Nice Weather by Frederick Seidel

BAUDELAIRE
    I walk on water in my poems, using the lily pads
    Of the sidewalk homeless as stepping-stones.
    I’d stop to talk, but they don’t have cell phones.
    Their alcoholic faces come in various plaids.
    A terrorist in his underwear,
    Shaving in the steam, wipes the bathroom mirror clearer.
    I see, while death is near, life is nearer.
    My shaven skin is softer than the air.
    The tugboat thrusts itself into the fluid to begin,
    Backs out, chug, chug, tug, tug, digs in,
    Que c’est bon, this is how, fowl and fang and fin.
    The gulls, looking down at the meal down there, scream and grin.
    His hands are in the basin washing, crashing.
    His brain is on a boardwalk walking.
    Her bigs don’t stop stalking.
    The mirror is asking for a thrashing.
    I’m standing at a sideboard carving a wild duck I shot a lot.
    My bullfrog croaks.
    My unit smokes.
    My Mumbai is hot. My Bali spits snot. I’ve shot what I’ve got.
    Now it’s time for the plane I’m on to come down
    In pieces of women and men.
    The anxiety increases in Yemen when
    They pat me down in case I have something under my Muslim gown,
    And I do.
    I have a device.
    In Paris, it had lice.
    I went to Dr. Dax, who was distinguished. He knew.
    Dax regarded my twenty-four-year-old thing
    With barely disguised disgust.
    I could see him thinking: I’m a doctor. It’s his thing. I must.
    O thing, where is thy sting? Dr. Dax made the prisoner sing.
    It took a shirt of Nessus wrapped around my penis
    To get rid of the crabs.
    The burning ointment got lovingly applied by Babs—
    Penis burned at the stake by Venus!
    Babs of the beautiful fesses
    Was Babette, comtesse d’Eeks.
    Our Lady of the Heavenly Cheeks
    Would turn over onto her stomach to receive a special caress.
    In those days before airport security,
    A terrorist could spread his wings and fly.
    One poet lived his life in the sky,
    While the maid did his laundry and a countess oiled his impurity.
    The maid was Charles Baudelaire.
    I live my life in the air.
    Life is inherently unfair.
    I don’t care.

iPHOTO
    The second woman shines my shoes.
    The other takes my order, curtseys. Thank you, sir.
    Others stand there in the rain so I can mount them when I choose.
    It’s how protective I
    Can be that keeps them going. Look at her:
    She clicks her heels together, bowing slightly. Try
    To put yourself in her shoes: boots, garter belt, and veil.
    She’s amused
    To be a piece of tail.
    She’s smiling. Is she really so amused? I’ve recused
    Myself from judging whether that means she’s abused.
    So far I’ve refused
    To let myself be called confused.
    I hope these photos of St. Louis will be used.

A FRIEND OF MINE
    â€œI walked in the door and into so much light
    My eyesight did a kind of tremolo.
    The living room began to snow
    Cartwheels and pixels. You know what,
    People’s lives together are complicated.
    They are quiet,
    Complicatedly. My heart
    And me get lost in the forest, afraid.
    Yet I would choose you to lead me
    To the clearing. I see
    Your instincts are correct.
    You ask the right questions.
    You don’t mind the answers!
    When I move East for good next month
    Maybe I will spread my wings
    With happiness and soar.
    Or I will shout wheee as I plummet downward.
    Ah, but in my new New York apartment,
    I am only on the fourth floor.
    So I will hit the ground quickly!”

DO NOT RESUSCITATE
    The mummy in the case is coming back to life.
    It sits up slowly. I can’t bear it.
    The guard pays no attention. He knows it is my wife.
    Her heart sits blinking on her shoulder like a parrot.
    I get up from my bed, woozily embalmed, and it’s
    Another gorgeous New York day to try to live.
    I loved my wife to bits in fits. I loved her tits.
    Her bandaged mummy mouth had nothing else to give.
    The man can’t stay awake. He wakes and sleeps.
    It’s either age or it’s his medications.
    He’s giving me the creeps—
    All the