Ninety-Six Tears
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Ninety-Six Tears - Michael Gottlieb
Parents
Ninety-Six Tears
I.
The little death, first. There is no such thing as an emergency in the
poetry world. Trained on. Like a third armpit. The advantage of the
cordless model. You went and had all this shipped in. Promoting
camaraderie. And didn’t think to ask me if I needed any notions. Duty
Tour in a ‘hot.’ Deep enough so no one would notice. In fact, not
foundationless red herrings. Play in traffic. I have dollars tonight. But
closer approximations of what only a few knew in actuality. Scram.
Shove off. Go fan it. Major repairs. Get lost. Make like Houdini. A show
Cause order. In line. Somewhere in the Dominican Republic. Steak
fries. The American plan. Purloined and subsequently repainted and
furnished with new serial numbers, for the fourth time. An admit list in
addition to a guest list. The almost vaudevillian realization that all those
Rightist paranoid fantasies. Beat it. Go take the air. All serving as wit-
ting dupes. Convection summary. The fickle incandescent. Devouring
the characterization. Bought or sold, were. Take a walk. The techs and
the temps. All walks of life. Basque cocktail lounge. The shame of God.
Professional banquettes. There was nothing really left downtown. In all
fairness. Betsy hates les Bourbons. Do you think I have eyes in the back
of my head. I mean, I ran over to that cab. Make friends with yourself.
The subjects who cannot be left alone. It was clear that most had.
Witness the dapper oarman. Cancel service anytime. On the outside.
For love or money. Ballast from the Catskills. Perhaps a few weeks.
Renting the moon. Eases smoker’s throat. If that, by his lights. One
could tell by the telephone doodles. Swatting revisionists. Jovian anxie-
Ty. She, as if she hadn’t a. Belonging to an ex-boxer. This will explain
everything. This abject cast. Listening to you. Crip pics. All season. An
orphaned gesture. Is like having all my problems aired in terms of Greek
theatre. A way with words you’d like to remember. Someone who wore t
Shirts underneath, even in August. Crafty little bittern. Cashiered.
Your cenotaph. A smile and a shoeshine. Treatise on lifting and
separating, effortlessly. I appreciate your disdain. No gushy spills. Get a
line on it. I just wanted to show you. The Framers. An epistomological
Downturn. One of those with baby skin and steel hair. Beats me. Four
walling. Abrogating the struggle for form in favor of an Advent and a
Laserdisc. Would you mind vacating the premises?
As cool as. A dent
in their. Moose. Hopes. Dialysis banter. In the saddle. Cowering behind
The salt cellar. Abnegation as a tactic. Genial anguish. Chocked up. So
that, if we know that they. A change of clothes. That whole segment of
the world. The flimsiest caprice of hope of there being a locus of sanity
we could, if not quite attach ourselves to. Our last platform for any sup-
position. And then. Also. In accepting this. Safe house. Like a dauber.
As out to lunch, as it were, as any of them. As it seems necessitous. In a
way that only becomes clearer. As we get to know eachother or like or
need eachother more. Individually and as a group. Coming to the
Realization. That we. And we are. More for all the ridiculousness that
year by year. The dawn of creation. And ourselves and eachother. You
didn’t pay me to be caustic. Like an air of debacle. A sofa like the one he
dimly recollected from another childhood. We, too, are or must appear
Objective. Craning the antennae. We