I won't need someone to let me be


we back them up, by david salle

Poems by lewis macadams jr.

humidity

you sit in a school room under a revolving fan.
I am alone with the fiasco of my dreams
hot evening, shades up
thunderstorms piling
up in the West anything for volume
all of my art seems overflow, the
music of my self-pity. barbara has left
john, the weather is changing
history
builds in your mind, in my mind
writing this poem
means a hope of ecstacy. nothing is drawn
out outside, no news of the balanced world
here comes the rain

elegance
infuses my writings, your writings
are the heavy distance in between

drainage

I'm entangled by you
by this damn menu
can you order for me?
in Italian? get me
something steaming hot, something dramatic.
outside, the city goes slack
under the sloppy weight of the tar roofs.
when I write a poem
on a day like this
it must snow all night
and be clear very cold
by the following noon

I see you jump over the slush by the curb
my hands hurt, are in my pockets
you are wearing a beautiful parka
the hat-check girl aura
restaurant filling up
a quick round of drinks
I sense we are in the movies
we never talk like this, usually
I'll bet you're hungry. I know
my boots are wet too
we have a perfect life, today
right? let's order then, and see what it is we both want.

kora for march 5th

williams died two years ago yesterday
tomorrow
snow expected
in the low 30s

I've got to drive the lady home to
take her pills
"crutches for us all"
he sd. when the world is
"organized"

sub terra flower
and the Spring song, Persephone
and me
in wet fear
walking to the parking lot
gray lines of
soaked cars

war years

the doughnut man sounds crazy too
I have thrown away my party signs
"I'm dreaming in beer"

outside the window
"arrangements" he said and steamed the window
will you please
make room
for me
in your casket?

Your body
is too much to transmit
icons, futile, like a blue duck

I can't plant anything
in my solid versions of lust, dana
I am crossing myself twice
and taking baths, as ordered
Nothing is working. I'm
dropping out of history, I'm
Mephistopheles annexed, I'm a pie being throwed.

the river's future

how filthy this room is! it's
a year ago
a crescent of cigarette smoke
and obscure bumming tactics

my surroundings are bestial and cave-like
I stick my neck out for the sake of art!
and my toes are habitually tinguely
I'm sober as usual but the room is
tilting

how melancholy to slide out the window!