Poetry Supplement Summer 1999, Volume 17.0
William Meyer, Jr.
William Meyer Jr. is a free-lance writer and artist living in Beaumont, Texas. His essays, stories, poems and graphics have appeared in some one hundred journals and magazines in the U.S., Canada, Germany, Australia, and England, including Philosophy today, Thought, Modern Poetry Studies, Bogg, Chicago Review and Weber Studies. See other work by William E. H. Meyer, Jr. in Weber Studies: Vol. 10.1 (essay), Vol. 12.2 (essay), Vol. 13.2 (poetry), and Vol. 18.3 (poetry).
The Universe seems too big for God.
All those multi-trillion miles
of flaming gases, massive like
a billion suns descending over
Rockefeller Chapel in Chicago,
burning the liberal preacher
and his writs, the keen saw of Newton
shaving Occam's butt.
I find frogosto by the door,
panting righteously from the
innocuous cat; the frayed young
red-bird by the library window,
impossible to approach or leave
to flaming concrete facts. That
which I remember has no poetic
meaning, only bones and atoms
and quarks and antinutrinos
sleeping. I find Updike a bore:
give me more Miller Williams
when he was young and quite genuine
ly whoring. Please whisper to the
horse: run quickly before an an
nilist does the math. Hawking this,
ratio to fringe: so long suckers.
Hello Yahweh and Lou Costello.
I spend Heisenberg's principal
on kitty litter.
I saw the thin black racer
pulling herself along College Street
—a bitch beaten hard by heat and cars,
hoisting along on three legs
and holding up a dangling
like an empty purse.
No money in that dangling bag—
no hope for the Kal-Kan future—
only a nose for the invisible gone north
and some distant, luckless dog's day-dream
impossible now to achieve
on those ugly legs.
My own head, a Palestinian, dangled on its chain.