Fred­er­ick Sei­del

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - —Fred­er­ick Sei­del


Noth­ing to write home about.

No home to write home to.

Oh boohoo! I’ve never heard

Any­thing so dis­gust­ingly ab­surd.

The snow is fall­ing crazily out­side the win­dow.

Now it’s spring.

Still cold but the lit­tle birds this morn­ing be­gan to sing. But the fuck­ing pi­geons are a con­stant curse.

Dis­gust­ing and ab­surd moans of hu­man sex­ual in­ter­course On the ledge out­side my study win­dow.

I’m leap­ing with­out wings,

Though I wouldn’t mind hav­ing wings,

To you.

I’m leap­ing out my win­dow to you.

Right through the screen of my com­puter into

Women don’t like us any more

And hold meet­ing af­ter meet­ing over what to do. Surf’s up!

They ride the big wave.

They’re not why the planet may be doomed.

Pic­ture a scene right out of Dis­ney Clas­sics of gi­ant saguaro cac­tuses, Enor­mous nude green hair­less tubes with arms

That look like pre­his­tory reach­ing out with­out hands.

I hear the god­damned pi­geons mak­ing a baby.

We share a desert.

What are you look­ing at?

I dug and dug to get out

A con­tact lens that it turned out wasn’t in my eye And got in­stead a ghoul­ish

Eye­ball of blood. It didn’t hurt and I could see just fine,

Though it looked as if one eye was slowly cook­ing in red wine. When I see your tits on FaceTime I see stars.

I see Stars and Stripes and Stars and Bars.

I’m in the fi­nally-es­cap­ing-with-the-hu­man-species-to-Mars

Mode, winged but with­out wings, cold­cocked by love, out cold, surf’s up. Get into your Skype out­fit.

Pre­pare for de­par­ture from this planet.

The last stand­ing naked saguaros stand

There in the desert in­side the Car­lyle Ho­tel lobby.

I look in the Men’s Room mir­ror at a man and his blood thin­ner. Why, it’s you, Eliquis, dear friend!

I see my­self for a fleet­ing sec­ond look­ing like some­one else.

I like the tiny Cartier watch the fel­low’s wear­ing.

I re­mem­ber when he was once in Tahiti.

Lift me off the ground, mighty Ezra Pound!

Sing me your lyri­cal skunk spray of Can­tos.

Robert Low­ell, I will join you soon.

I re­mem­ber DVF’s en­chant­ment apart­ment in the Rue de Seine. I re­mem­ber Mum­bai when it was Bom­bay.

Eng­land—where the English are—

Used to smile with bad English teeth in the toxic coal-fires air. It was the Lon­don of T. S. Eliot,

St. Louisan and ex­pa­tri­ate,

Who found love late.

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