Ice Cream Has No Bones:
Some Poems from November-November, 1970-1971

by Ralph Dumain

In morning grey the shadow lay
     beside the body of its master
     and no one else knew the disaster

Nor would know it even after
     it hit the headlines of the papers
     (next to news of mother-rapers)

     No one dies you’ll no doubt find
     who doesn’t leave some thing behind.

29 November 1970

An orange moon.
Seventeen stars.
A thousand crickets.
A row of trees.
A cottage.
An open window.
And I.
Stuck to the magnet of night.

4 July 1971

Between twilight and night.
The angels of evening sing to me.
I see their faces off in the distance.
My legs draw my body to its feet.
The door opens.
I am lost.

4 July 1971

Every object lets go of every other.
My view before me is chopped up.
I can make no sense of it.
God has returned. The end is come.

4 July 1971

It is a play performed with mirrors.
Each actor acts out his part, while
holding before him a mirror,
faced to the audience.
The play has had three performances.
It has bombed.
I am alone in the audience.
This last performance is for me.

4 July 1971

I saw a boy on his Empire of Sand
with his shovel in his hand.
He looked odd.
I said ”What's your name, little boy?”
He said, “God.”
I said, “That's nice,” and turned around.
He hit me on the head
with his shovel—I went down.

17 July 1971

The sky is blue-black.
I kiss it; it hugs me back.
Like a big black bear, it squeezes too hard,
breaks all my bones; I lie dead in the yard.

28 July 1971

Across the galaxies, God speaks.
"Long time no see! How time flies!"
Says He, returning from vacation.
"Oh shit! I forgot to turn off the gas!"

28 July 1971

God is five million crickets in the grass.
God is shit in my ass.

5 August 1971

I am cold with the chill of early Fall,
Ill with the thrill of a frightening call . . .

A part of all — the sun,
The trees, the wind, the sea —
Is there any part for me?

15 November 1971

No, it is not blue circles
of tinted dust that make me watch,
Or bands of fire that make me stare,
Nor any more is it even one fine beautiful
woman's hair.
It is a stare — of blank stupid wonder —
at everything.

15 November 1971

If I could at least be king
in whatever realm I chose.
I live in the Empire of Rust,
on the Island of the Evening,
among the icy clouds of space,
dangling above the ground — unable
to touch —- like a man who is hanged.

15 November 1971

The shadows are the soft down of a black cat's fur.
The moon is like a yellow eye.
The town has the sound of a woman's soft sigh,
And across her sweet thigh, I lie.

17 November 1971

A still, cool river of peace
Oh, and what a soothing chill
And a figure with a flute sits on a hill
I know he plays for my woman and I.

I know he plays for my woman and I.
The cat gently moans, I open and close one eye.
"Yes I know, little love," I whisper and sigh.

17 November 1971

Written November 1970 - 1971; compiled & slightly revised 7 April 2012
© 1970, 1971, 2012 Ralph Dumain

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Uploaded 7 April 2012

©2012 Ralph Dumain