And, and . . .

As if fire fire drew
up the skin of the backs of my fist, relaxed,
in a throat-catch and a tense of hot and cold mixed,
with a colorless face shows I gape, live through drowning,
so I live for what come
hear an outside minute's release, and a past clock's tick as
                                                           my throat-catch goes.
Pound knew they weren't going to kill him in a puptent or at the
                                                           crazy house
and Win Scott, who could calm him, calmed too much and gave up
                                                           himself
and I carry the set bomb --
is heart's function to tock to an explosion?
            I'll be no staled fish on somebody's doorstep,
            was no battlefield corpse, my pants full of shit;
            and I want live horror --
            no sense in letting the world keep some awful me-smell.
Though memories still root
this sere bud and browned scarlet split blood of a contained
                                                                         moment,
dreams are in the present; wild, courageous
pretentious cries drove us to a coward's moment
of saying, "Not this," or "I know true joy
as being different" and "The blinded see dark"
and "what the dead know is what's not living."
                Down the staled or peppered throat pass Keats' light
                                                                              wine
                 rejoice; you cried because a girl sang beautifully, whom
                                                                 you could not have;
                 a day is over, a nightmare halts your falling into
                                                                        sleep.