Jon Wesick


MEETING MAC LOW

Ezra Pound was his muse. Ezra Pound was the source. Ezra Pound who hated Jews but not him. Ezra Pound Mussolini’s propagandist. Ezra Pound in the mental hospital. All other poetry is penny wise and Ezra Pound foolish. Colorado mountains guarded the horizon like Tibetan refugees ushering Kundun away from the tyranny of spring rolls and mu shu pork. When the eye of wisdom cuts the veil of time, will it see these mountains shattered by fire and earthquake?

But that was neither here nor there. I was more occupied with my eggs and home fries when this old guy asked if he could join me. “Sure,” I said. “Knock yourself out.”

“Do you write poetry?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How do you do it?” He motioned to the waitress to bring a menu.

“I don’t know.” I put down my fork. “I get an idea and try to develop it.”

“Well, I do something different.” He shook my hand. “I’m Jackson Mac Low.”

So, this guy was crazy. He went on to tell me that he wrote a computer program that pulled random words from Ezra Pound’s Cantos and that he had a whole book of that stuff called Words nd Ends from Ez. Now, I’d never read a book like that in a million years but I was glad somebody like him could write it. Of course, Ezra Pound was an anti-Semite and Jackson was a Jew.

“When I visited him in the sanitarium, he never had a problem with me.” Jackson sipped his coffee.

Poetry overcame prejudice. Poetry overcame hate. Poetry tore down the Arbeit Macht Frei gate at Auschwitz. Poetry let the prisoners free.

I couldn’t believe this author sought me out. I’m skeptical. I don’t have faith. I don’t trust myself or my talent. I need validation but even when it comes, I feel like an imposter. So, I was thinking about how we were going to split the bill. I was out of work and spent a shit load of dough for the week at Naropa. It was cool and all but between the tuition and hotel bill, I was short. But maybe literature could be my bread. Literature my minestrone.

Literature my beans and guac topped with sour cream and magical realism. Literature my etouffee topped with gumbo file and metaphor. Literature my French onion soup and escargot.

Time is not a river with a laminar flow. It’s more a compressible gas full of turbulence and whirlpools. Our leisurely meal leaked into the vacuum of the past. Shit! It was time for my class. It was okay but meeting people like Jackson, Frank Chin, and the Danish actress Trina Dyrholm was better. Next time, I’d skip the classes altogether.

“Hey,” I said. “What do these poems of yours sound like?”

“With mousepads hath no man a house of gingerbread
each cookie cut smooth and well fitting
that design might cover the frosting
with mousepads”

I’VE BEEN MAC LOWED

and recall how I built model airplanes
Surrounded by blinking Christmas lights
and dying?
An African with a shaved head says, “Tiens!” 
                                                            now decayed
an unwanted pregnancy, a scandal, and a fresh 
diesel fuel gushing from the punctured hull
                                                     The Russians took over
old people nodding to a jazz fusion band at a Shinto shrine
Eyes downcast like a Japanese swordsman I remove hands 
“It’s pretty safe. By the way, do you know where the internment camp for the Vietnamese boat 
a heavy storm never materialized.
stop me.
                                                            to make sure they don’t follow
I set world records for lack of sleep
Sky Cable, Maori TV, McLeod’s Daughters, Sea Patrol,
fluorescent and horizontal
Surrounded by blinking Christmas lights, 
otherworldly
singing about the death of their love
that dreary striptease at airport security
My lover waits outside the station
The sleek train slips 
my cash flow prompts you
I know the extra volume won’t make my English easier, but 
                                             onion domed churches across the harbor.
breasts in low-cut bras.
Conflict, not enough. 


MAC LOWED AGAIN

and the ding ding of Merle’s wind chime arms now free she dances. 
When the band cannot be reduced to an acceptable level,
we won’t understand napkins, and silverware. 
Empty chairs applaud in the concrete gutter 
                                             by the railroad tracks life frightens me
not to sit when the boss was there and 
                                        when my tongue touched for second chances.
Now soldiers apply powder to cheeks
by the train station. No one pays him but Happy Gilmore
not Hemingway not a brief equation scribbled in the dust
Ayatollahs beards flailing she was supposed to be here hours ago
more vulnerable than before a woman in an electric wheelchair
I drive to my wrong livelihood teacup, the ninth circle of hell, 
and my resolve. Chris wove a mad woman’s coat from steel wool
                                                                                          Krishna offers all the
butter one could want,
                                             dinner, and a Vietnamese spring roll for Rex.

Jon Wesick is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Metal Scratches, Otoliths, Pearl, Slipstream, Space and Time, Tales of the Talisman, and Zahir. Jon is the author of the poetry collections Words of Power, Dances of Freedom, and A Foreigner Wherever I Go as well as several novels and short story collections. His most recent novel is The Enigma Brokers. http://jonwesick.com

 
 

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