Music, Itch
According to its wonts. . . And
There it is, all'd. Zukofsky
Tallying up a five-by-
Fiver, interlard'd, a thing light-
Heightened, truculent in the melody
Department, a thing to take
A shining to, a taking
Stubborn as milk. Such ouch.
Like winter lately: my outer
Surface skin goes all patchy,
Circular red welts like something
Got getting to a Martian
Summer capital, something Martian aristocrats'd
Ping-pong betwixt themselves and,
Not overly vex'd, never eradicate,
Insouciant to the nth degree
Of insouciance. Oh the polar
Tilt is constant, the sun
Slips. . . Still, what best betides
The season is its own
Wont, a willing suspension like
A red tide, an insalubrious
Sample sloshing in a beaker.
You done did music like
That before. You hummed danger
Up into a speculate tower,
Kow-towing to nothing but
A stuttery bass line, all
Unhindered by anything beyond somebody's
Kindred pout. Her audience eyes
Said no, though she did
Get you home. True, other
Demands did come up, things
That'd have you lifting needle
Off the phonograph mid-heat
On a dead run spiral
Track to center, demands you
Lay down a particular line,
Or chalk it up, fella.
Ebullience used to bully a
Way constantly up through, tolerating
Accuracy for the greater inaccuracy.
My proviso's that: and music,
Its invasive echt sequencing, prudence
A lyre, commodious, pluck'd guy
Wire, that hummable scratch home.
