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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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