Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

This poem appears in We Were Hateful People.

i am a shape that
can but eat and turd
—e. e. cummings

When you have finally gathered your thoughts into folios,
Inebriated enough for your detachment to perform field dressage
You carve symbols into trunks' throb—Rajeev loves Asmeet—
And you know: the phonetic fanatics won't come. Instead,
On the day that we eat breakfast for dinner, I tell you, "I want to have you
Like a hot dog." On these days, I transcribe, I am drunk. I love you.
What I will not do is beg, roam the land, and bite the ankles.

Will you pay in cash? Will you wear a hat? On the prick paint a
Portrait of the artist as an old cad, and the presence of presence,
It is presence, whether you're acetylene or just a-settlin'.
Cut a figure. Greed and wrath rend you absurd and obscene,
No longer a moveable feast: you winsome, you lose some. But no,
All vinegar turns to sugar as the slavering puss in boots
Turns a saurian eye. You'll light a cigarette; I'll roll and run.

I like a good shit once in a lifetime. You curse yourself in one gilded
Motion as you turn to me. Hey, is gay Paree as gay as they say?
A tern in the skull tells of the runnelling of flesh, limitless and fecund.
This offal (oder awful, this tracery (aber treachery made of scrim—
(Do not scream. It yields tremendous signs that ever still
Distinguish us in German catafalques, though where is she,
The girl who rescued worms from concrete? She now bites

The heads off doves, despite the protestations of the captive silk;
I know her ilk. As she gambols, I frolick. This girl will spurl, pay into
Her rent many a golden gülden, on the face a shambolic glaze.
The pump judders and shudders me on my perch. I love Lorelei.
I mark the headings, draw a jumbly line. Do you remember when
Your life was ruled by bells? I whisper a sort of limned adumbration,
A slip off the promontory, or is it a fall? (from the ground a sough

The stairs tromp upwards. I enjoy purloined watermelon salad,
Spoon after spoon. It is useless, unless you worry the paper, roust
The dross. The neighbours gather wood, piles and piles of it,
And burn it all. I am a vessel for love, observing the susurrations
In the grass, the roundelays, the precocious head of the Indian
Paintbrush, verdigris on the roof, the drooping palms and fronds,
A lassitude that penetrates the days like summer, recollected unawares.

From thence doth come the travesty of sales, a figmentation of the
Mind, a cruelty that's more than hobby, less than calling. I fear,
Fear, for we will go amaying, to confute the quivering while these
Canopies hold bowls, explaining the blockade was not an act of
Aggression, but one of mercy. The island looms large. Suddenly,
As on a dark stair, we recognize the shape of the thing. Les grelots
Dans la tête tell me that the rains in Spain fall mainly on the plains,

While the rains in Russia are going to crush you. Here, touch the paint.
The colour alarm down the street alerts the bear; what shall he do?
Focus on infinity? Return to the Corinthian Order? Turn on the spirit
Screen as the mind autocorrects may to might? Between architrave
And cornice, John competes with the washing machine where the
Unusual becomes ritual. Is it a seagull or a sea eagle? Don't worry about
Trusting your eyes; all evil is logarithmic. The monkey brain dances;

Le sentiment es disparu. You get a little older; your scars take a little
Longer to heal. You lick your wounds. You cut your nails and your losses.
You get the job simply because you don't steal. Somewhere, Lima has coast.
A yellowchinned spinetail rises on the wind. A man exits the supermarket,
His shopping basket full of knives. A gibberer gibbers. He already knows
Each crooked syllable on those lips. Here, fat, happy tadpoles swing their tails.
Dust rises from bumblebee's wings. A small, curious snake rears its head.