nicholas yb wongnerve_bios_8.html

Selection from Schuyler Haikus, 1954-58


First the worst: your check

bounced. The primroses sick from

air travel. Me with


a bug swim in swill,

the opening of bleak dreams

calls you lover.




I

left, I’m forwarding, there’s been

except. A card saying


last, a frying pan,

unaware, burned a

greasy rag like old


noir. I asked these

nippy days to wait, to come

home with less than a


long novella. A

joke: temperature seems to be

dropping new poems.




Your family sounds

literary little by

little since last week –


I’ll try to get my

keys in cold dumps. A smacking

kiss for my wound, you


in a deck chair

healing yourself in salty

air.




                      That night, your

horror wants to see you hem-

stitching his hope.


The sun is radiant,

is past. The piece: you feel it.

Adolescence was


a major ani-

mator, a looker, under-

done. Here I am, on


the humid ocean,

our faces fade and turn in-

to the tiniest


idea in a

real place.




       I don’t want to hear

lacking. I’m falling


into a bottom-

less pit, the high life doesn’t

hear anyone, me.


Lives come in five

volumes, it’s quite a task to haul.



Me – all water



surrounded by small land

lagoons, oh dear, so well meant.

I have no idea


of how to mend it.

Wild things happen, we behave

like ourselves.



A doomed

affair is like bits here and

there, needs editing,


mistakes. I remember

the self – what a shame – holds better

things than the dirt.




A Sphinx: that’s what you

are, work out for beans, full, fair

and fine, but my


evenings barren

of intercourse. I’ve seen murders

on the waterfront.



Acknowledgement: This poem is an erasure of The Letters of James Schuyler to Frank O’Hara edited by William Corbett.