by E.W. Wilder
In numerous personal communications, Bean Newton swore that this 1990
poem was not inspired by the notoriously fraudulent cold fusion research
of Stanley Pons and Martin Fleischmann, but then Bean Newton swore a
lot and about a lot of things.
The bits of Wallace Stevens' poetic DNA are undeniable, however, but
there is no evidence any of his cohort noticed. This was much more typical
of Newton's relationships with his contemporaries, who were notable
in their studious avoidance of poetry even as they deeply engaged in
its creation, setting the tone for not just the arts and letters, but
also the politics, of the next decade or more.
A mind of absinthe
seethes into my johnny cakes
like last night's attempt
at cold fusion. I lavender
myself edgewise out the wind-hole, blowing
anemic Reichstag to its enviable end.
This day's noodlefest is canceled
in flavor of deception. As mask of brown
fiber trumps form; content jellies
into gasoline. Instability is the same
as cookies. A dog's intransigence
is his hidden asset. A day's is
a hidden muffin. Find the hiding
muffing and whine prys. But no,
but no musings. A virtual avatar(d)
of a prize. A pie at harm's length,
a medicated try, the savoring
hog of mean-ing.
Dragged in, like a fag
on a live, like the fatigue
of ingénue loanliness; nobody
likes because everybody loves the folded
face-smile, the dimple and the besotted
eyes, a squid's-look conflated for surprise.
At the bistro of hot, buttered supplies.