they knew
as well as you did
that from the first time you
rose in that pulpit, fearing cand-
les yet worshipping light

that you must change your life
you must change your life
:{but the light is very painful}:
[:{light is very painful to such eyes}:]
\[:{and bright sounds too}:]/

Nothin' so sexy as a bad attitude;

as a ba'attitude;

as a beatitude.

And Freud shook

and Jesus winced.

Christ, Jesus wept,

it's in His book

(and makes more sense):

How you make us fuss,

Oh Orpheus (It's Never Over).

Freud enjoying a white clam pizza at Roberta's, until his oral cancer

erupts and he has one of those self-denying Moses of Michelangelo moments.

Freud of West Egg, of West Bushwick-town,
Trimalchio Repress on the Orient Express—
Anna smoothing over edges at the border—
finding the Rhine in the rearview glass—
"We are leaving for North London now,"
after the Anschluss, after Anna's arrest,
on a fussy morning, hoisted out of bed,
his mouth likely hurt, to the mailman:
"Forward everything to this address."
(And so modernity becomes post.)
Died on the first day of fall, 1939,
a physician-assisted, Anna-
approved, overdose on
morphine, the pain
unremittingly
worse.

And rifling through my maternal grandmother's files, found beside her notes on Ezra Pound: the start of a play she had intended to perform one summer for folk in lawn chairs (and standing), arranged in a half-moon in Kill Devil Hills or near Elon College. Perhaps she was protesting or inspiring a war, or trying to calm the inhabitants at home in one's midst. All that remains is the opening speech by a character, Malagarnassus, and the trifling, adolescent jaundice beyond it: