Edward Taylor (एडवर्ड टेलर)

earth, fifty from the,water. Gerald is.

inching toward me,as grim, slow, and.

determined as a,season, because he.

has no trade and wants,none. It's been nine months.

since I last listened,to his fate, but I.

know what he will say,he's the fire hydrant.

of the underdog,When he reaches my.

point above the creek,he sits down without.

salutation, and,spits profoundly out.

past the edge, and peeks,for meaning in the.

ripple it brings. He,scowls. He speaks: when you.

walk down any street,you see nothing but.

coagulations,of shit and vomit.

and I'm sick of it,I suggest suicide.

he prefers murder,and spits again for.

the sake of all the,great devout losers.

A conductor's horn,concerto breaks the.

air, and we, two doomed,pennies on the track.

shove off and somersault,like anesthetized.

fleas, ruffling the,ideal locomotive.

poised on the water,with our light, dry bodies.

Gerald shouts,terrifically as.

he sails downstream like,a young man with a.

destination. I,swim toward shore as.

fast as my boots will,allow; as always.

Some people go their whole lives,without ever writing a single poem.

Extraordinary people who don't hesitate,to cut somebody's heart or skull open.

They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease,and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.

These same people stroll into a church,as if that were a natural part of life.

Investing money is second nature to them,They contribute to political campaigns.

that have absolutely no poetry in them,and promise none for the future.

They sit around the dinner table at night,and pretend as though nothing is missing.

Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall,and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing.

The family dog howls all night,lonely and starving for more poetry in his life.

Why is it so difficult for them to see,that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial.

Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations,croquet, fox hunts, their sea shores and sunsets.

their cocktails on the balcony, dog races,and all that kissing and hugging, and don't.

forget the good deeds, the charity work,nursing the baby squirrels all through the night.

filling the birdfeeders all winter,helping the stranger change her tire.

Still, there's that disagreeable exhalation,from decaying matter, subtle but everpresent.

They walk around erect like champions,They are smooth-spoken and witty.

When alone, rare occasion, they stare,into the mirror for hours, bewildered.

There was something they meant to say, but didn't,"And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros.

next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times,learn to yodel, shave our heads, call.

our ancestors back from the dead--",poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.

You haven't scribbled a syllable of it,You're a nowhere man misfiring.

the very essence of your life, flustering,nothing from nothing and back again.

The hereafter may not last all that long,Radiant childhood sweetheart.

secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids.

all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life.

seeking, through poetry, a benediction,or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal.

explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor,And yet it's cruel to expect too much.

It's a rare species of bird,that refuses to be categorized.

Its song is barely audible,It is like a dragonfly in a dream--.

here, then there, then here again,low-flying amber-wing darting upward.

then out of sight,And the dream has a pain in its heart.

the wonders of which are manifold,or so the story is told.

All night a door floated down the river,It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure.

from its former life, like the time the lovers,leaned against it kissing for hours.

and whispering those famous words,Later, there were harsh words and a shoe.

was thrown and the door was slammed,Comings and goings by the thousands.

the early mornings and late nights, years, years,O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle.

The door was an island that swayed in its sleep,The moon turned the doorknob just slightly.

burned its fingers and ran,and still the door said nothing and slept.

At least that's what they like to say,the little fishes and so on.

This is the hardest part,When I came back to life.

I was a good family dog,and not too friendly to strangers.

I got a thirty-five dollar raise,in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs.

I drove the General, and introduced him,at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach.

and was a massive boost to his popularity,I did my best to reduce the number of people.

The local bourgeoisie did not exist,One of them was a mystic.

earth, fifty from the,water. Gerald is.

inching toward me,as grim, slow, and.

determined as a,season, because he.

has no trade and wants,none. It's been nine months.

since I last listened,to his fate, but I.

know what he will say,he's the fire hydrant.

of the underdog,When he reaches my.

point above the creek,he sits down without.

salutation, and,spits profoundly out.

past the edge, and peeks,for meaning in the.

ripple it brings. He,scowls. He speaks: when you.

walk down any street,you see nothing but.

coagulations,of shit and vomit.

and I'm sick of it,I suggest suicide.

he prefers murder,and spits again for.

the sake of all the,great devout losers.

A conductor's horn,concerto breaks the.

air, and we, two doomed,pennies on the track.

shove off and somersault,like anesthetized.

fleas, ruffling the,ideal locomotive.

poised on the water,with our light, dry bodies.

Gerald shouts,terrifically as.

he sails downstream like,a young man with a.

destination. I,swim toward shore as.

fast as my boots will,allow; as always.

Some people go their whole lives,without ever writing a single poem.

Extraordinary people who don't hesitate,to cut somebody's heart or skull open.

They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease,and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.

These same people stroll into a church,as if that were a natural part of life.

Investing money is second nature to them,They contribute to political campaigns.