skin. What I can give you is better than rebirth.
It is everything you have known and loved
and lost on new leases. It is no fear of future
because I am your future. I am a dove sent,
benevolent, a sextant. I am custom-made to fit
the dimensions of your specific trembling.
You won't even be able to hear the sound of my boat,
cutting through the sea, while I replace all the old stars
in heaven, and the crushing indigo recedes.
BACK INTO THE BEYOND
My favorite thing to do in New Mexico is drive by
the places where we were once in love with each other.
Most animals would never do this. If you gave a chihuahua
the keys to your car and said, Go, it would not drive
along to its memory, that broken record, that
cheap date. Chihuahuas do not build shrines to
mistakes.
They do not gauge their success based on what they said
they would be doing in five years five years ago. Last night
I read that three chihuahuas saved a three-year-old
girl from a mountain lion, and there's yet another
trait that differentiates me from said animal.
I read about the women buried in a mass grave
on the West Mesa, how a dog discovered the bones
of Michelle Valdez, and now the people who call
the police hotline can only offer premonitions.
Whenever I read anything, I'm sure it is about me.
I'm also sure the worst things to happen are those
we could never imagine, and so it is unlikely I will be
threatened by a mountain lion tonight, or thrown
in an unmarked grave by a man who has hired me for sex.
My favorite thing to do in New Mexico is drive
and try to describe the landscape in my mind,
so if some day I go blind, I'll still be able to visit
the terrain by chanting terra cotta yonder yonder
like a spell cast by a magic student who has no
idea what she's doing. Like a prayer to the party
responsible. The only thing we ever had in common
was making the choices that would net the best stories and
when you called, I was back where we started, watching
the sun crown the hills. I was going to ask if for the past
two years you've been living in your memory, too, but you
interrupted to say you'd enlisted, and here it was, the unimaginable
I'd never imagined, a premonition of violence, a reason
to drive until I was out of range, off the map.
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Full Moon and Little FriedaA cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket - Ted Hughes |
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by Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta
If you are coming down the narrows of the river Kiang,
let me know beforehand and I will come out to meet you
as far as Cho-Fu-Sa.
-Li Po, “The River Merchant’s Wife,”
as translated by Ezra Pound
What I am, ever, is this: composure of stone.
Spare weather visiting the garden, small as the hours
I keep watch by. Beyond this wall
Must be better weathers. This claw of stars
Must constellate somewhere into a bear,
Else names would lie.
Since winter’s thaws, no script from you
Save this: “I travel the river and follow
The white gulls—”
Husband. See me walking the dusty pass
Where loom our prior lives?
Here the years pass that I enshrine
Within these walls, sparing nothing
From the ardors of my stare. Blue plums,
Paired butterflies repeat you
In a walled world. I tell myself
To clear the moss, mend the gate
So long unswayed and caked with dirt,
But nothing moves. Somewhere
You are actual. Happen to me there.
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an excerpt of
The body—before they opened me—the darkest dark
must live in there. Where color is wasted.
Because I hear them look:
bright green of gallbladder, shocked yellow fat, acreage
flat out under skin. To think I brought this
on myself.
No blood in the lab. No longer
my blood, paste flaking
brown to the touch, the heart packed with it.
They do that too.
Let it pass, my husband said, for years.
But you know what? It’s more, it’s how
there is no sleep. It’s how words
come apart in a dream.
And then you’re awake.
Pale nerve, bluest black veins. Muscle gone gray
but still pink in places,
fanned out or narrowed, tendon-strict,
white elastic to knob of femur,
humerus. How on earth
to tell this. That they see things hardly
anyone . . . things buried, doing
for a lifetime. Sunken
bonehouse—what body, my slow mineral ruin.
Darkness at the start—it sticks,
it bothers me: why any color at all?
Room of echo and stink. The silence we contain, we
cadavers now, water
that dumb and overflowing.
Blessed those—
too young to be stricken. They’re kids,
in their twenties. They stare, they keep probing. To idle
amazement, to trespass like that.
Is it brave? What’s brave? You know
then you unknow. My God, how they walk into this place
to begin with—all the ways in the smart ones, this
must burn
right through them:
Pure Spirit, stupid me good, just to stand here.
____
1.
Unique. But each the same.
They strip for this drape out of
jeans and those T-shirts,
ready, this fit-for-sacrifice.
Blue scrubs given first: pants
cleaver-cut quick, sewn wide,
a shirt over the head by way
of its V, the belt
a length of cord pulled up and held.
They tie it
like my daughters tied shoes,
looking down and so serious.
First a loop, only to circle
and pass that through slow
as if to practice
practice
how time is made. I remember
minute circles minute, seconds
slip off
and tighten.
White lab coat torn at the pocket.
White lab coat, a button gone missing.
White lab coat, white lab coat repeat repeat,
a refrain, months, weeks of
white lab coat bleached over and over to
human, faint stain at the cuff.
2.
Silver faucets to the wall. And light from no window.
Four tables broad enough, slick shine enough for us
to be turned, to come apart one muscle, one intricate webwork at a time.
That whirl, a machine that tries and tries and cannot—no, the air isn’t sweet.
A plastic tub with its label spinal cords.
Two three four empty ones already marked brains.
Drawers with their hammer chisel
rope handsaw
Virchow skull breaker—
Fluorescent little ice cubes up there, bright basement room.
Boxes and boxes of purple rubber gloves,
cool, insistent as shadow.
3.
And once upon our time: we were two women,
two men. Heart or lungs did us in
old—me the most, my ninety-nine years. Here in the lab
they’re told that. So do I
win something? Me, third in line
on these tables. Only before they cut, they imagine
we imagined them
imagining us as we made this offering
for all humankind, one of those
hero movies, our signing the paper,
desk of black wood and chrome until
who-was-that?—stranger or niece or grandson—the call
from hospital. Or kitchen, so much closer,
more urgent,
terrible, my daughter’s half sandwich
left to a plate.
Post-yes: we drifted there, spring
and all summer
sunk in glycerin, ethyl alcohol, whichever
evil chemical. I forget.
It read like a recipe for Boil-O at Christmas,
but that’s sugary and thick, each steamy cup,
cinnamon in it. Cloves. The new year.
He must have been a farmer, some
med student said. Why? Because he’s
a big guy?—the second of us
laid out here, huge.
The quiet one, not really
in the class, who puts a caption on every
little thing, called him the cadaver pinup, the
cadaver hunk, so sure she was funny.
In fact they’re in awe of his hands—even she is—
the massive chest, the whole works, his
smallest nerve, muscle,
almost an Oldenburg, she said, perfect vast
exaggeration, to be set in caps.
Like you know what a farmer looks like.
Someone else said that . . .
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1
We take language for granted, as we do sitting and weeping. Unfamiliar speech we take for inarticulate gurgling. Filtered through sandbags.
A searchlight beam makes a statement.
The order of the world is so foreign to our subjective interests that we cannot imagine what it is like, says William James. We have to break it. Into histories, art, sciences, or just plain rubble. Then we feel at home.
I could list the parts of the body as in a blason. And how they can get hurt.
2
Unless we recognize a language we do not recognize a man. We wrap entire villages in barbed wire.
My father used to close his eyes and remain as motionless as possible to let his body-image dissolve.
I repeat myself often.
Time has no power over the Id. But heat passes from a warm body to a cold body and not in the reverse direction.
3
Language plays a great part in our life.
There is chaos and void. No man or beast. Not a fly or stalk of ragweed. We think “primal soup,” and already there is a world. And fed.
Then somebody thinks “Operation Ivy Cyclone.” “Operation Plymouth Rock.” “Operation Iron Hammer.”
In 2005, in Baghdad, 92% of the people did not have stable electricity, 39% did not have safe drinking water, 25% of children under the age of five were suffering from malnutrition.
4
Whereas the concept of spatial measurement does not conflict with that of spatial order, the concept of succession (bombings?) clashes with the concept of duration (US presence?).
Tanks enter the discussion, and the case for absolute time collapses.
We speak our own language exclusively. It embodies the universal form of human thought and logic.
I toss in my sleep. As do many women.
5
4000 to 6000 civilians have been killed in Fallujah.
It is impossible to describe the fact which corresponds to this sentence, without simply repeating the sentence.
A cat chases a yellow butterfly. My father sneezes.
Unlike the id, the ego, through which alone pleasure becomes real, is subject to time.
6
There used to be harbor where downtown Providence is, a pond full of perch under the civic center, Roger Williams’s body under an apple tree.
Where the Sumerian cities of Umma, Umm al-Akareb, Larsa, and Tello were there is now a landscape of craters.
The ultimate origin of the idea of time, it is said, lies in our perception of difference and resemblance.
When I look at the mirror in the morning I see a grey mist. Then it is hard to rescue distinctions.
7
Trenches filled with trash. Sandbags filled with archeological fragments. Men filled with fear.
Language is a network of easily accessed wrong turns.
At the dedication of the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum, the President compared his War on Terror with Lincoln’s war against slavery.
Sometimes the clouds race along Elmgrove Avenue. Sometimes they hover over city hall.
8
In one version, reality is desperate attacks by a few desperate individuals. In another, we have been in a civil war for a long time.
We place mirrors in our bedrooms. We hope their virtual depth might reflect on our loves.
Greater accuracy in measurement can be obtained by means of atomic and molecular clocks. Implicit is the hypothesis that all atoms of a given element behave in exactly the same way, irrespective of place and epoch.
If I try to say the whole thing in one sentence I say the same thing over and over.
9
My father, from his balcony, looks at astral spaces. where the orbiting of a planet, a suicide bombing, and his breath condensing in cold air are equally part of the system.
He wonders whether he must fit his perceptions to the world— which world?— or the world to his perceptions.
50,000 US soldiers in Iraq had no body armor in 2005. The equipment manager had placed it at the same priority level as socks.
Some do not like blood outside the body. Others do not like body counts.
10
In Swan Point Cemetery, there is a gravestone in the form of a little house. With the inscription GONE HOME.
“Assassinated: four clerics, two officials from the Ministry of Defense, the dean of a highschool; killed by bombs: nine National Guards, thirteen civilians, two engineering students. In all, thirty-one dead, forty-two injured, and seventeen abducted. A fairly quiet day here in Baghdad.”
The flux of time helps us to forget what was and what can be.
I would prefer to be able to explain the air. The sun. The Adam’s apple.
11
Corpses of small children, families lying in pools of blood in their homes. The President promises investigation. And sidesteps the problem.
Heine’s curse: Nicht gedacht soll seiner werden.
One way of thinking links thoughts with one another in a series, another keeps coming back to always the same spot.
The flux of time is society’s most natural ally in maintaining law, order, conformity. We learn that every pleasure is short and are resigned even before society forces us to be so.
12
The spring rain splashes up cones of water from puddles formed by the broken asphalt.
The crimes of U.S. soldiers in Iraq are as inevitable as the crimes committed by soldiers of other imperial armies. It takes many years before it comes to light that they are official policy. 50 years, in the case of No Gun Ri in South Korea.
The aspects of time that were significant for primitive man were repetition and simultaneity. Even in his first conscious awareness of time man sought to transcend, or abolish it.
My writing is nothing but a stutter.
13
Nothing new under the sun. Which comes and goes. When it stood still at the prayer of Joshua, did time nevertheless continue?
I would like to concentrate on the rotation of the earth and the winds it brings about.
Eight months before the invasion, the chief of MI6 reported to Tony Blair that the US was going to "remove Saddam, through military action... But because "the case was thin, Saddam was not threatening his neighbors, and his WMD capability was less than that of Libya, North Korea or Iran...the intelligence and facts were being fixed around the policy.”
Our language seduces us into asking always the same questions. As long as there is a verb ‘to be’ that seems to function in the same way as ‘to eat’ and ‘to drink, we’ll be asking questions of identity, possibility, falsehood, truth.
14
"Well, I knelt down. I said a prayer, stood up, and gunned them all down."
As the physicist Stephen Weinberg said, for good people to do bad things it takes religion.
I suddenly start to wonder at birth, death, sleep, madness, war. As if awakening.
Time helps us to forget, and to forget means to forgive. What should not be forgiven.
15
My father cuts himself shaving. While he looks for a bandaid he thinks of his astral body and if it is bleeding too.
Time is the form of our inner sense, said Kant. And Guyau, that a being who did not desire, did not want anything, would see time shut down in front of him.
Everywhere people wind clocks to prevent this from happening.
The battle of Agincourt was fought in hours, Waterloo in a day, Gettysburg lasted 3 days, the Battle of the Somme four and a half months, Verdun ten, Stalingrad six. There were the Seven- and the Thirty-Years Wars. The President told the West Point cadets: “Iraq is only the beginning.”
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By Emily Pettit, published in Open Letters Monthly July 2010
I have this to say, Something was going to happen
and then it did. Our gestures exceeded
the speed of light. They were practical
efforts. Practical efforts, such as raising chickens.
Such as, someone buying many hotels!
Such as, standing and standing. Processing
information in your sleep. When you build
a fire in the snow it’s a speculative treatment
of certain problems. I feel better when I feel
better. Let me explain the agreement. Or else
you explain impossible colors. Impossible
colors are a catastrophic visual failure
and not impossible. Not a ship sinking. A shore
out of shape. Some things will get lost. A neck.
The circle running. A true yellow blue.
There are always competing signals from one
system to another. There are options regarding
the ice. We can lick it or cross it. Further information
when you want it. Information always blinking.
A chime that rang. I fluctuate by night. I fluctuate
by night. In my head is a station where you
practice landing.
What’s the drunk waxwing supposed to do
when all day’s been an orgy of red buds
on the winery’s archway off Gehricke Road
and it’s too far to make it home, too long
to fly, even as the sober crow goes. What’s
the point of passion when the pyracantha
berries keep the blood turned toward
obsess, obsess. Don’t you know those birds
are going to toss themselves to the streets
for some minor song of happiness? And
who can blame them? This life is hard.
And let me be the first to admit, when I
come across some jewel of pleasure, I too want
to squeeze that thing until even its seedy heart
evaporates like ethanol, want to throw my
bird-bones into the brush-fire until,
half-blind, all I can hear is the sound
of wings in the relentlessly delighted air.
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