On another note, I did write a post on WaysWeAreLost. Take a gander. It’s rather….different.
I wrote a poem on my blackberry about Jack Spicer riding with me into New York City as I was sitting next to a priest. Jack didn’t have much to say as far as granting me a poem. We just sat there and watched the sun go down, reflected off buildings. Jack said he was concerned that the priest’s shoes were too shiny. He said he once wrote that he wanted to ask Christ to give him back his childhood. I said, No, Jack, that’s the wrong thing to ask for. We can be children now.
Jack and I didn’t get along the whole way into Grand Central, but he said he was looking forward to dancing.
I’m reading Jack Spicer on the train. There’s a priest sitting next to me. His shoes are newly shined. I can’t stop looking at them.
Jack says he’s going to ask Christ to give him back his childhood.
No, Jack. Let’s be children now. Let’s touch Father’s shoes. Should I ask him why I used to dream I was on a cross, getting off on people touching me?
No, Jack says, ask him where he loves God.
Oh. On his body.
The priest keeps looking at me, Jack.
Must be the cross, Jack says.
No, it’s your poem. You talk a lot about the Virgin Mother.
Where are we going? Jack says.
Oh. Right. To DANCE!
I wish I could talk to Father.
He’s very shiny. Notice the sunset off the buildings.
Hmm. Yes, cliche, though.
I like your boots.
Thank you. But honestly, Jack, I was hoping you’d help me with this poem.
No, I don’t speak to the living about poetry.
What do you speak to them about, then?