Jed Allen

WHAT RAY WROTE I think everything's nothing but lies, wrote Ray Muniz, in English class. Ray, I say, by the Coke machine, then you and I are lying too. He shrugs. Ese! OK, I think, my Education kicking in, the trick's to make a poem of it. So I conjure a room with four chairs and Ray on one and Poetry, Jed and Truth on the rest. Mister Truth. I throw a mattress down and spring for the wine. Silently we drink. Ray leans on his knees. His hair shines. It's the fucking government. Ray—wait— They're everywhere. They're under your bed. Hey, ese. Does he mean me? Jesus, Ray. Don't knock it kid. Truth loosens his tie. I'd hate to see you President. Ray laughs and tilts the jug. I glare at Truth. The privileged prick. Look at that suit. That song, I say, slurring a little---smack in the middle of Ray's sentence--- todos es nada— gives me the creeps. I see Ray wince. I mean if it's true, what's Truth? Truth snorts. Ray makes a finger-gun horizontal to the floor. Pop! Pop! Nada, ese! Poetry's perched, her knees drawn up. Her feet are bare. Patchouli. She studies Ray or seems to. Help me, Poetry. Ray flops down. They take you, ese. They fuck you up. He pats his shirt. Pop! Pop! He passes out. Truth slams the door. What's eating him? Poetry smiles. She picks her toes. And you? Me? What kind of poem is Pop! you're dead? Nothing but lies. See her sitting like a sister, soft beside Ray's bed. ********************************************** THE ART OF POETRY Have I news for you? Jill? Jack? What wise word, reader, should I crayon upon your back? Fame? Fear? Money? And anyway news for who? You could be a kook! A cop. The God of Fuck. You hate lettuce. Twice you've attacked. Or have been. And you never told. Well? Dude, Sister, Honorable Sir! What news could I have for— who?! Are we equally real? Taller? Do you give a damn? Is that your best sorrow staring out? Hell! Send me a glossy 8x10 Body hair. Grit from under your nails. Spoor. Proof. I mean what could I sing you wouldn't find sung in the Favorite Hymns of Sheriff Big? What's my metamegamelodrama got to do with you? You've killed? Me too. Penised? Everyone's waiting for news. The whipped dogs, the grounded birds, the mosquitoes jigging on their microcosmic violins. The way I see it one hand's good, the other's evil and I never know which. No art in that. What a fix! What I really want—more, even, than Beauty—is a few stout pegs to batten down the dark. Oil for the lamp. Hope. Well you can't make poems from a life of silence. Perhaps if we could rendezvous somewhere on the border between us—if I could lay my addled head on your breast or take you out dancing tossing our shoes in the smoky air — if But time's short. It's another poet who said there are two kinds of us, nice and not. Is that news enough for you?

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