Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Health Care Bill

With apologies to Wallace Stevens.

I.

Among fifty failing states,

The only moving thing

Was the cost of the health care bill.

II.

The CBO was of three minds,

Like a hopper

In which there are three health care bills.

III.

A health care bill swirled in the cloakrooms.

It was but a small part of the Big Lie.

IV.

A Reid and a Pelosi

Are one.

A Reid and a Pelosi and a health care bill

Are one.

V.

I do not know which to prefer,

The folly of the deceptions

Or the folly of the desperations,

The health care bill passing

Or just after.

VI.

Snowmounds filled the Capitol steps

With muddy puddles.

The shadow of the health care bill

Passed them, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the shadow

An unfathomable doom.

VII.

Oh wise men of Congress,

Why do you dream of wonder cures?

Do you not see that the health care bill

Stoops beneath the feet

Of the system around you?

VIII.

I know high premiums

And frightful, inescapable long lines;

But I know, too,

That the health care bill is involved

In what I know.

IX.

When the health care bill moved out of sight,

It marked the start

Of one of many scandals.

X.

At the sound of health care bills

Read into the deep night,

Even the frauds of K Street

Would cry out sharply.

XI.

He flew over Connecticut

In a white bird.

Once a fear pierced him

In that he mistook

The shadow of his presidency

For health care bills.

XII.

Obama is speaking.

The health care bill must be losing.

XIII.

It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The health care bill sat

In the Speaker's chair.

Wo Hop

Walking a crowded single file

down more crowded streets

past the fish mongers

with stores like aquariums

strange fishes with scribbled Chinese writing

past courthouse

streaming tired defendants

walking crowded

crowding one another

all of us pile down the steep steps

for delectable Chinese food

twenty-four hours

we’ll take one or longer

on our expanding lunch hour

speaking and dreaming

of a Czech breakfast

of whiskey and beer

or Belfast rain

to lure us away

from the teeming millions.

The Remaining Snow

I have seen enough snow
To know that some leaves
And some remains.

On warm mornings it falls like rain
From eaves and shrubs that shrug it away
To glisten and flow to tinkling drains.

On frozen days it stands its ground,
Glowing blue as a resplendent cowl,
Chilling its bearer, yet thrilling her, too.

But other times, the snow melts soft
And hardens clear when darkness falls
Casting leaf and lamp alike

In glassy prisons, where we await
The moment when the light will break
This fearsome paralytic mood.

Conjuring in our captive minds
Alternate climes where cold is kind,
We cannot glimpse the coming glow,

But glow it will and free it must;
The selfsame craft that gave us ice
Did also make the loosing flame.

And still, in May, I'll find in shade
A shadow of the snow that made
The world its slave for hours and days
And wonder where else the snow remains.

Blackout Walk

past the mobs of downtown works

and tourists popping flashbulb shots

vulture-ing for window positions

to clip a snippet of the end of the world,

wet with August sweat

foot-stepping on blisters for home, home, home

joined the draft of passers-by

re-routing loutish drivers

firing back pouts and surly shouts

at cabs, trucks

and Fifth Avenue regulars,

helping wage the losing war

against the choking gas machines

past goddesses in relief

with sweat-moist flesh

that blesses haggard horny eyes,

past vacant cabs

and rip-off vans

edge past

half-naked Spanish women

and shirtless men

drumming salsa tunes

under sparkled skies,

watched by tired cops

among the smoldering flares

up, up again

to where men in tank tops

slap down dominoes

over beer and oranges,

a sad sack poet drinking up the darkness

and looking for good times

Waiting in the Conference Room

I’m in an office-

sitting with a very dignified face

among the dignified stuffed chairs

and polished wood and glass

And the people I meet

may never know

how weird I am,

or how I sang

loudly and very badly

to myself on the way here

Our discussion

will not broach the subject

of my drunken strolls

down Broadway

or my screaming pleas of mercy

to the blood moon

and all the women of the world

They think I am studying

venture capital

or the stock market

while I scribble

chaotic poems

and dream of swinging naked

from White House chandeliers…

Blizzard

patter of smitten flakes

showered like flowers

on everything

burdened against the chill

stare fire-eyed

at the soft white blanket

new earthly moonscapes

unspoiled

stone-grey trees

trace their cool layered fingers

against the angry wind

all so dangerous

and light

and fleeting

The Urge to Join the Circus

The urge to join the circus

means static

like a blood clot on the brain,

means quotidian slaves with decent pay

would rather shovel shit and hay.

The urge to join the circus

is not unlike the urge to kill:

it begs release, provides relief,

and heats a frigid will.

The urge to join the circus

means choosing net or rope,

means a life parading around

mocking youthful hope.