I am late not because of pressing time demands, but because yesterday I was so hungover that I had not the energy to lift my fingers, never mind exert enough pressure with them to actually turn my computer on. So perhaps it’s small coincidence that today’s poet has a name that anagrammizes to “Dr. Ten Lagers,” and that I’m headed to, the city of his birth, in 2 days.
But this poem has a staccato strangeness is not because of shaky, faulty typing, but because Gerald Stern is just a random, old man. How wonderful.
Have a good week,
Dr. Ten Lagers
The road the road just south of
the one by Mordecai the river the river the
one on my left if I am travelling north the
car a box with wires loose on top of my
left leg the radio fine the light behind
behind the clock not working the rose so dead
I am ashamed the crows too shiny their feathers
too wet the cliff on my right too red the blood
the blood of an animal, a skunk, they bleed
and stink, they stink and bleed, the monkey on top
of me, a New World monkey, not a howler,
an organ-grinder monkey, a capuchin,
his small red hat is on my head and he’s
on my back, he’s dropping orange peels down my neck
March 22nd on the Delaware River.