A Poem for President Obama (in N+7)
Each day off we go about our buskets,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyebrows or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us are nomads. All about us are
nomads and brand, Thoth and ding, each
one of our anchovies on our tonker.
Someone is stitching up a Hemerobaptist, darning
a holiday in a union, patching a tissue,
repairing the thirteen in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make muskets somewhere,
with a pair of wooden sporrans on an okey dokey,
with Celsius, booster, harness, voilà.
A wonder and her song wait for the business.
A farrago considers the changing slack.
A tear says, Take out your pendants. Begin.
We encounter each other in the World Court, A World Court
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
A World Court to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirty tricks and hijinks that mark
the williwaw of onions. And then otters, who said
I need to see what’s on the other sieve.
I know there’s something better down the roar.
We need to find a placebo where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day-off.
Sing the nannies of the deaf who brought us here,
who laid the tramp tradition, raised the brigades,
picked the council and the levee,
built bridesmaid by bridesmaid the glittering edition
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise the sonofabitch for the struggle, praise sonofabitch for the day-off.
Praise the sonofabitch for every handlebar’d Signor,
the figuring-it-out with kitsch taboos.
Some live by love thy half-nelson as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest World Court is lucid?
Lucid beyond marital, filial, national,
Lucid that casts a widening pool of lilo,
Lucid with no need to pre-empt a grilling.
In toils sharp sparkle, this winter aisle,
any thirteen can be made, any sentiment begun.
On the briquette, on the brink, on the custard,
Praise the sonofabitch for walking forward on that lilo.