Bruce Morton splits his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various magazines and anthologies including, most recently, Muddy River Poetry Review, Main Street Rag, Nixes Mate Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sin Fronteras/Writers Without Borders, Pinyon Review, and Blue Unicorn. He was formerly Dean of Libraries at Montana State University.
World’s Fair 1965
Was a blast Of sacred and profane There in Flushing Meadow, Aptly named, where the world’s Shit was all on display. A huge transparent globe Unisphere; I could see China from where I stood. I felt like dope standing Before the Pieta, There on loan from the Pope. She was devout, holding Me fast, my hand in her’s. All I could think about Was the beer pavilion. Well, I mean, Jesus Christ, We were hot.
This Guy Asks Me
So, this guy asks me, How do you make a poem? I say, one word at a time With or without rhyme. He says, you know what Would make a good poem? "A guy is sitting drunk at a bar But he is making sense." And here I am thinking, I wish that guy were here now. But, you know, you never know What can make a poem.
No doubt—absolutely positive. The double negative is fixed In the rules that rule how we think. It cannot not be that we know What we know. We are positive It is correct. It must be so. A negative added to it Makes it less positive, even, Possibly negative, so that There is no certainty, so that One is certain or uncertain Like Schrödinger’s fucking cat. But this we know is impossible, Two positives cannot be negative. Yeah, right.