Jevons Block

To Arabelle and Arthrite Bacon,To Ivan and Elise,To a man who sees the substanceIn mirrors,I am indebtedFor the truth of Jevons Block.

You see me as the elevator boy,But the actuality of my position is ephemeral;In a year I shall receive a degree in medicineAnd go.Meanwhile I study the colossal symbol of a human beingIn this pile of masonryThat sanctions the uglyIn ornament, in smiles, in sex.I hear a human anger in my signal bell.The shaft down which the elevator slidesIs the spine to keep the system together;And the corridors are nerves that link each roomAs heart and brain that strive in secret.Am I responsible to have said it?Or responsible only so far as I have seen the scheme unfairly?Abnormal and abortive matterTighten the leash on truth.To deceive is to establish an enemy—Which brings me to the themeThat scars and shadows Jevons Block.

It is the subconscious enmityOf the men and women in it.You may hear it in the labored breathing,See it in the eyes that seek for salvageAs hawkers swoop and seize in isolation.If sex were meant to be an inhibition,Would God have planned it in dependent atoms?The poet speaks as though it were a cloakTo smarten the circumstance of living—Poor old flabby Bacon—Miss Ruth's too young to know beyond solicitation—Some never see the enmity of sexes,Having minds that sift no ash—But Anabelle is scarred and states the reason,And Draemer says a woman is the open door to boredom.In eachThe over-sense of sexIdles the libido to sterile purposeAnd motivates in Jevons BlockTo evade responsibility.

I dislike men.Dislike them for the strainThey put on women.If I didn't have to earn a livingI'd snap my fingers at this fading hair of mineAnd let the colour in my cheeksBegin to go.I'd sit down to itAnd rock my age in comfort by the fire.Forty-seven and poor—If you're single—Is the devil of a combination for a woman.Every time a married oneComes in to buy a box of rougeI'd like to tell her she's a fool to do itWhen she's not obliged to look young.Once I said as muchAnd the woman answered"I guess you're not marriedOr you'd know the reason". . .I dislike menFor the strain they put on women.

I married a famous palmistIn Leipzig—Joined myself to oneWho had imagination but no rhythm in her soul—To gain a homeLong since dissolved by extravagance and death.It was my desire to live well;In Paris if I might chooseWhere poets are not so much the fashionAs the feeders of a lyric nation.The Alexandrine was my metre,None it seems care about that in this country.And not to starve I stilled my songTo vend the songs of other poetsWhose vocation is but avocation now with me.Fate has not been friend to me.Could I have loved like Rupert BrookeOr lived like Amy LowellI ask you fairly to decideIf I'd be urging you to buy their booksInstead of selling my own?

What would Buonarotti sayWho worshipped VittoriaAnd the sparse line of the Sistine ChapelIf he could see the bulk of crepe kimonoI must model with.Great thighs and sagging breasts,Muscles I can never tighten'Though I punch and pound and stretchUntil some women shriek to stay me,But they always come againIn supine endeavor to get thin.Sometimes one imagines I love her!Lord! They make me sick,These women yearning for a new sensation.Do they think that I would touch themIf I were not paid to do it.Master, listen!My lovely lady's shrined next door.

Days when trade is dullI dream of flowers that do not grow in dozensWired for a funeral or a fête.SomewhereI imagine meadows swayingWith whatever colour they may be,Ten thousand thousand blossomsFree their heartsTo a robin or a chick-a-dee.And I may pull them for everyone's possession.Companion all the city children,To old ladies send surprise bouquets,Pin a flower on my lover's jacketEvery noon at one.And if the sun is over-hot with shiningAnd the night is late to come,It is no matter.There'll be just as many moreTomorrow morningFresh to feel the sun.

Weaving rugs to please a rich manWeaving luck for me,Rich man, poor man,Waiting for a rug to finishFortunes to compare!White's for luck in red Bokhara,Red of warp and woof to wear.White to sign a compact with the DevilShunting off all evilFrom my son.Red of thread to savour himWhite to spare—Pearls to play withAnd to ask a prayer—Sleep my son in God's securest silence.Thy father'll not have doneThe red Bokhara'Til the spring and thouAre come.

TodayI am surfeited with womenTheir streaked faces bore me.WhysListened to before,Eyes,Wet and bent to implore,Ask for quarter—Weak to meet a ghostWhen strong they went to seek it—I do not share in their delight,Why must they shamble at my doorWith secret bills and moist supplicationTo bribe me to break the law?I do and I may,But for todayI shall leave these painful ladiesTo palliate their sins to someone elseWho'll chance their wage.

Bric-a-brac RepairedMy neighbor is closetedAll dayWith lovely ladies,They hold his hands and weep.If one should smile at meI would wipe away her tearsWith my apron,And join togetherThe broken wings of her grief.I will ask my neighborTo bring me a lovely ladyTo mend. . .He is walking down the streetSwinging a stick

Yes! I know MadameShe asked for meAnd she's a millionaireBut I hate her smell.You said yourself the last time she was in'Twas like a polecat—An' she's got sunken tubs to every chamber,I heard her tell it—A facial! And curl her hair!Gawd!The thermometer's a hundred.You sayIf I don't do it I can go!Where'd I go in August?. . .No I wouldn't,That's where you get off.This way Mrs. SmithThere's a breeze that's blowing by this window.Let me have your hat,Sailors are so smart with linen suits.

I've worked on hats since I was seventeenAnd now I'm close to seventy.Straw for tulip and the caring weather,Felt for winter—Fits more firmly on old men's hair—Wide brim narrowed by a quarter inch(Shows as though 'twas on your nose to some)Ribbon freshed and curve pressed straight.Once I used to ponderWhy a hat should need reshapingJust the time some man had formed itTo a firm and fellowed feelingBy a few months wear.I have learnedThrough feeling bands that sweat to fit a brow,That men with brains inside their headsWear their hats the longest.

I have known hands all my life.It is my bread to tint an ageing palmThat scants its tip for rosalineAnd the careful removal of dry flesh.Butter for my breadI buy from fingers that make light with mineAnd slide a dollar in between to make it right.Hands are mostly all alikeThinking through their fingertipsOf bargaining and lust.But his are different,Lean and unconcerned with me,Even when lying idle in soapy water.Just to feel his fingers for five minutesI'd perfume them, without money,To philander at another breast than mine.But some day—Before I'm faded with the wanting—I shall do his nails in the farther roomAnd take the pay for waitingThere.Little enough it will beBut long cherishing quick spent.

All life's for shrewd appraising.Fools and dreamers take a turn at telling valuesAnd philosophers have tried it.Some measure men by bed and bookThat all the world may see to look—The fools are these.And some will regulate the countBy what they are themselves—These are dreamers.Household sticks aren't much to price a lifeThat's furnished by secrets and long sittings;Nor much to make a living by perhaps you'll think,But that's the humor in the planThough few will laugh to feel it.Grotesques—In low or high relief—We fill the earth's entablatureWith ashlar or with clay,And form its decoration. . .When I tiptoe through empty dwellingsAnd see in dusty mirrorsDoubts and potent failuresThat grimace in over-ponderous fleshI am too terrified to laugh.These the Great Appraiser will inspectWhen I have left my human house untenanted.

Staccato womenWear out paid for leatherSeeking newer shoes.Foolish shoppersWith their busy quests and baffled eyes.Sometimes one is sorry for meSelling.There is recompense for every service.And all the dayThrough which my long reflective fingersFeel the urge beneath the silkI am content to lingerAt your unshod feet.

Nietzsche saysWoman has cause for shameIf she unlearns her art of charming.But he had no more transparent planeFrom which to analyze the worldThan I who corset idle womenAnd stand to labour to their conversation.Tiens! Aphrodite is long deadAnd her progeny are become asexual marionettesTo dance and not pay.Some women aid slackened musclesWith steel and satin stripes,Some buy stiffened nainsookTo shape their barrenness,And mirrors flatter the deception.Yesterday I measured a fevered creatureTo suckle a childAnd she completes the metaphor.Clothed in renascent fleshA mirror seemed the last place that she cared to look.When I rejoiced to see comelinessArrows pointed in her eyes.She was too deceived by fantasieTo divine her glory.

One step—two step—Pardon if I use a pressureMy arm dictates the measure, Madame.ListenYou who wonder why I dance no longerAt the court in Russia.War's the reason—I must fight or live elsewhere—War has naught to do with dancing.War is murder! Mars its wanton father.Sometimes Earth brings forth a bastard.On a silver night she smiles to say"This son of mine I do not breed to fight"I was born within this Mother-rhythmOf listening feet and low and lissome laughterWhere ecstasy is breath and measure to the senses,And I can never be a citizen of slaughter.But Mars has sought to snare my feet with battle anthems,And all the day inside my alien headThe rage that sped me hereShrieks to follow after.One step—two step—Rhythmed like marching soldiers,Swells to martial musicIn a language spiked with swords.

Once I dreamedMy mission was to make the world good looking,The women I mean—The world is round for men and slopes their wayBut women need to harbour youth to stay—I'm not for suffrage, as you may think from what I say.But I don't need to ask a favor,And my hair has kept its russet fret and fleck(I'm quoting now about my hair)However, revenons à nos moutons as the Frenchmen say.I bought this shop from a girl who wished to marry,Planned to dress no two the sameBut show to each her own attainmentWith clothes objectively designed.Before a year was up I saw I'd never make a livingForcing personalities.Then I figured what it is that Eve is really wantingAnd discovered—what no male has ever doubted—That every woman dressed to please some man,And few men notice what their women wearIf the price is right.Now I dress them all alikeAnd they are better pleased to look like some one elseAnd I can pay my bills.

Miss Winter's just been inTo drink her malted milk.She buys no other stuff of me—No boxes with their value in the label—And I don't believe she trades with Anabelle.She says that all a woman needs is workTo keep her circulation up.Miss Winter's something of a joker,Insists that husbands are like drugsA narcotic to the nervous system.She says she dreams of lifeIn terms of dressesJust as I with drugs.I wish she didn't feel so strong for clothing strangers—But it's great to hear her sayDeception, respite, dreams, and courageFind in each of us a sharer.And I can wait 'til she is over-tiredTo alchemize her views with mine.

Women bore me.Tenderly they say"Make me beautiful"And then lamentIf I let a wrinkle stay.They can't see that lines are lovely,That life, not youth, is gay,Or they'd abjure the struggleFor the adolescent surfaceOf unworked clay.Women bore me by too little knowledgeEvery day. . .Always they are thinkingMen are keen to legalize a lookOr coax them to loiter on the way.Why can't they sometimes take for grantedWe may wish to look away.

I was once a surgeonWith the gospel for knife—What sin begat I endeavored to destroy —But there's a strange psychology in sinning,Men pay to seek itWho will not spend a cent to put it away.To say my practice brought no supper to my tableIs neither to disprove the existence of sinNor keep vigil against.Now I scrape the skins of animalsTo live.Salt for their hides is best.SomberlyA Javanese monkey sits on a shelfAnd obscenely chatters when I edge my tools,But I shall not skin him yetHe brings trade from our brothers.

Old womenNod bien coiffé headsOver Orange PekoeAnd the bitter greenOf English breakfast brew.Young girls come inTo gaze at menAnd bewilder with their bodies.It is not tea they drink—Tea is a sophisticated taste.Only old women know this.

The Bible says"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers."No doubt you are surprised to learnI read The Book,But if I didn't seek a smileIn SolomonOr that old stoic EpictetusI couldn't swing this entertainment businessIn which the humor's more apparentOn the stage than in the office.It's the laugh between us—Of that I'm not forgetful—That entertains the stranger.