Shake the Superflux!

　　 by David Lehman

　　 I like walking on streets as black and wet as this one

　　 now， at two in the solemnly musical morning， when everyone else

　　 in this town emptied of Lestrygonians and Lotus-eaters

　　 is asleep or trying or worrying why

　　 they aren't asleep， while unknown to them Ulysses walks

　　 into the shabby apartment I live in， humming and feeling

　　 happy with the avant-garde weather we're having，

　　 the winds （a fugue for flute and oboe） pouring

　　 into the windows which I left open although

　　 I live on the ground floor and there have been

　　 two burglaries on my block already this week，

　　 do I quickly take a look to see

　　 if the valuables are missing？ No， that is I can't，

　　 it's an epistemological quandary： what I consider

　　 valuable， would they？ Who are they， anyway？ I'd answer that

　　 with speculations based on newspaper accounts if I were

　　 Donald E. Westlake， whose novels I'm hooked on， but

　　 this first cigarette after twenty-four hours

　　 of abstinence tastes so good it makes me want

　　 to include it in my catalogue of pleasures

　　 designed to hide the ugliness or sweep it away

　　 the way the violent overflow of rain over cliffs

　　 cleans the sewers and drains of Ithaca

　　 whose waterfalls head my list， followed by

　　 crudites of carrots and beets， roots and all，

　　 with rained-on radishes， too beautiful to eat，

　　 and the pure pleasure of talking， talking and not knowing

　　 where the talk will lead， but willing to take my chances.

　　 Furthermore I shall enumerate some varieties of tulips

　　 （Bacchus， Tantalus， Dardanelles） and other flowers

　　 with names that have a life of their own （Love Lies Bleeding，

　　 Dwarf Blue Bedding， Burning Bush， Torch Lily， Narcissus）。

　　 Mostly， as I've implied， it's the names of things

　　 that count； still， sometimes I wonder and， wondering， find

　　 the path of least resistance， the earth's orbit

　　 around the sun's delirious clarity. Once you sniff

　　 the aphrodisiac of disaster， you know： there's no reason

　　 for the anxiety--or for expecting to be free of it；

　　 try telling Franz Kafka he has no reason to feel guilty；

　　 or so I say to well-meaning mongers of common sense.

　　 They way I figure， you start with the names

　　 which are keys and then you throw them away

　　 and learn to love the locked rooms， with or without

　　 corpses inside， riddles to unravel， emptiness to possess，

　　 a woman to wake up with a kiss （who is she？

　　 no one knows） who begs your forgiveness （for what？

　　 you cannot know） and then， in the authoritative tone

　　 of one who has weathered the storm of his exile， orders you

　　 to put up your hands and beg the rain to continue

　　 as if it were in your power. And it is，

　　 I feel it with each drop. I am standing

　　 outside at the window， looking in on myself

　　 writing these words， feeling what wretches feel， just

　　 as the doctor ordered. And that's what I plan to do，

　　 what the storm I was caught in reminded me to do，

　　 to shake the superflux， distribute my appetite， fast

　　 without so much as a glass of water， and love

　　 each bite I haven't taken. I shall become the romantic poet

　　 whose coat of many colors smeared

　　 with blood， like a butcher's apron， left

　　 in the sacred pit or brought back to my father

　　 to confirm my death， confirms my new life

　　 instead， an alien prince of dungeons and dreams

　　 who sheds the disguise people recognize him by

　　 to reveal himself to his true brothers at last

　　 in the silence that stuns before joy descends， like rain.

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