King Richard's Song of
Jacques Stout's Diving Songs

for Joe Donahue


Are, am, are?
Be.
Be.
Be.
Who
finds ways back to books of myths
in which nothing does not appear?
Who
might drown them?
Not a swimmer named
Jacques,
not the face forming in a haze of asphyxiation
how the blood boils in rising
blop
blop
bloop
when the spinning pin pricks of purple light
pinwheel and nova, the flesh explodes
and is then set on the corner
swapping cocks for a cop of candy.
Who frames profanes, inflames, and
proclaims. The naughty boy
strangled the pussy and threw her in the well;
sing a dong to the children. Who
wins the books of myths but no one,
not one but only one.

Traveling knots and nots
in sinking.
We drown
only separately,
we,
I,
because
I am I
to drown
my
books. Love cannot be drowned;
the
Is
do not have it.
They
cannot.
Who be the
they
that frame?
We
of course the
they
but at a different depth.

Coming to the surface is otherwise
not inevitable, not all fish eyes
point to the skies. We're not Cousteau
nor amphibious humans owning all possible worlds
nor regularly enjoying lovely vacations at sea.
You is what you aren't, the ocean being otherwise
the original, contemporary and ultimate solution.
I am not she I am not he I am not it but I am but
I am not I
We are not we
we
but
so much less than
infintely more