The Hammer Sets the Scene

This time, dressed in snow, winter
1977. Cat on the sofa, yellowed lamplight
while I put these words in clouded cold
flourescence. Pat at the dining room table.
Dramatic readings of Plath, set off, in sets
against her furnitures—snow, on the outside;
the diabetics gonna drive in
from Pawnee, gonna claim his glory
it's only, for me, an ancient story
of one who'd tell his friends
I have to leave & have no place
for you, this evening. The vikings, my team,
fool the elements and odds
by acting like I feel, foolish and drunk.
The opponents are like light bulbs
burning as the cat wakes up, turns
around and finds her fear confirmed.
She goes back to sleep. She dreams, not of me
but of cats who think their fears ephemeral.
The snow comes like white reality
so thick your arm can slice the air,
the hammer cutting the scene
in sets. I had my time returned.
The boys plays capitalist,
innocently thinking, this is it, this must be
how it is. The cigarette smoke
is a temptress while the vikings fail
to score, the clock whispering,
I've got you chained. I know your real names.
I know why you hate me. It's not surprising.
If I could, I would hate myself. See
inside. Always trying to see inside.
AMF introduces major voices from an
invisible world: cervantes? shakespeare?
I doubt any of us
make the difference, clear the
stuff out of the road. Make any
differences. As usual,
the poets are sad, are new, are
misunderstood. No one cares
and frankly no one should. The time is used.
The snow is one dimensional.
A representation of the world inside.
Subatomic structure.
Who knows? No questions. Assembled
phrass in another phony's stupid
notebook. Time betters spent
playing Monopoly with the kids.
But no one cares for words,
anymore, and figures disappear
like this snow, by Thursday.

Pat's husband, who she remained married to most of the time she lived with me, Larry Smith, was a diabetic who moved from Springfield to a small town, Pawnee, to protect the virtue of his mall-girl vixen daughter, Anne Keats Smith. Pat Smith had finished her first novel manuscript at this point and was typing it up. She never typed any of my books up. Becky Bradway typed up one, Stones Out of Time, but I think it disturbed her so much she never went there again. I never typed anything up. I was, and am, a lousy typist. If I had had a PC I might have gotten some manuscripts together. Who knows? In any case it is interesting to note the references to professional football in this poem (the vikings), used metaphorically to speak both to my heritage and to the psychic place I was occupying at that point. The children playing Monopoly would be my son, Joel, and Pat's boy, Jake Smith.