The Collected Poems of Lorenzo Thomas - Lorenzo Thomas Wesleyan Poetry Series

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up to the light of our language and

      Sip thoughtlessly of the ravishing cup marked

      With a brand name of the thing we have used

      To identify ourselves on this surprised earth

      Minion. The register of surprise at some awkwardly

      Pretentious demand

      breaking up all over again

      the expectation of some

      orderly form

      The Cross crucifix

      back

      in the same Dracula

      story

      To have been saying, Dracula is a real person

      A man

      and any Art that depends for sub-

      stance

      there, the human

      must end in pieces

      appropriate

      like the hill

      white stones

      and green hill Athens

      The pettiness of a real man

      Walks in the luncheonette

      Grinning over the sandwich meat without blood

      an American

      Dracula hmmmm

      ■

      A bouquet of ashes.

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      The Bathers

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      All silence says music will follow

      No one acts under any compulsion

      Your story so striking and remain unspoken

      Floods in the mind. Each one trying now

      To instigate the flutter of light in your

      Ear. The voice needling the flashy token

      Your presence in some room disguised

      As the summer of the leaves. Hilltops

      Held by the soft words of the running

      Wind. What lie do you need more than this

      The normal passion. And each thing says

      Destroy one another or die. Like a natural

      Introducing here on this plant to Europe

      The natural. A piece of furniture, smell

      Taste some connection to your earth and

      “Realize” nothing more than you need

      Another view nothing more than you need yourself

      Or that is beautiful. Or your luck that speaks.

      Lifting its shoulders out the language

      Of the streets. Above. The sky worried

      Into its own song. Solid rhythm. She stays

      Too close for a letter, scared of a telegram

      The finger drum express. Impatient blues.

      Anxious blues. Her chemical song loud and

      Bright in his dimension. This is the world.

      The vegetables are walking.

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      Face it. The stars have their own lives and care

      They are forced into it by your other eye and

      Opposite side of your thoughts. Who takes sides

      The world quite as fashionable as liars imagined

      The picture of one fragile girl in an avalanche

      Of the kimono required for their soft trade.

      Who is so daring at first to draw lines in the sky

      Dingy with this neglected daylight. Opened fan.

      Life itself is such a simple thing and we need it

      Then here come the music again. And we need that too

      People asking each other. The invention of reason.

      And those who own nothing what of those walking around

      Without land, without cash value, properties. Without

      Nothing in their name. Whose destinies

      Are not marked or marked down. What of

      The ones who are meant to rise in the world

      By their names. Whose names are not known.

      These worlds are lost in a minute only a gem

      Of substance remaining. The necessity to change the form.

      These streets clothed in an atmosphere of ash and care-

      Less emotion. Who are these persons roll their shoulders

      Outside the window in starlight and streetlight

      Each young man there reminds the girl of someone

      These are the last words I send you for a while.

      Written across her fan. Her open eye all flame and

      You can feel it take shape in your eye. The lines.

      Sufficient confusion calls for a song and

      The figure with how many sides. Holler.

      Once to the ocean. Sing it for the woman

      Whose hands open and deliver the dream

      Arousing itself from the day’s laborer walking

      These streets back from the edge of the river

      Deep into town. Traffic. Your voice plays across

      The street on the curb right into my open hand

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      I see through you in advance!

      There are no petty graces

      This coffee cup gone cold

      Promised recovery. A dutch heart.

      What this world is coming to questions and cups.

      The song and renewal.

      We would rather have you here than absent

      Though you fall vomiting into the soup.

      We would rather have you here, in English

      Than train you in less grand arts of decline

      What is not the machine and imposter elevates me

      A simple gesture. Not a thought.

      This is very important, read it over again

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      As

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