Throughout the past few months, I’ve found this poem misquoted as:
“Cueballs have invented insomnia as a way to forget eyelids”
That one-liner given a whole page to itself in “Nights of Naomi” (1971) eventually received the title “PERFECTION”; knowing this, doesn’t “as a way” seem too wishy-washy for its taste?
Though it may gutter bumper initial hubristic discomfort (“aww, uncertain of perfection, ok..”), such smooth-ease plausibility from our man of the hour is best met with a raised brow, a crinkled nose, though in this case, just an edit please!
. . .
As usual, Bill’s verse sticks to bigboy pants; no fluff-whim innocence without a little… well, I find there’s always a perfectly reasonable explanation for any too-voluptuous slant some may assume!
My attempts to:
“in an attempt”
wild-eyed desperation, a competitive frenzy
focus on the task at hand, else risk…
cueball / (don’t blame them, they’re innocent!)
neutral at heart, yet used to sink those motionless
at a distance / from a distance
waiting for the force of that imminent clack
(entirely dependent upon a prompter, no mind)
the shooter, the one with the stick (poet w/ pen?)
eyes white-wide, up all night (playing pool/writing poems)
(words/balls = who sinks who)
(who finds their end in that black net?(the text)
and the remaining/the survivors? let’s count..)
stark white page
dark black pocket
ass a way / ass away
(works, yet too vulgar to pair with submission and stay delicious)
inane aim of that cueball to keep the player(s) up all night
less time spent lumped in the rack with all the others,
anticipating all-hours ballsmack scattering
chalky tip’s friction co-efficient (…)
once those lids close, sleep ends the sport
if that cueball falls into darkness, SCRATCH (foul)
summoning someone else’s shot…
Ahh, forget about bed! Tend instead to “le Jeu suprême”! (Mallarmé)
“Let it alone; let’s to billiards: come,…”
-Cleopatra, Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, Scene V
“I will drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his pent-house lid;
He shall live a man forbid:
Weary se’nnights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine:
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
Look what I have.”
-First Witch, Macbeth, Act I, Scene III
“Un coup de des jamais n’abolira le hasard…”
I wouldn’t demonize the cueball! Though their perfect beauty (hueless, spherical!) begs suspicion of an inevitable narcissism (Hamlet primadonna!) which must prefer us converted, must insist we be just like them, don’t assume this and attack first! Relax! Never push sin on another, else face the worst! (How boring!)…(Stick to the safety of roomy verse!)
What can that confused cueball even celebrate? It’s not the catalyst!
And obviously the attempt to forget eyelids was an utter failure!
Look. Still here! Waiting for more of us to see, to read forever.
“Nought’s had, all’s spent,
Where our desire is got without content:
‘Tis safer to be that which we destroy
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.”
-Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Act III, Scene II
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