Larry Kearney: The Propositions

trouble comes down from the top.

there is neither
money nor power
at the bottom.


•


a man who decribes your children as fungible
intends to spend them


•


the man who would set fire to children at a distance
for money

will set fire to yours
for a little more money

2

this morning I understand there’s
a twelve year old boy

in a hospital in Baghdad.

the word is that last night a missile
hit his flimsy house and killed

his mother, father, brothers,
sisters,

and blew
his arms off his body.

what color is his room
do you think? with the sun coming up

creeping, what is it shining on?
which bits of chrome. flesh.

fabric? colored water?
is it all right?

will things be all right?

the boy cries because his mother is dead.
and.

and because the nurse
looks at him.

he cries and asks
can you bring back my arms?

I heard this on the radio.
you understand? that question?

can you bring back my arms? it
isn’t even a question, is it?

we’d have to say well, we knew
they’d be gone, this would happen.

we’ll just have to live with it
won’t we?


3

The Sunday Times Magazine

stays comfortable

with killing—


the sad-ass

perambulators

making the rounds—


mouthing the words

clever as you please—

sucking on them—


discarding the empties.


4

when I went to Brooklyn Tech the friends
I made were mostly Jews.

still friends.

Brighton. East New York.
Park Slope. Ocean Parkway.

mostly kids
from left-wing families with real

frames of reference.
parents, families,

long
memories. dull

black smoke.
music. suspicion.

wit. a certain
respect for the books

if not for the Rabbi. I
was Scots and Irish.

left-wing too. working class too.
God knows

it was a pleasure to talk.
through those days.

this morning.
when I woke.

to the new brutes
and the old machinery.

the ignorant thugs and the shorn-again lambs.
I found myself back there. in Brooklyn.

laughing. picking up

a little Yiddish. feeling
comfortable in understood
things. decencies.

the good stuff. we
were all bright kids and Israel

a bright place to plant cedars
by subscription.

history. though.
turned out to be

a tank. and we.
still children.

stand now at the edge
of an artificial

empty space
and watch the ghetto

wall rise out of mind
and poisoned lake.

one ghost brick at a time
over the eyes of the lost

families. the lost children the wall
of dull brutal. memory. and.

seeing. we.
might say the nazis

have come again. mightn’t we?
but did they ever leave?

anyway?
or did we

carry them with us?
in our thudded hearts?

down all these stupid
years?


5

it was nice having someone
to share the politics with.

and the cold eye.
in 1959, away at college,

upstate at the edge of the forest,
things began to move.

and in the center field one day
we stood and said ‘no’ to taking

shelter when the sirens came.
stood there in the artificial

field at the edge of the forest. God
they were angry. middle-management.

called us in
to talk then tried.

to lock the door behind.
and there it was. just as is.


6

It’s hard to wake up
in a country run

by pissants with warheads
and pissy bullies’

mouths with bad talk
badly said. with no pleasure.

except in that which is power
and futile. with no joy.

at all. with no
knowledge. with no

quickness or silver
brightness or soft

acquiescence.
depth. courtesy.

love. humility.
music. grace.

dignity. eros.
beauty or

common
decency.


7

I don’t mind leaving anymore
but would not leave

my children
to the human brutality as is.


I feel I should have done
something. we all

should have done something.
have we not children?


are they not
flesh?


8

there’s no love in
these men. there is
dead imagination.

so they don’t lie awake in the dark being
the Iraqi father who’s child will be blown
apart or crushed or burned

interminably. there must be
something else
they do.

and what could that be?
what else could there
be to do?

they smile drably and relentlessly.
I’ve lived my life in comfort. not driven
by poverty, history or bad

chemistry. I.
nevertheless.
am going to kill

your children horribly.
because I can.
particular

in time and lost to eros.
touch no more
to these

than the wrapping in flame of a number.
fifty-thousand say.
they think

grand thoughts because. because.
fifty-thousand won’t come in the night. though
one might. so they make sure it comes

to some other mother.
and there is no eros in them. so.
there is no grace. and

they grow old stupidly
to fail at life.
and death. welcome

to life in America, now.
remember it when you were a child in electric
air? and it was time to get up.

better get up now.


9

in the sixties they all knew, sure,
because they had all this energy,dig,
and all these ways to talk,

and all they lacked was power but.

and later it was different, and otherwise
good-hearted people said, yeah, well,
well at least the right wing has

passion, and they believe in something not
like these fucking liberals.

but all they wanted was someone
who’d whore after power.

and now we’re almost gone and everyone’s
acting-out, you know, waving little flags,
trying to refold

the maps from the glove compartment.
I’m on the sidewalk

waving goodbye. I
don’t want no power,


10

there’s more than one way to lie and certainly
more than one way to kill. and the forms
of debasement are many and wide

and well-used.
as hundred dollar bills are
at the ranch. at the barbecue.

and if you have a briefcase full
what games then? musical
chairs for a thousand

a pop.
pop goes the weasel.
sure he does. popping

his buttons.
long time coming,
daddy says, get a plate.

eat of the cooked
flesh. we got
traditions

hereabout.
jus between
us? unnerstand?


11

the author wishes for the voices of heaven



the damage is done so go home. there is no

room for argument. the damage is done.


so go home to the place where

your home was.


the damage is done in the grass

and the sky. the damage is done


in the heart. the damage

is a currency. as these men are.


trading back and forth in sheets

of paper. the damage


is human. the damage

is failed human.


the damage is spoken every day.

the damage is to mind. the damage


is to spirit. the damage

is to breath.


the money lies.

the power lies
for the money. the bodies

get burned in a field of broken things.


frightened

divisible. killable. broken


children.

and the family sits down


to nothing. the children

having nothing.


inside. outside.

all around the fear.


and the sky

is a cover of burning.


so look at the damage

and go home while you can.


to what you knew and what

you wanted for us all.


with the the ordinary

hope of children.


ask yourself for help. ask

the guy next door for help. ask
God for help. the damage may be

done but we


need not be.

living here as we do.


inside the Laws

of Large Numbers.


12

don’t want no
sugar in my coffee.

don’t want no
lying-bastard

New York Times.
don’t want no Doris Kearns Goodwin.

no poetry club. committee. cocaine. Stephen
Ambrose. fake sex. lousy music. lousy

movie. thought-up
poetry. don’t

want Pynchon.
don’t want Garcia.

don’t want Kubrick.
don’t want Dylan. don’t want

magic realism, high
or low camp, Joseph

Campbell. Picasso.
or empty poetry.

don’t want no crying
children lost

and found by killers.
know what I mean?


13

a man or woman unable to say
even the simplest things—

that the self hopes to be flooded
by grace and the beautiful

numbers the matter
and particled fact

of God
dropped in lap—why

should that be? why
does it happen?


14

the mouths are full of lies in sheets—

shale—broken edges—slipping

pale words drained of all

but saliva and dream of power this—

this is a terrible time—mark it—


15

the soul won’t die but lies
in head with wounded child

on the path to the
fire. the great

folding up and burning
the big boys want. the end of half-thought

thought is the fire. and the big
noise. they make big

noises.
it’s what they want. the big

flaming noise. the whirlwind.
they think. they try

to think. dead
small-time with flag pins dead

eyes and dead
syntax and breathless

cruelties. tacky office
guys

grown to power slot
machine mysticisms they

got God.
really.

think it’s not quite cool to think
that way but what

the hell? there’s the fire. coming.
pissant matchhead

bombs they love. they really
think. hey.

here’s the whirlwind look
at me.

the real
whirlwind,

of course,
hardly moves at all to pick

their minds up one by one like jacks
and fling them clinking through the real

God brooding lovely in great
and matterless love as

they accelerate.
knowing nothing. hot

damn. really secret. hot
damn. here

we go. Georgie!
hang on tight.


16

I’d restore the vocabulary—

if I could


I would—


but that would require a country

that loves and honors its children and speaks


with love in the interests

of meaning—

which we do not have.


so the meanings are flying

to nowhere—and every


money-grubbing magnifico of isolate vanity

takes the deepest words for currency—


something to spend—money—

and the kids don’t have a clue—


they think they’re being

spoken too—


and try to use the words as are—

to mean—though something—


doesn’t feel right—

and the living god


drains from their lives—

the words in piles around


the empty Bloat—

the dead-eyed politico—adman—


new age lying bastard—god

it is as if the human were


a light going out

in a roomful of children—


who don’t understand—


17

in the dark in the dark green car—
taking the big turn in silence—

Roland Hanna kicking off
Limehouse Blues chopping stop-block

left hand—the stars so clear—clearer
than years—Venus over the hornèd moon—

distance in handfuls of eyefuls
past all—ragged black trees—Limehouse

kid, oh
Limehouse kid—

rings for your fingers—
tears for your crown—

I’m perfectly fitted to dark—

content that my dying and lacking—
sometime fears—sometime despairs—

worthless small-time vanities
and griefs—you name them—

are more in world of light
than the assemblages of intelligent

kind-smilers—the half-thought
vicious and self-

satisfied featherduster
Sunday Times Magazine

considerers—the thoughtfully
lacquered—the comfortably

informed to the point of
necessary cutoff—the grand

guys who leave thumbprints
on prayer—suns riding high

in a Safire sky—who wonder
about immigration—I mean really—
who’d cut your throat to get their kids
the best seat at the circus

who think War and Peace was terrific
but really—it was sad—how he

ended up all crazy
and Resurrection, God, what was that—all that

responsibility—Virginia
Woolf—now there’s a writer who—

they know it doesn’t matter what
you’ve done or killed inside yourself—

once you get to the glassy place
of easy conversation—each to each across

the room—
good shoes—

really good shoes—
plate after plate after plate

of the newest food—dead things
hanging in doorways like beaded

curtains—remember
Lawrence of Arabia?

now that was a movie—remember
those great little things they had at that

place—remember
when all that stuff

was serious—you know?
the children of the poor and all

that fake piety stuff? the heartbreak
stuff? God—give me a break.

it’s hard enough just keeping where
we are—you know? it was hard

getting here—have you seen Il Postino?
I just heard this great CD—it’s all these people

doing Brecht—Tarantino I think
is just so kinetic—he runs right over

all that human dignity
crap and you get to see

how it is—really—
it’s funny after a while—Brooklyn’s

getting okay too—at least some parts—I hear
Gowanus is moving up—I hear the thing is

there’s money to make just being in the right place—I need
some street nerves—maybe I’ll call that guy—what’s his name again?

I roll to the curb in my dark green car—
and I get out—the moon crescent upright

hornèd—Venus bright as God and all
the space high empty—breathing—

and what if I do what I do?
and what if I am?

and where will I die to—
space to space?

I don’t care—you know?
and the ambling clot of the self-actualized

can kiss my happy
dying fragile hopeful loving God-struck

unregenerate ass—an unworthy thought—
perhaps—but that’s how it is—tonight—chop—

and clang and Limehouse
Blues—is over—

tears for
her crown in the stars—


18

at three this morning
I’m fighting for my life.

why? the ceiling
is flat as map. the shadows

fan as always. the moon.
across the map creeps

and I am simply
at an end I can’t

I think. do it anymore.
I have no terrible

fear of death. and little hope
of life. the vases and pitchers

are empty. dusty inside.
the pictures hang silently.

my bookcase leans uncomfortably.
and this is the room of the life.

wherever I was. I am.
the trees behind my head

are the waiting alley
in Brooklyn.

the door opens out
on the kitchen in Stinson Beach.

Bolinas. the night brings it all
in two dark arms. take roses in

both hands and die. the creeping
loud of white is endless chatter.

pain and cardboard
rooms the moon

says. in whose
voice? there’s a box

on the floor full of papers.
and some are burned at their edges.

from long ago.
a fire high in the night.

but now. my naked feet
stick out from under the blankets.

it’s a warm night. and I like my feet
in the air. the ceiling is a stupid

thing. and presses down
with stupid creep

of boxed light. I fold
my pillow so it holds

tight against the back of my neck.
I used to roll around and kick

these nights but now. no.
I’m a little dead

already. see? and all I do
is lie here. figuring

it out. a little dead
already I cannot

please myself. my mind
won’t take that lying down.

I can’t. I don’t much care
to please them. it’s

nice sometimes but means
little. I can’t please the room or the moon

or the walls around my head. I can’t
please the trees. or the irises bright

just this morning. with godly blue. and swirl
of upright. I can’t think for long

of the present. the fatuous would have it
hey. be in the now man.

but the now is the scream of a child
burning in fallujah. the dead pages of

vicious avoidance. the new york times.
the squirrely writhe of prezident

wrapped in mama’s glassy stare. the endless.
viciousness. all right now. see? there it goes

that child’s despair and in this room
the light goes creep in shadows so

I’m through I think. I can’t
do it anymore. doing nothing.

having done
nothing. I can’t

I think. I thought. I fell down
stars and broke my head. and it was

good. and it was.
but it’s three

in the morning and the wind comes as always
in the high trees. when it’s three there’s a roll

of wind comes black and sighing. would blow us
away. I would think. I would hope.

at three in the morning in im-
perfect dark. I lament my vanity

in the mirrored bloody hall
of the makers. I’d lie down

more completely. I would.
I’d lie down so the flowers

would drink me whole
and the space would be full of my particles flowering.

over there.
and over there.

it isn’t all me. see?
it’s never all me.

and the still
instant. is not

the present. it’s merely
of the substance paused.

the alley breathes too.
the dead breathe too.

I should be able
to sit in the field

as I find it and stop
my heart. I should

be able to do that and were I
better I could. say

god I thank you
and love to distraction

this world. then
stop my heart in honor of

enough. so the birds would come down to hobble through
my sprung light monads. my seep through ground

in spring rain.
it’s all bone

and prison. though.
tonight on this bed

in the dark of the turning
away from the good.

I learn and I learn and learn
that there is only. there is only. and it

comes seldom. I wouldn’t let it pass I would.
sit in the field where the equations flutter

and stop my heart like a clock. but
I can’t do it. I’m deficient.

and the truth is I fight for my life in the simplest
way. letting it in. breathing it out.

turbid clotted air and bloody lung. flat map.
damn shadowed ceilinged room. this is the room

to the world. with a ceiling. this is the mind in its
imago. this is the grief at the end of the time which is

thought. this is the cause tied to cause tied to cause to
effect. and the brutal pain of utter

betrayal. mine. his. hers. its. when’s.
I’m not damned. there is no are no

damned. there are only spheres
in heads at a distance.

there are only the willed
uses of power. and the night

waiting quiet with bigger head. how
far is the fall from the hand of god?

all the way
to the mind in the night.

which fights for life
and grabs at the fringe.

chokes in the air
of the lies and fine surfaces.

rotten language. brutalized hopeful
children. endless strings. endless apologies.

endless human. endless worthless
me with choking cloud of bastard thought .

the breaking of arms and legs and heads
and hearts and beauty. dark

of mind the in-
abilities.

the hopelessness
which sustains.

the fighting for life
in the godstruck dark.


19

I’ll tell you where we seem to be. we’re trapped in a fold of nowhere with
a vicious failure and a crowd of resentful. would-be torturers.
in case there’s any doubt. I wanted to mention. too.
that the things of Caesar can’t be given to Caesar without
he break your body. lingeringly. and that he’ll do this
to your children too. I say this just in case
you’re tired. like me.
and think you don’t much
care anymore.


20

the goddamn sons of bitches lost it. now get the fucking
losers out of here. yeah. you. pick the dead kid up

and throw him over there. and get the goodamn tarp
and goddamn cover him. you do it.

get him the fuck. and his weak-ass father.
out of here.

and ball that old cunt’s dress
and burn it where they burn that stuff. down

to the outskirts of town.
where they burn that stuff.

could I get comfortable here
for a goddamn second?

any of you know
what’s going on here?

that I need to get comfortable
so I can make the decisions

which are a great and terrible
responsibility for which

I was born? I’m the one
god picked

and don’t you goddamn
forget it. could I get

a goddamn fucking cheeseburger.
you think I could get that?

is that easy enough for you?
a cheeseburger? mom?

jesus. what is it now?