Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Three Poems by Chris Ide


David Cope writes, Garage clean-up find: Chris Ide chapbook left while he was living with me 
and kicking methadone (1992). About 100 poems circa 7-11-87 to 10-11-92.


inscription to a journal beginning 7/1/87


That future boys & girls might read

these days I drag-ass through & feel

a bit less lonely fear, I send back

my love, a confused hungover thing now,

nonetheless, take heed, my heart swells for you

from whatever foreign city state

or body I now inhabit,

I pray to touch you.


7/1/87


The way it works


If you are a poet

there will be days when you'll move to sing

& your lungs will fill with mud,

or

    if you are a shoemaker

there will be times when you will sit

sole-less,

if

    you're a mortician

there'll be periods when you're certain

that every damn man will live

      forever,

& you will be

        wrong.


    One day you'll awaken

napping, in the very middle of the moon--

one day, you'll awaken

quite not at all.


3/3/86



Every Breath an Epiphany . . . 


Some days I find an old friend in the mail box

all pals scattered 'cross country w/ their hangups;

helplessly in love, hopeless broken-hearted,

strung-out unk hungover or engaged

poets/writers all waiting for their literature

that one consolation for living which

is song, cuz love-pomes outlive love

& elegies might be immortal, mere

everyday details existing as one vast footnote--

If only we could live out our lives

in that single lucid stanza,

every breath an epiphany!

Instead time exits as a parasite, wristwatch

clinbs to arm like a blood-thirsty leech

tired years to drown it in liquor found

no poison strong enough instead

the liver swells up hatefull, brain

pickled in eternity of 2 am's

w/ shaky hands & no sleep, genitals

purple from self-abuse, the heart

refusing even to break, thumping out

its requiem beat from behind a cage of bones . . .

Angels of Satiety, I write you into existence,

come breathe life in & out my body

be done & leave me to a common grave;

let my corpse be a feast for scavengers

bind up my spirit hardcover, fingers

rattle my bones, this page will yellow

into dust intermingling w/ air that feeds

the lungs of a future beloved damned

to a life-span Earthling Poet . . . 


Summer '89

2 comments:

Jim said...

seeing these poems again reminds me of the time chris fell asleep drunk on walt whitman's bed in that little cabin of his. thanks for posting. i'm glad morgan jarema finally fished the ms out of her basement.

Gary Parrish said...

Hilarious Jim! I want to say also great archiving and preservation. Building our treasures for heaven but recording them first on Earth.

We need to find a socialist press with about twenty of us and just start cranking out this kind of material. I'm game, I'll chip.

My daydreams are alot like these poems.