The Second Sex (2 page)

Distant is our exit, unmoving the traffic;

useful are the implements of a trade;

movies in 3-D are intolerable.

Ash on the wind, nobody's naming names;

neither the drive-thru voice that takes my order

nor the divine can be clearly understood.

Bleak is the arbor, pungent the homeless;

apples for apples, a fool's swap;

never write down your password.

Left lane closed, stonecraft asks patience;

an athlete's shoe, many covet it;

the wise are full of loathing.

Tick harbors pathogens, bull's-eye rash;

who trusts will be deceived;

one in five goes undiagnosed.

Summer in the city, girl out of college

cannot install the A/C;

three dollars to withdraw cash.

Long the line for coffee, great my need;

the shaven adepts seat their gods in grain;

no right turn on red.

North wind, trees bow down;

gaily skitters the Juicy Juice carton;

a car alarm is no sign of theft.

Fresh out the kitchen is the remix,

strong the noise of the ambulance bay;

pull out slow until you can see.

Buttered and shaggy the bees;

a man fishes in a dumpster,

I look away; angels are real.

Longtime listener, first-time caller;

dogs know more than they let on;

show me on the doll where I touched you.

The cleric bars the clinic doors;

single-celled, the House Majority Whip;

very well then, I contradict you.

Distant our exit, unmoving the traffic;

useless the smoking cessation kit;

a wise adage, Expect Delays.

Half of the Beatles have fallen

and half are yet to fall.

Keith Moon has set. Hank Williams

hasn't answered yet.

Children sing for Alex Chilton.

Whitney Houston's left the Hilton.

Hendrix, Guru, Bonham, Janis.

They have a tendency to vanish.

Bolan, Bell, and Boon by car.

How I wonder where they are.

Hell is now Jeff Hanneman's.

Adam Yauch and three Ramones.

[This space held in reserve

for Zimmerman and Osterberg,

for Bruce and Neil and Keith,

that sere and yellow leaf.]

Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings,

Stinson, Sterling, Otis Redding.

Johnny Thunders and Joe Strummer,

Ronnie Dio, Donna Summer.

Randy Rhoads and Kurt Cobain,

Patsy Cline and Ronnie Lane.

Poly Styrene, Teena Marie.

Timor mortis conturbat me.

Windows to wash and dust to dust.

You must improve your archaic bust.

In the name of extremes, and of

Krispy Kremes, and of mascara metal,

amen. I mean, come on,

I've known rivers. I know seems.

I rent my shoes. Daddy worked

the pneumatic tubes. Hold steady,

Holy See. You've really got

a hold on me.

Because your friends don't dance,

I'm applying for grants. Thanks,

Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz.

I don my customary suit of solemn black.

It takes a nation of morons to hold me back.

Peel off the scabs! Unscrew

the daughters themselves from their jambs!

God became a man,

surely I can do the same.

I don't know wrong from light.

I can't tell my bright from left.

I really must be going.

I must be going soft.

I and I am I because I know

I wanna be your little dog.

Don't spit me out. Just swallow me.

I'll be your burning synagogue.

O Captain! my Tennille! the Eagles

will come and pull out his eyes.

Jesus coming back, they say,

and we'll all shout
Surprise!

Is it any wonder I've got

too much blood on my hands? The calls

are coming from inside the house.

I'm sick of my insane demands.

Old news, Orion, old Ford:

come in, mockingbird.

Old saw, old gong, old giant:

come in like a lion.

Old tree, old ship, old song:

go along to get along.

Old blues, blue blood, blood orange:

how much is the damage.

New house, free range, thin herd:

hear a discouraging word.

New moon, full dark, seaweed:

at first you don't succeed.

Slow god, Gilead, old gate:

come to those who wait.

Old snow, old street, old fence:

rooms to let fifty cents.

Late night, last chance, light load:

get on down the road.

Must you flush the toilet

while I'm in the shower?

That's a metaphor. It means:

one system, contrary aims.

Let us say that I have come

from beyond the Lyme fields

and ironworks of mortal men.

Would you flush the toilet then?

It's a yes or no question.

Sometimes I think you're in a coma

for there is no pupillary response

when I shine a penlight in your eyes.

Still speaking metaphorically.

We're all adults here,

except for the children.

We all have someplace we'd rather be.

Once, not many winters ago,

a man could record his favorite show

on magnetic tape in plastic casing

and enjoy it at his leisure.

Or so I imagine it,

living alone with the cat,

my amanuensis and all that.

Visitors tell her that she's fat.

Anthony comes around to play

“Burning Airlines Give You So Much More”

on my brand-new Yamaha.

I read him what I wrote that day.

I step from the capsule

out onto the surface of my apartment.

From here the earth looks like the set

of the Verizon Halftime Report.

I make the beast with no backs.

Someday a real rain will come

and wash all the scum

off my sheets.

I support the unborn child's right

to be spared the ghastly sight

of this brightly burning world,

this swiftly tilting dumpster.

All new speedways boogie

and misty mountains hop.

The telephone's been cut off,

I'm waiting for the clocks to stop.

If you love something, set it free—

that's stupid. Keep it close.

If I've killed one man,

I've killed most.

I'm having a feelings attack

out of the blue. Into the black

site, the multisided mudslide.

I'm just trying to find the bridge.

I Skype with Rose.

The heart knows what it knows.

Rose says, “Go put a shirt on.”

All my friends are Scorpios.

I live alone with the cat.

It's been a long time.

Been a long lonely

lonely lonely lonely lonely time.

It's the Chinese Year of the Fire Drill.

I walk the fields—alfalfa, falafel, falderal.

Nothing out here but syllables, high as

Aegean okra, and a few post-agrarian silos,

dotless i's that dormice catch some z's in.

They're rich like me, this time of the season.

Convair CV-300, play that dead band's

last black-box seconds. I can't imagine that Can's

records were favorites of Ronnie Van Zant's.

Gary Rossington (later he married Dale Krantz)

broke both arms and legs and, yep, his pelvis,

two months after, yup, the death of Elvis.

Star Wars
had opened in Wichita, Kansas.

I don't think anyone knew who Can was.

I listened to Kiss and Shaun Cassidy.

But when Skynyrd's bird dropped out of the sky

(I'll spare you the pun I've prepared on “free”)

we sang
Watergate does not bother me
.

Turn those speakers up full blast, and all that.

Nel mezzo
nevermind—
pace
Foghat—

what a loose ride, what a fast ride too.

Remaster
Tago Mago
, add bonus tracks, reissue.

The FedEx logo, feral,

felling deer with its arrow,

likes shooting monkeys

in a barrel. It gets Lyme disease.

The ironies! Arrows and

the telltale Target logo rash

I sing. The love of evil.

The root of cash.

My bluish and my human foot

around the child soldier's neck

absolutely has to be there.

We demur to dissect.

I shall be telling this far hence

in a speeding Mystery Van

traveling furiously toward you.

Get out as early as you can.

The rabies virus is half my age.

Its engine's any bartender.

It's part meerkats at the zoo at prayer,

part Nobodaddy Tabernacle Choir.

All boners are my brothers.

Alps on Alps arise.

The waitress serves the fatal virus.

She's never seen
The Rockford Files
.

O huntress, suitably attired,

you're going to need a tetanus shot.

You've got a suitable vagina.

I do not want what you haven't got.

I come from a land of ice and snow.

I'll reboot your Southern charms

with the brute brute boot of a brute like me.

All boners are my brothers in arms.

Clear your mind of cunt.

I can't.

I put on my pants

one day at a time.

I have an eight-track mind.

It shoots ink to confuse.

I support

its right to choose.

When I was a child

I caught a fleeting glimpse

of two balloons.

Just a little pinprick.

I'm a certain snatch of light

passing through

a double slit.

If observed, I behave

like a prodigal,

not a wave.

I'm neither both

nor and.

You'll never understand.

You'll never undersea.

I feel like a natural woman

is just too real for me.

All my love come tumbling down

and I get wild pregnant with Jesus.

I feel a wild harbor in my pants

and the boats with all their lights.

I have some oats in a thing of leather.

My toast always lands Christ-side up.

Kid! It's coming out my
ears
.

Don't you want to be there when we all get born?

Let's carry rope together in a glade.

Boom Boom Mancini survived on ferns

and roots for a month on Fire Island.

I led the search party. It's what I do.

I too dislike you. I rock down to

Electric Avenue. Let's reinvent then die

behind the wheel. I've been waiting

for this moment for all my life.

Oh Lord.

See here on the ultrasound,

that thing that looks like a comma?

It will separate the elements

in a series. I can't believe we're even

having this conversation to begin with.

The womb's a fine and private place,

or am I thinking of a doughnut?

You ask me, the hippies still have

a lot to answer for. But no one

ever asks me. I smell pasta.

I was a nurse during the war.

The soldiers in their dying pleaded,

“Can you get one of the other nurses?”

I know what no duck knows.

Tomorrow is Thursday.

Come, Lord Jesus,

let us not bandy words.

I too have followed the Dead.

I saw you and the devil talking.

Tell me, bluntly, what he said.

Weren't you just a little tempted?

I went down to Nag Hammadi.

What's your name and who's your daddy.

Hamper's full, the laundry's dry.

These pots might have some jinn inside.

That whale must answer for his crimes.

He ate four trainers and some lions.

Devil horns and nothing else on.

Matthew Murdock, Foggy Nelson.

Foggy notion just crossed my mind.

Trouble ahead, lotion behind.

Get with the program, mandrake root.

Let raven croak and howlet hoot.

A liver, observe, is eating an eagle.

The liver is me, we learn in the sequel.

Sometimes an eagle is just a cigar.

Mock on, mock on, Truffaut, Godard.

A bout of sniffles, something's off.

Turn your head to the side and cough.

Daughters and sons, dollars and cents.

Cat's in the cradle, dog far hence.

About that soufflé, a word if I may.

Roadside abortion, curds and whey.

If it's romance you're after in Phoenix,

just ask a teen girl for a kleenex.

Could you finish up a little faster?

You're old enough to be my sister.

My battle cry is Nevermore.

I give these suckerfish what for.

I ruin them. I'm through with men.

I build the new Jerusalem.

This earth, my sole inheritance,

spits up its precious lubricants.

I kick an empty gas can.

Behold: the next-to-last man.

Comfortably platinum,

they bang a gong, the old masters.

Jägermeister underwrites

their Stratocasters.

My childhood's reunited

and it feels so good. It feels

like making love for money should.

Money changes chicks for free.

It changes Freddie Mercury.

Ave Regina!

How high that highest Bic

lights the arena.

What is the use of rocking,

and there is no end of rocking.

AOR's blocked aortas clog

Friday Night Rock Block,

but Zoso what, black dog?

It's half-past past is prologue.