From: boutell@cshl.org (Tom Boutell)
Subject: TB: Poems (Many New Things)
Organization: Cold Spring Harbor Labs
Date: Mon, 28 Sep 1992 14:36:23 GMT

Just when you thought it was safe: revenge of Mr. Prolific
in 3-D...

A bit of news: I read this weekend at the Back Fence Tavern, on
Bleecker Street in the Village, and was afterwards asked to
do a featured reading in November. I'll know the exact date next
Sunday. I get the privilege of boring everyone for a full
unadulterated half - hour! Fancy that. (For once I was comfortable
with a microphone.)

Now (9/5)
---

Move softly but swiftly; no good the slow pull
Of zippers; their racket is clear as thunder
even if pulled underwater. Move swiftly,
With no pedestrian touch,
When there are feet on the stairs. Move surely,
Like a thing natural, a dream, a thing known,
That has a right to this bed. And don't tell me
About your doubts now. Share them before,
Share them after, share them with a friend
When the fire is gone from your bed,
But for now, press hard, press on:
The price is the same, whether we debate it,
Whether we enjoy it or no.

Washington Square II (9/12)
--------------------

The fountain is silent.
The fountain has been silent for years.
"All broken, Dad.
Why is it broken?" the drain
Is a foot and a half from the ground,
Dry.

But something is still here,
Or something is remembered here, even by those
Who cannot possibly remember it. Dozens of readers
And watchers and walkers, in a circle, occasionally glancing
Expectantly at the silent centerpiece.

This is a place with memories,
A place with more memories than dreams,
Shining only by reflection
In the summer night sky.

Spectator (9/19)
---------

Coursing overhead,
I feel the engines
Of the coming sun. Heightened rhythms,
Lower East Side.

Someone is letting it burn -
The replenishable light this time.
Overwhelming light, to my suburban eyes.

I am a ghost here,
A tactile, mortal, fragile, invisible ghost.
That's my starting position.
It's a steep climb to life.

One into the three,
Forward from obscurity.
One into the three,
Listen to the referee.

Whistle for a cab, 
With my silent fingers.
Whistle for a cab,
Back into the stands.

II 

You can't make a diorama out of shit
And have it be interesting.
You can't even make a diorama about dioramas
Out of shit
And have it be interesting.

At least it's not the week.
At least I'm not adding ones
In a neurotic language without twos.

I tried to press the start button
Implanted in the organism,
But my hypothalamus
Is cutting class today.

Ever stare surreptitiously through a mirror
At an object of intrigue
And discover you've been staring publicly
Through an opening?
You, do your wash. You're reading this
In ragged underwear and it's disgusting.
In an ether pit of magazines and salsa and chips
And dove bars, wearing last year's bra
By a string. Lucky for you
I'm inept with clasps. You're holding 
A bottle of cheap beer, if I like you much,
A wine cooler if I put up with you.
Your mother will call within the hour.

(These are all the things I hope you're doing,
Because if you are
Then I can keep up with the salsa and
The ridiculous overpriced nonalcoholic beer.
Knock the door down
To keep it open.)

I could get drunk.
I could get Really drunk.
It's within my rights,
A side benefit of mortality.
I could get something else on these rocks.

I usually take off my glasses 
For the impressionist rush.
But the reliefs here, on the far stage wall,
Need to be seen sharp and sober,
In the popsicle - stick flesh.

-T

-- 
Tom Boutell, boutell@cshl.org

Clausthaler is the best non - alcoholic beer in the known universe.