was born on July 27th, 1931, lives in Washington, D.C., and calls himself a 'worker on poetry, plays, short stories and novels'. He is now 'eking out' a novel about a non. political native of Washington, as well as a tragi-comic play set in a Japanese resort.
THE DOWAGER'S DEATH
Bring us now six pots of wallpaper paste.
Furthermore, bring us
A ptarmigan packed in snow.
But Mother, I have lately just been looking
at a Chinese garden,
Through nineteenth century grayness.
Charles, I am ungeared and ill sung of.
Bring me the distress at Sarajevo
And Tyrean petrified tears,
Also some of those little cakes--
O Charles, I have stopped breathing!
I am centred by outer space--
Is it that dusk you fear so
Because it portends blindness
Instead of dawn and its ejection
From the friendly darkness?
Charles, bring me a flower, and some earth.
Angling up from the wheeling feet of fire,
Pointed toward a star, star-driven, but then,
Upon its very mil in time, place, quantity,
Finding a fresher direction, dives for it,
Engineered malevolence, frigid fury--
Chicago erupts, New York dissolves,
Nevada a red sputum from Frisco's mouth,
Atlanta boiling, Houston on a spit,
Parts of men and cattle bones mixing
With the new stars and the yellow seed
And in the hush to follow no mind there to know,
Or pry the heaped mounds; John Henry's dead.