it may be too hard
to think of me as silence
like thirsty flowers
in the Luxembourg
I paused to cry for hours
beside patient friends
I read Thus Spake Z
in a minute or two and
saw my life in clouds
and inside last clouds
I saw my sister hiding
behind the grillework
snakes danced up curtains
and a miserable pink
of which Michaux spoke
Half a century
later I look at tulips
try to see glory
not Lawrence's kind
but the modest buds in Bronx
where diners pop up
thirteen synagogues
and some are shuls the way Saul
Bellow preferred them
Unlike a true Jew
I like to go alone, weep
(kills community)
Today someone writes
as if anyone around
Frank froze him with lies
Generosity
is not a word for critics
but Frank hated pricks
haha the theory
is he was a dead man and
this is false theory
But let's go back to
say l962 or
let's pay attention
involuntary
memory as in Proust is
more than I can bear
in England I smelled
my mother's glitzy perfume
and I also heard
inside myself the
tune of her blue jewel-box
I still remember
Too tired to forget
too rebellious to count
lonely syllables
well father would say
what's so lonely about them
the one equals one
I want to build that
with long Icelandic "menhirs"
one plus one is one
for the madness of
my old friend the architect
One monument one
You pushed me into
talking today but really
the best rest is two
but I want to build
one day like white white Legos
one plus one is one
-– David Shapiro,
September 8, 2008