Station Zed

Station Zed

by Tom Sleigh

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781555976989
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Publication date: 01/06/2015
Pages: 96
Product dimensions: 5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.40(d)

About the Author

Tom Sleigh's books of poetry include Army Cats, winner of the American Academy of Arts and Letters' Updike Award, and Space Walk, winner of the Kingsley Tufts Award. He is also the author of Interview with a Ghost. He teaches at Hunter College in New York.

Praise for Tom Sleigh

"Tom Sleigh's poetry is hard-earned and well founded. I greatly admire the way it refuses to cut emotional corners and yet achieves a sense of lyric absolution." —Seamus Heaney

"Sleigh has been publishing formidable poetry for almost thirty years, and among American poets of his generation there is no one better." —David Wojahn, Tikkun

"An indispensable contemporary American poet." —The Boston Globe

"What delights me most is seeing a poet of [Sleigh's] accomplishments and his large and well-earned reputation . . . pushing into greatness." —Philip Levine, Ploughshares

Read an Excerpt

Station Zed

Poems


By Tom Sleigh

GRAYWOLF PRESS

Copyright © 2015 Tom Sleigh
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55597-698-9



CHAPTER 1

    Homage to Mary Hamilton

    I'm driving past discarded tires,
        the all night carwash dreams
    near Green-Wood Cemetery where
        the otherworld of Queens

    puts out trash—trash of Murder, Inc.,
        trash of heartbeat
    in recycled newspapers where
        Romeo and Juliet meet.

    So much thorny underbrush,
        so much ice overgrowing
    my windshield until frost shields a buck
    behind a billboard forest

    selling someone's half-dressed daughter.
        She melts into the defroster
    roaring like the rich guys' helicopters
        at the Wall Street heliport,

    rotoring down through skyscrapers
        where torchsong lipstick smears
    onto a handkerchief and starched collar.
        But in my face snow blizzards

    up from sixteen-wheelers and
        three crows clot against limbs
    downswooping, omen of the augurs
        that steers the desperate lovers

    to a crossroads, right here. And where mobsters
    and suicides lie buried
    and the radio breaks into a ballad
        of Mary Hamilton's fair body,

    but who's tied it in her apron
        and thrown it in the sea,
    I'm the quake and shortlived quiver,
        the laughter and fractured tale

    of her night in the laigh cellar
        with the hichest Stewart of a'.
    Oh, she's washed the Queen's feet
        and gently laid her down

    but a' the thanks she's gotten this night's
        to be hanged in Edinbro' town.
    I'm sitting behind the wheel
    of our mutual desire

    when the heel comes off her shoe
        on the Parliament stair
    and lang or she cam down again
        she was condemned to dee:

    but the instant the news comes on
        and drones spy down
    on our compulsions, her hands
        under my hands wrestle

    on the wheel as my foot taps
        the brakes, her foot the gas
    when out of the gliding dark
        I spot his velvet rack.

    Last night there were four Toms,
    today they'll be but three:
    there was Tom Fool, Sweet Tooth Tom,
        Tom the Bomb, and me.


    A Short History of Communism
        and the Enigma of Surplus Value

    My grandfather on his Allis Chalmers WC tractor, a natural
        Communist
    who hated Communism, is an example of Marx's proletariat,
    though nothing near in his own mind what Marx meant by the masses—
    musing in his messianic beard, Marx intuited the enigma
    of surplus value that my grandfather understood
    from a cutter bar and threshing drum driving into the future
    as the combine harvester, thus increasing the bushels
    he could harvest each hour, thus increasing his hourly productivity
    for each minute expended of muscle foot pound power—
    but Marx didn't foresee, exactly, that the tractor
    would develop into a techno Taj Majal, complete
    with safety glass cab, filtered AC, a surround sound system
    that could rival Carnegie Hall or blast Led Zeppelin
    at decibels that left your ears dazed, easily drowning out
    the invincible tractor's roar—and the hydraulics, so swift
    you could lift the discs with a touch—and all this,
    in the old man's mind, contrasting with the tractor
    he put me on to learn, a four stroke with a crank you had to turn,
    cursing and turning until it shook itself and shook itself
    like a drunk with the DTs, until clearing the mystification
    of its hallucinated roles, the tractor refused to sing the song
    of its own reification and hiccuped and lurched into the real.
    I'd climb onto the iron seat with a threadbare pad
    that made my ass sweat, a jug of iced tea wrapped in burlap,
    a bandana knotted to keep dust out of my mouth, goggles
    snapped onto my face like an ideologue's dream so that I saw
    the fields foursquare as I contour-plowed acre after acre
    unfolding before me with such dialectical rigor
    that the ground of being would hold still forever, never blowing
    into reactions of horizon-shrouding dust whipped by the hot winds
        of contingency.
    Such a theory Marx made to argue the enigma into sense—
    and not just for himself but for the eponymous masses!
    But my grandfather's big nose and wary drinker's eyes keep breaking
        through
    the mask and posing an alternative enigma: what if his surplus value
    led him not to solidarity with the worker but made him into a Kulak
    who must be killed? So the locomotive pulls out
    of the Finland Station, so the colors red and white
    make uniforms for themselves: Lenin. Trotsky.
    Moth-eaten Czar Nicholas. Technicolor Rasputin.
    The ones who stood in front of Kresty Prison
    for three hundred hours. But the colors saw them coming—
    and wore the ones who wore them to rags.
    But fast forward a hundred years, my grandfather dead for fifty,
    and there, in a window on Fifth Avenue, the enigma
    hides itself in the headless, sexless torso of a mannequin
    as a fly lands on its finger, the window shattering
    to a thousand windows in the lenses of its eyes.
    And all the while the enigma, like the embalmed body of Lenin,
    keeps on breathing through his waxworks face.


    The Parallel Cathedral

    1

    The cathedral being built
    around our split level house was so airy, it stretched
    so high it was like a cloud of granite
    and marble light the house rose up inside.

    At the time I didn't notice masons laying courses
    of stone ascending, flying buttresses
    pushing back forces that would have crushed our flimsy wooden
    beams.
    But the hammering and singing of the guilds went on

    outside my hearing, the lancets' stained glass
    telling how a tree rose up from Jesse's loins whose
    flower was Jesus staring longhaired from our bathroom wall

    where I wanted to ask if this was how he looked for real,
    slender, neurasthenic, itching for privacy
    as the work went on century after century.


    2

    Fog in cherry trees, deer strapped
    to bumpers, fresh snow marked
    by dog piss shining frozen in the day made
    a parallel cathedral unseen but intuited

    by eyes that took it in and went on to the next
    thing and the next as if unbuilding
    a cathedral was the work
    that really mattered—not knocking

    it down, which was easy—
    but taking it apart stone
    by stone until all

    that's left is the cathedral's
    outline coming in and out of limbo
    in the winter sun.


    3

    All through childhood on eternal sick-day afternoons,
    I lived true to my name, piling dominoes
    into towers, fingering the white dots like the carpenter Thomas
    putting fingertips into the nail-holes of his master's hands.

    A builder and a doubter. Patron saint of all believers
    in what's really there every time you look:
    black-scabbed cherry trees unleafed in winter,
    the irrigation ditch that overflows at the back

    of the house, chainlink of the schoolyard
    where frozen footsteps in the snow
    criss-cross and doubleback. And now the shroud falls away

    and the wound under his nipple seeps fresh blood.
    And when Jesus says, Whither I go you know,
    Thomas says, We know not ... how can we know the way?


    Songs for the Cold War

    1/ BOOMERANG

    The sidelong whiplash of his arm sent the boomerang
    soaring, pushing the sky to the horizon
    until the blade just hung there, a black slash on the sun

    so far away it seemed not to move at all
    before it came whirling back larger and larger:
    would it hit him, would he die—and you ducked down,

    terrified, clinging to his thigh, its deathspin
    slowing as it coptered softly down and he snatched it
    from the air. How you loved that rush of fear,

    both wanting and not wanting him to feel how hard
    you clung, just the same as when he'd float you
    weightless across the pond while waves slapped

    and shushed and bickered, his breath loud in your ear ...
    and after he dried you off, he'd lift you onto his shoulders
    and help you shove your head through a hole in the sky.


    2/ BIKE

    The first time I let loose the handlebars
    and the bike steered itself, fat tires balancing
    on their spinning hubs, the sky came closer

    to the ground, the mountain slope receding
    at the far end of the street was an exercise
    in three-point perspective. One point was the bike

    carrrying me along through an infinitely
    narrowing alley of shrinking box elder trees,
    the second was a bird's eye foreshortening the slope,

    while the third loomed way up high where blinking
    satellites passed by, some shadowy sky-presence
    that knew depth and height together,

    knew my knees pumping the pedals and my hands
    down at my sides countering the breeze in the now
    now now now
of my swaying in the balance.


    3/ BOMB SHELTER

    There was a Bay, there was a Pig, there was a Missile.
    There was a Screen, there was a Beard talking loud talk
    in Spanish, there was the Screen in English calling him Dictator.

    There was the floor of the room, a checkerboard
    of brown and white squares, there were Moves
    that were the right ones, and Moves that meant War.

    There was a Bomb Shelter rumored to have been built
    by a church elder across town. There was Radiation
    that let you see the bones of your foot in the shoestore.

    There was a Hot War at school where mean kids beat up
    Weegee Johnson's brother, and there was a Cold War
    that meant everyone would die. The cat kneaded

    your mother's lap. The dog let loose a growling sigh.
    The Pig kept squealing in the Bay, the Missile sweated,
    the Screen counted down to zero and turned static.


    4/ DUST RAG

    What was Jesus writing in the dust? The magic hand
    of Jesus writing something down? Maybe what would happen next
    to you and her as she sat there beside you on the naugahyde

    and cried and Jesus kept on writing until a great stone
    rolled down on him from Heaven and crushed him?
    The Bible didn't tell you so but Jesus was the stone, Jesus

    was the President riding in the car, Jesus was the holes
    in the President's throat and head, Jesus was the television
    floating down from out of Heaven that brought to you

    the bullets and the horses dragging the coffin
    to be buried in the red letters of Jesus' words
    bleeding on the black and white skull of the President.

    She cried on the couch and you sat there watching
    Jesus writing in the dust like the dust you wrote
    your name in before the dust rag came along and wiped it out.


    5/ MARBLES

    "Elephant stomp" meant you stomped your marble
    with your heel until it was buried level with the earth.
    If you felt brave enough you played for "keepsies,"

    if you doubted your concentration you called
    "quitsies" and if you wanted to come close
    or get away you called "giant steps." Contingency

    dictated "bombsies" when you stood up straight
    and from the level of your eye looking right down
    to your target you called out "bombs away."

    No one liked to lose a "clearie" or a "steelie"
    and nothing teachers said about fair play
    reduced the sting and shame and anger:

    your bag's size waxed and waned, adrenaline
    pumped all recess, you were acquisitive,
    sharp-eyed, pitting vision against gain and loss.


    6/ SHOOTER

    "Upsy elbows and straights" meant you had to keep
    your arm straight and with your shooting hand
    snug against the inside of your elbow you'd cock

    your thumb, shooter gritty with dirt, and take aim
    at your opponent's marble. Calculations went on
    that made time and space purely malleable,

    sudden vectors of intention taking over
    from the sun so you were seeing it as if
    foreknown, though the sharp little click glass on glass

    put to the test Zeno's paradox: in the just
    before not quite yet never to be realized
    consummation, you grew a long white beard,

    you outlived the earth and all the stars and never
    would you die as long as you kept measuring
    the space between the cat's eye and your eye.


    The Craze

    What could I say, a laborer, to the overseas geniuses?
    That my father fought their war against the Japanese?

    That the leisure class I served I aspired to, so I could join
    the high G of the cello floating off, slowly vanishing

    in a pianissimo fermata? Then nothing more,
    silence and night? But this was California,
    and soon the heat pump and water filter
    would strain the water to such a blueness and temperature

    that acid-washed LA would go swimming night and day,
    the blue havens built by alambristas, union bricklayers, unskilled
        juvies

    teaching me the Faustian accounting
    of my employer, Bob "Just Call Me a Genius" Harrington:

    Screw 'em out of this, screw 'em out of that,
    but sweep up your mess and you'll get

    away with murder
. Sucking up the slurry of cement
    and sand, the hose pulsed in the pit

    of the parvenu, the ingenue, the Hollywood producers
    and Van Nuys GM bosses whose assembly-line crews

    riveted my beat-up Firebird's body, Wolfman Jack's XERB
    taking another little piece of my heart now, baby,

    as I sprayed gunite on rebar ribs and the air compressor
    pounded like the other Firebird: Stravinsky taking his temperature

    in West Hollywood, Schoenberg watering his lawn in Brentwood,
    Mann perched above the waves in Pacific Palisades

    had also perused catalogs weighing concrete vs. vinyl
    as blast caps detonated in holes the demmies drilled

    and ash sifted down over my face and shoulders
    to post-war twelve tone assaulting my ears.

    But while I and my transistor radio worked ten hour days,
    my father dreamt our own little South Seas grotto:

    every weekend we rose to the promise of chlorination
    as he and "us boys" dug trenches for our water lines,

    hacked away the hillside to make our ice plant grow,
    and rented the monster backhoe

    digging out the pool pit to rim it with lava stone
    against the mud. My father waved the baton

    of his shovel to light the fuse to the chord
    of dynamited stone: the cloud of our need

    went up all over California
    and rang in overtones all through me.

Detectives

The two detectives prowling at the edges of my dream are late—as usual. Already I'm being pushed toward the cliff edge, driven not by a gunman or a maniac, but by wanting to escape my betrayal of a friend—a serious betrayal, worth thirty pieces of silver. On all the talk shows, they talk about how I lie, about my need for attention and how no stunt is too low to get it. But when they tell how I sold out my friend, my dismissal of kindness and decency, like leaving your wife when she has cancer, the shame is too much. Off the cliff I fall, until the ground looms up, and the detectives come running—the man wearing the years-long death mask of detachment, the woman, who's only been dead a few days, the mask of death as disillusion. And in their eyes, there's something so heartbroken, so lonely! As if their work as detectives, almost sacred in their minds, had been made into a sideshow by bad actors on TV, and I was their last chance—muffed again!—to prove to the world what was good and true in being a real detective. And so to make them feel less defeated, I start to lie, denying I betrayed her.... And the veiled triumph in the man's eyes at having caught me in my lies look like my father's eyes, so that I know just what he's feeling when he reaches to take his partner's hand—a hand so like my mother's that when she reaches to take mine, I recognize her passionate avowal undercut by wariness, sounding the same as in life: We'll stand by you, she says, her cool grasp assuring me that they know I know that all I'm pretending they don't know we all know, but look, that's OK, we're family, aren't we? a family of detectives?


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Station Zed by Tom Sleigh. Copyright © 2015 Tom Sleigh. Excerpted by permission of GRAYWOLF PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

1 *,
Homage to Mary Hamilton, 5,
A Short History of Communism and the Enigma of Surplus Value, 8,
The Parallel Cathedral, 10,
Songs for the Cold War, 12,
The Craze, 17,
Detectives, 19,
"Let Thanks Be Given to the Raven as Is Its Due", 20,
The Animals in the Zoo Don't Seem Worried, 24,
The Twins, 26,
2 *,
Homage to Zidane, 31,
Refugee Camp, 33,
Hunger, 36,
Eclipse, 38,
KM4, 42,
3 *,
Homage to Basho, 53,
4 *,
Homage to Vallejo, 73,
Global Warming Fugue, 77,
From the Ass's Mouth: A Theory of the Leisure Class, 82,
Stairway, 85,
The Negative, 86,
Party at Marquis de Sade's Place, 88,
ER, 90,
Scroll, 93,
Proof of Poetry, 96,
Dogcat Soul, 98,
Prayer for Recovery, 99,
Second Sight, 100,
Songs for the End of the World, 101,
Valediction, 108,

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