Canto V* — a poem

Ezra Pound

© 2019 Henri Cartier-Bresson/Magnum Photos, courtesy Fondation Henri Cartier-Bresson, Paris

Big book, dull class.  Thesaurus.
Extinct, the clock ticks, wades out….
Thesaurus… Thesaurus Rex; short-
armed terror.  Per Darwin, “Arms shrunk
into fins….”  Feathers or fins? Chasing
down toga’d revelers in the via belushi.
Fins or flippers?  “…faster than lightning,
no one you see…” more ravenous
than he.  Short armed, rushing
the populous businesses — mayhem
at Starbuck’s; a piquant Quaker devoured
peel-and-eat-style (fresh, never frozen).
“Et omivorous”:
             Ho Ho’s, Little Debbie’s, and your little dog, too!
Truffle fries, I consume, and a wedge of blue
              (but I should say, “Bleu”!)
and fire?  Only if I use hot sauce.
Hair-pull, screaming with this vision…
Fins or Finns?  T-Rex being green;
perhaps migrated to the Emerald
Isle.  Adaptation to a cold, wet clime;
bland food; and mournful, melancholy
alcoholism and poetry.  Emeril’s Isle?
Readaptation: Fins or Finnegans?
Pretentious foreign-speak:
             “hai guidato una Ford ultimamente?”

* * *

* = V is for vivisection

Spear Fishing the Id — a poem




Poised on the bank over the unreasonable flow, spear ready, intent, I wait for the one.  You know it; it’s there and then it’s gone just as fast as you can move for it. I know, I know, I need to drop the weapon and jump in after it.  Give up civilized pretense and strip myself for action — become the creature among flailing utterances, the instantaneous insane mumbles that lack meaning but are filled with life and fight like hell to keep from being caught.  You know it when it happens, you pull it against your skin as it battles, flaps, flails. The stench overwhelms, the wondrously wild reek of a rivered vocabulary — the syntax of the core.