CK Williams

from Lies, 1969 -

Even If I Could

Except for the little girl
making faces behind me, and the rainbow
behind her, and the school and the truck,
the only thing between you
and infinity
is me.  Which is why you cover your ears
when I speak and why
you're always oozing around the edges,
clinging, trying
to go by me.

And except for my eyes and the back
of my skull, and then my hair,
the wall, the concrete
and the fire-cloud, except for them
you would see
God.  And that's why rage howls in your arms
like a baby, and why i can't move - 
because of the thunder and the shadows
merging like oil and the smile gleaming
through the petals.

Let me tell you how sick with loneliness
I am.  What can I do while the distance
throbs on my back like a hump,
or say, with stars stinging me
through the wheel?  You are before me,
behind me things rattle their deaths out
like paper.  The angels ride 
in their soft saddles:
except for them, I would come closer
and go.


The World's Greatest Tricycle-Rider

The world's greatest tricycle-rider
is in my heart, riding like a wildman,
no hands, almost upside down along
the walls and over the high curbs
and stoops, his bell rapid firing,
the sun spinning in his spokes like a flame.

But he is growing older.  His feet
overshoot the pedals.  His teeth set
too hard against the jolts, and I am afraid
that what I've kept from him is what
tightens his fingers on the rubber grips
and drives him again and again on the same block.


Hood

Remember me?  I was the one
in high school you were always afraid of.
I kept cigarettes in my sleeve, wore
engineer's boots, long hair, my collar
up in back and there were always
girls with me in the hallways.

You were nothing.  I had it in for you -
when I peeled rubber at the lights
you cringed like a teacher.
And when I crashed and broke both lungs
on the wheel, you were so relieved
that you stroked the hard Ford paint
like a breast and you hands shook.


It Is This Way with Men

They are pounded into the earth
like nails; move an inch,
they are driven down again.
The eart is sore with them.
It is a spiny fruit
that has lost hope
of being raised and eaten.
It can only ripen and ripen.
And men, they too are wounded.
They too are sifted from their loss
and are without hope.  The core
softens.  The pure flesh softens 
and melts.  There are thorns, there
are the dark seeds, and they end.