Shortly After The Fall Of Communism,
And After His Last Night Of Heavy Drinking,
George W. Bush Jr. Takes A Walk On The Beach Near Kennebunkport
With Billy Graham And Talks Of His Sadness
Greg Grummer
I’m feeling, Billy, unaccountably, a little
tristesse near the ocean today.
I’ve been attempting, all day, to lift fog,
and then I was down in this grave smelling snow.
Somehow, I have to find the secret to windows.
Somehow I have to solve rain because I’m a man
who has what a man has who’s not holding a gun.
Okay, I’m a little bummed by the whether, who
wouldn’t be—the whether or knot, the either/or,
saddened, because I’ve just found thirst in my shit.
I‘m a little “peut etre” about the dryness left by tears
and the wait of the future.
(Because I was at home alone when the phone rang.)
I hate how the chickens come home to…you know,
coming back in shadows covered over with bones.
How I came upon a ship clogged with the damned
and thought, “I am their most foreign passenger.”
And I hate how slow the wind is from earthly regret,
and how there’s nothing I can do about it.
So when I hunger, Billy, after this one particular salvation
I get a little bit triste & savvy, having forgotten all this.
Before long, undoubtedly, I’ll become a doctor and shower.
I, who’ve been paid to be just what I am: one of the holes;
the glance that holds gashes together; the bitch of ghosts;
the ore of a gold (my father) that can’t be toted, all my life.
So that’s why I’m feeling a little tristesse near the ocean today,
and then there’s the sadnesses of my blood which is inside me,
and which always seems to be doing me one better.