Imposition on Dr. Lantry I

RUNWAY, by William Lantry (@harpo), 1994.11

Last night I, indolent, thought of free verse
almost as an escape, but knew my wrong
was near intentional: I thought of trees
whose branches lace together, holding up
a twelve-tone structure. Does each limb
relate to laws of chaos, or is any free?

Tonight, I think of fashion shows: how each
designer looks for some material
of advantageous difference, and the crowd
of mostly journalists looks on, then writes
a note on each. Their models, slimmed and coked
half-dance the narrow runway, and the lights

background essentials, bringing out stringed heels
and shadows echoing each other down
twelve-boarded planks. A choreographer
finds movement in their chaos, while I lean
half-languid, near the back wall, noticing
our darkened exit doors are bolted shut.

IMPOSITION ON DR. LANTRY I

Last night I, indolent, thought of free verse

flowing like Aunt Jemima's Lite Imitation Maple Flavored Syrup onto a replica of the Statue of Liberty, damnit

almost as an escape, but knew my wrong

was not the product of two wrights, Orville, Wilbur, and the escape of cerulean yonders to which far too many yesterdays lighted us.

was near intentional: I thought of trees

especially those Imitation Maple trees

whose branches lace together, holding up

crystals, sugar crystals on the edge of Tuesday morning's blue plate breakfast special, constituting

a twelve-tone structure.

And she turned to me then and asked:

Does each limb
relate to laws of chaos, or is any free?

And I said this was a false either/or. Not because it was possible to be neither, but because it is possible to be both.

Tonight, I think of fashion shows: how each

time I look at her, I'm struck (like a plastic bottle of syrup on cool-colored linoleum) by the falseness of her cloven dichotomy. The creator of the universe, she said: A

designer looks for some material

dialectic, but since God is infinitely more indolent than free verse, history is left lawless, just one more gaddamned fluke after another. And the classes -- the elite

of advantageous difference, and the crowd

of disadvantaged sameness -- are no more plagued by contradiction than I am when I can't decide whether to fuck or nap. Indecision looks like contradiction only when a group

of mostly journalists looks on, then writes

its gray on gray, signaling the senility of a way of life. Karl really was, as the old joke goes, the funniest of the Marx brothers. Can it really be coincidence that you speak through Harpo as you speak for Karl? The gods, they plink

a note on each. Their models, slimmed and coked

don't represent reality the way they used to. I can't full-dance the wide, wide world, and you can't

half-dance the narrow runway, and the lights

of reason go out, one by one, until finally we manage to get along just fine. With those lights gone, there are no more essentials. No central essentials, no foreground essentials, no

background essentials, bringing out stringed heels

and other assortd low-lifes.

and shadows echoing each other down

twelve-tone structures, twelve apostles, twelve days of christmas, the twelve members of the O.J. jury, and other

twelve-boarded planks. A choreographer

she was, before going into the syrup business. And each Marx, whether making "Das Kapital" or "Animal Crackers,"

finds movement in their chaos, while I lean

half-dancing, half-trying, half-assed making it,

half-languid, near the back wall, noticing
our darkened exit doors are bolted shut.

We'll have to go out the same way we to came in.

Nashville, 1994.11

* * * * * * *

"Bill Lantry's a poet (his dissertation at the U. of Houston was a collection of poetry). And he's also something of an internet freak, which is good, since publishing in the poetry business is slow, arduous, and difficult: He's in a user group of writers, and he writes a poem every night and sends it out to them (every night it's three verses, 6 lines per verse, 18 lines in all). Right away, as I understand it, he's got a thousand readers. I'm not in that user group, but a fortnight or so ago I asked him to send me a copy too. So now he does. A few nights ago, I got this: ["Runway"]. I sent it back again, with my own lines inserted in between his -- it's the sort of writing that wouldn't happen without e-mailing and word-processing. He thought the result was pretty funny . . . " (Letter from me to Madeleine St. Romain, 1994.11.18)