Poems by Larry Fagin

Twelve Poems

A balloon
is going up
filled with problems.


When I think
of the thought
machines


I whistle
softly
to myself.


*


Self


In my pale
face
is a grim


mask,
but I have
to laugh.


My arm
is a bone —
I


love
it
so.


*


a red
tin pan
of tan
doom


*


Gravity
pulls
me
down


so
hard
I
can


only
say
my
name.


*


"When my head
goes too fast
I get out
and walk."


*


The evil eye
is ridiculous,
but it exists.


*


Personal


I'd like
to keep
myself


out
of this. . .
this. . .


whatever
you
call it.


*


It's too easy
to say
yes,
now—


difficult
to think,
say,
now.


*


I get
the idea
I can die
anytime,
then
I forget
it.


*


When a tree falls
on your head,
it says yes
or no.


*


I walk
you walk
we walk


through
each
other


into
our
selves


The Skeleton

The skeleton has his own
bathing suit


He enjoys swimming and being
in the world


The xylophones are playing
peacefully


The skeleton is dancing
on the beach


We respect his frugality, neatness
patience, tact


He's not just another
skinny person



Landscape

The little white dog wags his tail
The red mill turns silently
The movie line is a mile long
The sleepyheads toy with their food
The Japanese gardener flies to pieces
Orange soda blows in the wind
A lettuce leaf floats by



Poem (Born to be Wild)

My father said, "Listen,
stupid" (he always
called me "Listen")


but I called my father
stupid—he slammed
on the brakes,


teaching me how
to drive
in Germany.



Just Then There Was a Knock at the Door

Don’t pass us by. Inquire within, speak to Cleopatra, she’s our UPS girl. So is Olympia. Packages are ‘partly’ broken open. What isn’t ‘partly’? Seen and unseen, never complete. Oh yeah? What about death? I’m open to it but only partly. Try to find your way out of whatever you’re in, door open just a crack. Don’t ever mention development in my presence. Cleopatra says when she woke up from someone else’s dream she started a dream of her own. That’s something. I’m working on one of mine. All is wax emulsion.



Devoid of Exclusions

“Nothing whatever, it arises as everything.” Lemon zest. I can’t seem to keep quiet which is a pity because you really need to rest. If you could run you would call running a rest period. There’s no way out so go deeper in. Spot what don’t fit, bombs in fake rocks. I’ve got some paintings of dogs playing cards that might be valuable. Who’s in the room? Just Bill. Bill. I mean how many Bills can there be? Try not to think about generations, individuals, prizes and awards, movements, tendencies, phalanxes, growth, major or minor status, periods, phases, context, comparisons, hierarchies, etc. If only you’d stop being yourself, get it over with, the way the greats do. Care for some gold? Poured in a cup? I can’t worry about you (or can I?) It’s a kind of banked fate. Sure the hills have eyes, assholes too. I’ll see you on the other side. But you can’t climb, can you?



My Favorite Entropy

The stars at night are big and bright. I wouldn’t open that in here. Save yourself. Montaigne says you must lend yourself to others, but give yourself to yourself. But in “My Life to Live” the distinction between “lend” and “give” is eliminated. I don’t get it. How does that privilege self over others? You need a key keeper to get into your house. Then the bomb goes off. Throw everything away after using it once.

Betty: Is it good luck or bad luck when a black cat crosses your path? Janitor: That all depends on what happens afterwards.



You Heard Me

I hope you'll ooze away
In sunny gushes
Beddoes, "To a Bunch of Grapes"

Never over, incomplete. Please go away. I came to a dead end then discovered I had impulses and gave in to them. My friends take me seriously but why? After all, I write my poems on beaverboard, all about death in an open window, or “cake left out in the rain,” etc. And David says he’s “waiting for the light.” Since he doesn’t drive, I suppose he means inspiration or redemption. Or the electrician. Or morning. Maybe he’s making a record or developing a photograph. Or the other thing, the blue thing. Best of luck to you, sir. “I retire as champion.” (I’m not gone yet.) You see the arc, the whole route, a man running across a landfill chased by an oil spill. What is the equivalent of the present, this personage will ask. All fragments to be transcended by future fragments.



Shannon's Running Late

She said the main thing is not to take emotions seriously — though they’re punishable by death. She’s content with plague. She didn’t ask to be born. She sat corrected in Granada. Are you sure it has film in it? Sure I’m sure, the Alhambra will come out pink. She conflates “absolute” and “contained.” No surprise there. She’ll have to give that diamond clip back though, it’s Edie’s. But she’ll inherit her father’s pipe wrench, his flapper valves.