Thursday, January 21, 2016

Epstein's Constant

This also appeared in Orbis.


I’ll call this Epstein’s Constant.  It implies
the angle of the vision from the man.
It imports paraendrocrinology
into aesthetics via sense of touch.
It makes all macroeconomics just.
By Epstein’s Constant all girls understand
all boys, and boys occasionally know
something about one girl, if they apply
themselves.  And Epstein’s Constant.  When you view
the stars through Epstein’s Constant on clear nights,
Magellan’s Cloud will match both Decalogue
And the Decameron in tone and luster,
measured against whatever scale you like.
It never changes. (I said it was constant.)
It knows no history and yet applies
To what your mother told your father you
told your teacher.  Although it will not bend,
applied to love it usually finds
the path most sinuous between two points.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Dead Grandpa, He Dead

from The Complete Dead Grandpa


Goose, gander, ducat, duchess, dead dead dead,
and nothing you can say will bring me back,
nor cumulo-nimbus fleece floating atone
for birthday candles blown or naked gifts
on disco-lit parquet. Dead. Dead is croaked,
frogs on a spit, Achilles in the pit,
and ordinary Me blue in the face,
a little while at least. The high-toned art,
allusive and annoying, leaves me cold.
I'd rather be a butcher in Portales
than talked about in Paradise, where odes
are picayune accomplices of dirt.