Pound's Eyes

From a photo to a mirror
A mirror to a photo
In the depth of a pupil
confirmed in the absence of glint
I have Pound’s eyes.

They are old and broken
But not entirely useless
I may have Steven’s ears
Though that is yet unclear
Streaming through the constantly recycling waves
I have my mind, but that’s not really true
I have no I that is not i and i and you and me
and you
witnessed in sockets of dying meat

Now. What where we talking about?
Oh yeah, Pound’s dead eyes experiencing a new tune
One informed by thunderbolts
Arranged in a biochemical stew
to beat ever back the chaos by accepting its intricacy.
To whistle it through Whitman’s lips and stroke his not so queer eye nineteenth century whiskers.
As the dandruff falls off and turns to so much dust
It imbrues the song with a tender melancholy
Making it sweeter and all the more beautiful
Therefore useless
Taken for granted
If not squeezed to fit a moderate eye.

I’m not going to worry about that
I have Pound’s eyes in a box
my box
my illusion of permanence
my yawp at event horizon leaking ever back out as so much transmogrified mattergy
back to aches and pains
and the hard hard life
with the grinding of bone
Maybe my bone, maybe not
Probably not my bone
just another illusion of impermanence
We seem to be doing a dance
a difficult challenging set of movements and circumstance strung together
with no thought whatsoever.

Would Pound’s eyes see it any clearer
Would he see the notes or stanzas?
Floating before his empty sockets in a dusty grave
After all what’s he going to do
I have Pound’s eyes in my fist
I’m being delicate not to squish the orbs
As they read my palm to me and explain in a drunk mysticism
The complexity subsumed in a miraculously mundane life
I have Pound’s eyes.

©2008 Devin D'Andrea/Philadelphia