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Poetry #159
(published December 25, 2003)
Group-therapist Listens to Water Music
by Barry Blumenfeld

Knew a guy once, couldn't handle
Handel. So said he. Too musical, too
Pretty. His deal was jazz, something I
Don't like much. So many of my clients
Walk that chaos line—fingers popping,
Soles and heels stomping bloodstains on the
Sidewalk, beating raps or wives or time and
Dancing on their mommies' graves. It's
Contemptible, but I can't say that.

So I hike out to these lava cliffs and
Sit lotus for relief. Babelicious. Kpsssshhhh,
The waters scat, kpsssshhhh, like cymbals,
Caressed by wire brushes, shuddering
To a morphine sleep. Kpsssshhhh. Oh, mama.

But it isn't so easeful for me. Superior
Is too enigmatic. My brain's in-
Fected, don't you see, with manic, Satanic
Ideologies. Sparkle of star-
Light, glitter of sun, send me seeking
For the One. Cut. You take my point, no
Doubt. I don't know what is worst, most tiring:
My questions, beating so useless and
Musical, against the rocks of mere be-
Ing; my thirst, for you, my darling; or
Something else, something I might name
If I had time. But I'm out of it.


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