From The Assemblyman

James Kugel

The sun rises, and the sun sets, and to the place where it
            rises, there it hastens again.

        A heart-beat strung with rosy hide is banging through the
        treetops, albino of the future, strictly brain. Oh look, the
        baby's blond, the beach blows yellower, billows up to
        golden on its own. One thing's clear, the kid's got glamor,
        gathers glances, and it's tough sitting still: he gains respect
        as he advances.

        High noon will zero in on what he's meant for, a mind
        white-hot, and at the very top, in America, the power
        clicks, but who would notice that the arc has turned?
        Mid-day. A cut carnation sparkles in the undertaker's
        lapel, never have things looked brighter, and this loss of
        roots leaves him free as a glider, oh he'll soar! Young
        divorcé, only now regains a touch of color- "the paper
        yellowed, the book gets its perspective" -

        This mellowing makes him accessible, he's famous! and of
        course turns crafty: Oh cast a jaundiced eye on railroad ties,
        engagement rings, car bumpers and the sides of buildings.
        Afternoon, truly afternoon but nearly over. And he goes
        sentimental, soft-head dodderer-See! A flock of neon
        clouds, too many, the left-wing handouts of a pinko son
. poised at retirement, and then it's down down down and
        what stays after's too diffuse

        It spreads out faster than I understand it... This is the
        ending and a sad sad truth my friend. And what shows up
        on the other side tomorrow-is it nearly the same? Am I?

                                e


It is that sweetness, the failure to take charge of a life

Oh give me a hold before the stately playing fades, I take
one action with some deliberation while a sweet collar of
distant sounds rises around my hearing, give me my bearings,
if only for an instant

And always a little over the shoulder, the blatant badgering
of dog-stuck-to-a-chain . .. Sanctify the ripple of those
muscles, bless protein turned to protest in his Master's
service

I will complain

The yank around the neck outloves surrender, the dog
barks and barks

It is too doulce to the tooth, eyes can't get past the finish, ifI
could understand the underlying syncopation

It comes up red, black, black, black, red, black, red, red,
black, ah that's the trick but who keeps dealing, who makes
it perfec: every time? If I could get the rhythm

And the dog barks and barks

A bride gets young a moment, what a delight, the milky
stitches. All over the world it has come to this, a swaying
way of walking, never speaking, do I love your muscles, I
love your animal eyes

Then everywhere it's done, one by one their lights go out,
and meanwhile here come more, Good Glory! I will never
master names. Colored to a famous hue, secrets paltry and
beguiling, form an illusion, you's, and step in armies through
your doorways

Years later, yellow feet on sunny carpets, the enchantments
of a steaming cup heighten and remind our mourning
nerves: We have lost it, we have lost nearly everything,
and still they come, the young of every species, no wonder
they get started small or they'd be throttled for their future,
one advances by overlooking proof.

Afterwards there's nothing to do but settle with the diffi-
culties of rule, affairs of stables and the levying of taxes

Here's no advice that I can top: forget the maps, general,
when you've cleared the table you've said it all. . .

This is the way it dies, the steady slip, past the point when
one becomes aware that time is passing yet can still be cute
with time, like an aching tooth

Past when, having noticed, one is locked into a pattern of
noticing: the news flies off but the papers stay around for
weeks

Past even when it is almost all gone, and despairing, one
says that it is too late, although something remains

to the time when nothing remains, oh, I dream of one
control

Let there be an upshot, let my life be at least a warning, but
to whom? All our lives are a warning

I had come down to the beach again, asking my cells to
recall:

"I remember the Sea of Tranquillity and my feet on cold
sand-who grew these grains?-it had to be a miracle we
survived. Up in one corner of the sky, a divine light-blue
idea went on like clock-work, light blue! That kept us going,


a dream of blue, salt water always on the move, the pop
and press of seaweed, tangled at the ankles..."

Keeps us going still... Now a man might think to rise
to that perspective, only for the seeing, one look-But oh
my Heavens I feel old

And if for every thing there is a season then vice versa, and
when the season's over:

Joys of the beach, the pure gold confirmation of the cycle

Hands too heavy to hold, the future bargaining, shimmering

The evidence is everywhere, acres dotted with the sparse
savannah, and somewhere endlessly rocking, an empty
socket turned up to the morning

The wilderness is flat and empty, the sky flat and very
blue; the faintest vapor rising from the cartilage, but by
noon there will be nothing

Today less than ever am I sure...

So it's a merry merry mix-up, the animal twitches, what
does he know? Passed him by is all; the mind screams,
whistles a train through the midst of so much knowledge,
then "The end of the matter... " It is too rich

Sometimes I have not liked it but there is nothing like being
alive; then written down, a life leans to connections

This was a coming to the point, the writing; but how can
life's career be kept distinct from one long morning, what
had been gone through, climbing with the sun? It's all a
vapor, don't you see, the sheerest glimmering

"As the goodness grows so increases what absorbs it, there
is nothing like the seeing of the eye,"

And yes, it's an air, a breath, a tossing in the sunlight

Oh fiercest at your rising

sheet of fire