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“Rising Absenteeism” by James Tate 🇺🇸 (8 Dec 1943 – 8 Jul 2015)
I keep stalling in the middle
of these sprawling decades.
The first few minutes are all that matter.
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Then a big fizzle,
I’m out of wind for centuries
like a dead husky,
a dejected opera house,
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really just pizzling down
the slopes
into a tub of pink wine.
Does anybody remember Yoko?
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person dont live here anymore
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“You don’t do me justice!”
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That where you want to get slain?
Port of Scorn, you want to escape
not from, not into, your center is off
and you move sideways,
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you allow yourself to move
always with fear and deep defeat.
You will make it—
for you the sea will not open.
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You have this love written on you:
stern failure to negotiate
or giving-in to the flood.
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“Yes, poor Snake gave her life for you,
pushed you away from that speeding car …”
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A certain head-on collision didn’t happen
at a fortuitous time, is that what
you’re braying? That we’re inviolable?
I hope you had more enthusiasm as a child
than to say after the rollercoaster
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“It was uneven,
The Hall of Mirrors was uneven;
and surely my days are uneven
as the world is uneven.”
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No two days are alike.
I guess they are glued.
I am still digesting
my miles per gallon.
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It’s not meant to look like anybody else.
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This is definitely an aberration.
I could get to like yours.
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This is my political punching bag, my cell.
Make me happy and I’ll be your slave
boogie boogie dumb dumb …
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It moves from despair to despair
to despair to slapstick to despair
to slapstick despair despair and so on.
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My self had died,
sits up and yawns:
it must be melancholy for someone.
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In a world so rich no wonder
the insane own most of it.
It exists; refutes all attempts
to destroy it,
twitters in the night.
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I have no vision, only a lasting gaze, bam!
Off with your head.
​
There are moments—most of them
have committed murder—and many
have everlasting monuments.
Who are the people, you may ask.
Gazing over the torn flesh you spot yourself.
​
It’s that kind of day,
I guess I feel like killing you.
​
I said spit over your shoulder,
this place is getting creepy.
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I have always disapproved of higher education.
​
Really? Isn’t that fascinating.
He ought to get his head capped,
get one of those starheads.
Adios sixteen Japanese ricebirds
that couldn’t accommodate
more up-to-date habits.
​
I have been given ideas
for which I am not always grateful.
Earn a fortune overnight,
blow your brains out for the enchantment
of science and a wealth for all.
I look like a pile of people,
I can’t say too much about it.
I have this raging distraction:
the case of rising absenteeism.
I am alive beside you in hot type.