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Field Commander
Cohen, he was our most important spy, wounded in the line of duty,
parachuting acid into diplomatic cocktail parties, urging Fidel Castro
to abandon fields and castles, leave it all, and, like a man, come back
to nothing special, such as waiting rooms, and ticket lines, and silver
bullet suicides, and messianic ocean tides, and racial roller-coaster
rides, and other forms of boredom advertised as poetry. I know you need
your sleep now, I know your life's been hard, but many men are falling
where you promised to stand guard. I never asked but I heard you cast your
lot along with the poor. How come I overheard your prayer that you be
this and nothing more than just some grateful, faithful woman's
favourite singing millionaire, the patron saint of envy and the grocer
of despair, working for the Yankee dollar? I know you need your sleep
now, I know your life's been hard, but many men are falling where you
promised to stand guard. Lover, come and lie with me, if my lover is who you are. And be your sweetest self a while, until I ask for more, my child. Then let the other selves be rung, yes, let them manifest and come 'til every taste is on the tongue, 'til love is pierced and love is hung, and every kind of freedom done, then oh my love, oh my love, oh my love, oh my love.
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