Montaigne’s motto, “que sais-je?” My credo
not a question, “the Devil generalizes,
angels are specific.” He is Lord, and I
a footman in the château of opposites.
For the hell of it I say, “the Devil is specific,
angels generalize.” What do I know?
The Devil takes us to bed where he does
opposite things, licks up and down, leaving
permanent blisters wherever his tongue
plays specifically. Angels generalize,
they lead us all by the hand everywhere.
My nameless angel never tells me where I am.
The angel who caught Abraham’s hand
holding the knife did so in no man’s land.
Look: the Devil and a fallen angel
are dancing—while they dance,
the Devil gossips, “Be more concerned
that men talk of you, than how they talk of you.
Montaigne’s family sold herring,
enough to buy their Château, Eyquem.
His grandmother’s a Jew.
Angels protect herrings, not châteaus.”
Translations lie. “What do I know?”
Montaigne said, “if I were accused of stealing
Notre Dame, I’d leave France.” He disliked rules.
In my heart I have a valve, a bridge
that crosses the Hellespont from Europe to Asia.
The Devil is an arriviste. The Angel of Death
an aristocrat, loathes all saints except Julian
who returned home, from the local road
on the way to Jerusalem. He forgot
his beads, murdered his mother and father—
mistaken identity—he thought a lover
was in bed with his wife. Why did they think
the dog was barking? Why did they ask
Montaigne when he was a child to drown
newborn puppies? Which he did,
saw their terrible struggle to keep the self,
the “I” Montaigne saw in every living thing.
After the dance, the Devil complained,
“You angels believe every word in the Bible is true.
Your Lord knows and wills everything, and nothing.
Why doesn't he mention India, China?
The Buddha did not think the world was flat.
Yahweh did not mention there were rattlesnakes
before Eden, chocolate and potatoes—
Confucius kept things in order.
I did not say, “confusion kept things in order.”
Before the beginning, there were ages and stages,
actors, pollywogs, and frogs, years
appeared and disappeared, rattlesnakes
with calendar skins.”
Faust never heard the Devil sing.
The Devil’s Song
I love to hear them say,
“The Devil take you.”
If you believe in any god,
I’ll take you. If you grieve
for the dead instead of
the newborn, I’ll take you.
With one of my fingers
pushed into one of your holes,
I’ll drag you off to heaven
where my penis is the key
to the pearly gates, then
I’ll drag you down to hell.
Seeing heaven first makes it worse.
I love to take infants from the breast.
I play the game of shooting stags,
they are really papa, brother, sons.
I don’t know if Eros is a god or angel,
but I exile the little enthusiast.
The devil never takes a shower.
See how little I know?
I pin my old credo to my door.
The wind blows away my paper sign
leaving me to think life is just a door
without a roof or window.
My motto now is “what do I know?”