Poetry by DeWitt Clinton

             Paul Sableman CC



​
What Did You Just Say?

I’m not the disagreeable type, though lately, I seem to be most
Disagreeable to what appears to be more and more for quite a 
Few out there, but in the end, and we know we’ll all end, sooner
Than some might expect, the next day, you know this, the next
Day we can hardly remember what it was that got us into such
A, well I was going to say what it was, but now I’m having so 
Much trouble remembering even that, and that seems to be
What we’ve been so worn out by, even though all of us are 
Harboring such seared nerve-ends that nobody knows quite
How to get us back to where we were when we started talking
Back so quickly before the other, and now, we can’t even 
Remember who the other was, though it was all so inconsequential
But then, it was as if you, and I’m not saying you had anything
To do with this, but you started something awful bad way down
In a pretty frozen heart, and something lit that bloody organ so
That now, we’ve got not a spewing, not a barking, but one big
Lava puke that just keeps pouring out, so much so, that we’re
Going to have to get out of the way, or we are just going to end
Up like those nice Romans did way way back who are now just
A tourist stop for so many trying to find their way through ruins
Of what was something not so bad, so long ago, but if we do
Get out of the way, and not stuck into something terribly hot,
Then one of us, and isn’t that always the way it turns out, one
Of us has got to start to clean up such a mess, even though 
The mess is still steaming under our feet, pushing us further
And further away from what we’re trying to keep from spreading
Out any further into someone else’s loving home, that if we
Don’t do something, well, and you know this, the whole town
Where we are is going to just, how do you say it, go under,
And nobody really wants to go under over such a stupid thing
Like, oh yeah, I did forget to bring home a gallon of milk,
Or wine, or something harder that always goes down so easy.
And not to be so personal here, but I’d appreciate if you have
Some time, to help me clean this up, for we have so little time
Before someone else starts to have that volcanic eruptus, and
If we’re not more careful, we’ll all be memorialized in something
No one really knows what to call it, but whatever it is, even if
Somebody thinks it was just a simple what did you just say, well,
Get over here, as we’re going to need more brooms, more brooms.





Spin Cycle


It isn’t like you to say those things, like those things
You said just now, as I’ve not heard those things
But you seem quite interested, well, very interested
In saying those things to me and I wish I knew where
Some of that stuff was coming from as it’s all new
To me like a cold fog blowing in a hurricane force
But that’s you, isn’t it, and I’m just something in
The way for all the blow to knock around a bit
But it’s been that way, hasn’t it, for how many
Years and sometimes I forgot how the big blow
Can just blow up such a big big storm in my head
Because that’s usually where it goes, right up
There even though I don’t want to let it go right
Up there as when it does, and when it does it’s
Never something pleasant or interesting but more
The stuff of stuff I can’t even begin to explain not
That I’d want to, oh for heaven’s sake, no I wouldn’t
But then that’s what’s going on, right, right now
Those words not just pouring out but blowing me
Right over as if I’m in some carnival whirly gig 
Where the big tub starts whirling and whirling
And all of us are now gob smacked against the 
Smooth metal that now feels like jet propulsion
Is pressing us into the shiny metal, and then, oh
Dear, none of us can move we’re like butterflies
With no stick pins, can’t move even the pinky 
Finger and then o Jesus save us the floor starts
To drop right from under us and we’re spinning
Faster and faster hair flying, if any of us have
Hair, skirts and shorts flying up but then no one
Can look down to see what’s up as we’re inside
Something that’s spinning us around like the 
Spin cycle, the last big fast one, in our new 
Washing machine, yes, it’s sort of like that,
That’s what’s going on in my poor brain as 
Those things keep coming in spinning the 
Poor brain cells around and around and 
Around as if nobody has any sense of the 
Kind of cellular damage that’s going to happen
Unless someone, please someone, look for 
The big black thick black cord that is keeping
All of us so electrified with our face skin
Just flapping and flapping around and the
Screaming is not loud at all no not at all
As nobody can ever scream when a mouth
Is just flapping and flapping it’s a miracle
How somebody in there or say in me can
Even breathe but yes, that’s what it is.  

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DeWitt Clinton is Professor Emeritus at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater, and lives in 
the Village of Shorewood, Wisconsin. His four collections of poetry include The Conquistador Dog Texts, The Coyot. Inca Texts, (New Rivers Press), At the End of the War (Kelsay Books) and By A Lake Near A Moon: Fishing with the Chinese Masters (Is A Rose Press, 2020).  ​

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