Tom Beckett


A Day



groan

heavy

eyes

hand

between

legs

opened

wide.



*



Light switch.

Piss splash.

Wash hands

& face.

Brush teeth.

Light switch.



*



"Today is Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday (select one), December _____, the _____th day of 2006. There are _____ days left in the year."



*


Computer booting.

Coffee dripping.



*



Reaching ever

after

accident, incident

on a stationary

bike.


Books &

notebook , coffee,

water, 2 cough drops,

all within reach

on table

to left.


One to two hundred

calories with Thomas Pynchon,

one hundred at least

William James &

intrepid spook hunters,


another hundred or so

Allen Ginsberg's Collected

& hundred plus scribbling

lines in notebook.


*


Slowly

peel then

wolf banana.


Swallow

multi-vitamin tablet,

two glucosamines.


*


Fragrant bath

with book

(essays on

Jay DeFeo's

massive Rose)

& notebook

(lines scratched

in &

out on

A Day).


Aroma &

heat combine

with thought—

sensation becoming

insight's equivalent

state.


I love

thinking seriously

in the midst

of physical

stimulation, remember

vividly Fielding

Dawson say,

at Ear Inn

bar, Spring Street,

New York City—

what?—a quarter

fucking century ago?—


"I do

my best

thinking in

the rain."


*


Right hand

shaving, left

hand caressing

oneself

a bit—

idly, really,

almost

to see

if one

still feels

at all

for oneself.


*


Irritation of

having to dress,

literally to

pull clothes

from the closet

& drawers,

slap public

self together,

inhabit those

official colors

& textures,

that drag,

& move

damn it

out

into cold

cruel whirl

of wage

earning ethos,

or of

weekend errandcies.


*


In car,

adjustments made,

radio or

cd player

engaged,

backing out

narrow

drive, wary

of enclosing walls.


Short trip

to wherever

now going at

great expense.


*


Art is

a discipline

which coexists

uneasily with

other disciplines.


*


Lunch time

split

with dog walking.


*


The work

of existence

resolves into

routines which

can be

lived but

not spoken

in readily

meaningful

ways. How

sing gathering

trash,

doing dishes,

vacuuming floors,

inspecting restaurants

& houses,

swimming pools,

schools, sewers,

vending machines,

garbage trucks?


*


Blank

screen

realities.


*


Wanting to find

courage

to live at least

a little less filtered,

appearing naked

in mirror,

cock tucked

between legs,

pinching nipples.


*


Reading,

writing,

eating,

drinking,

thinking,

dreaming,

drinking,

drinking,

reading,

remembering

fleshed.


*


Light switch.

Grunt.

Splash.

Flush.

Wash hands

& face.

Brush teeth.

Floss.

Mouthwash.

Lightswitch.


*


Close eyes.

Let go.




As well as maintaining his wonderful interview site E-X-C-H-A-N-G-E-V-A-L-U-E-S, Tom Beckett has a personal blog, Soluble Census, which is where an earlier version of this poem appeared.

 
 
 
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