70. ABSTRACT, #1

ABSTRACT, #1
You've got the piping
the ground glass left -
the Dillinghast in the flavor
house, the country's best.
As you maneuver the Hoover
the big crowd applauds;
I see them moving - like
phaetons on a new-cut board.
This roadway - all mud and
corduroy now - runs boldly through
an old-hedged woods; dark forest inside
and trimmed for the good.

69. IRON JUNK

IRON JUNK
My line of iron junk secures you -
anchored as you are to a hillside along the river,
seeking shades of ample night and distant Indian fire
from the Delaware's needy bosom. Everything we celebrate
becomes our haunted heritage. Such are the rights of man.
You cannot undo me, as I cannot undo you -
two selfsame servants, we aim to serve each other.
Mankind's ancient clog dreams to break away,
everywhere, to burst the Spring and Summer forth.
You will see. You know.
Bees and hummingbirds, hawks and egrets,
frogs and eagles, turtles, and those awkward eels.
The princely heat of humid nights and sudden cracks
of thunder and lightning will arouse you, deep in slumber,
to that sudden realization that all of life goes on.
Please do not let the others fool you
into thinking false is real, or that accumulation
is the measure of the man. Iron junk collects, rainwater
runs to rust, wooden beams destroy themselves with
mildewed rot. Bugs and worms come home to haunt.
Love this life, but never let your eyes forget:
There is more than what we see to what we see.

68. RED ROVER, RED ROVER

RED ROVER RED ROVER
I've always been infatuated with the intense juices of
the times I pass through - how the icicles hang like
a melted glass over eaves and windows; bitter cold
after mid-winter thaws seem to stretch the water as
it ices harshly into strange and elongated shapes.
Glinting like a dangling earring, something like that
catches my mind. In the same way, water beading on trees
after even a Summer rain, by contrast, entices with the
same effect of warmth as does the wintry ice just mentioned.
In some respect, all things are the same. Even movement,
if broken into enough increments, is a stillness at rest with itself.
-
But, we can't just be satisfied with maudlin adventure.
It has to be more than that. The cat, slinking about like
a bendable pointer, tries to catch the corner even before
it turns itself inside out in getting to where it wants.

The dog finds barking at the moon a useless endeavor

and stops what it is doing to curl up again and fall asleep.

67. UNCLE

Uncle

Uncle Nestor said all you wanted was

water and ice and the world. He was probably

incorrect, since his hearing was bad. Perhaps what

you said was 'a daughter, a nice little girl.'

No one will ever know. But your

two sons loved you.

The lampshade that you brought home from

the Philippines was one of Nancy's prized

possessions. Before she died, she told me to give

it to the Brothers of Saint Charity. I think.

She may have said to give it to

'your brothers, next Saturday.'

I gave it to Fred.

66. EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE

EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE

(PARAGRAPH OF LIFE)
October's twenty-eighth day is ending.
My thoughts try to catch up to the day, and
the time, and the place. They cannot -
only because there is far too much of everything;
the movement, the spreading out of time and
circumstance, and the broad cloth of all the
history just passed. There is so much I want to do,
yet, realizing that, I cannot do it. That such is a
covert weakness, I cannot face. The hosts of
Heaven's time and place would not hold me back -
only if I had, once, the opportunity to go knocking,
to search, to find. The abacus has lost its beads.
The lyre is silent and without sound. I am hamstrung.
I should not be judged, therefore, by this loss and absence.
It is not for not trying that I am found wanting.
-
It is hard for me to talk.
The words do not flow as
they once did, and the meanings
of what I wish to say are less clear now
than ever before. The listeners too
are different. Have I lost my way?
-
I once had my own photo of a lake and its
darting layout - a finger of land sticking
straight out into the water. It stood by itself.
Cottages and boats, chimneys and some walls
along the water's edge - everything in its place
and all of wood. The grand houses and palaces
of the czars it may as well have been.
Now it is all over. Everywhere, everywhere.

65. LAMPLIT VASE SEEN AS STILL-LIFE

LAMPLIT VASE SEEN AS

STILL-LIFE
They were having (it appeared) none of it.
'Pick out that lamplight and shut the power off.'
The table seemed sad at the news.
The walls, in their own way, reflected such nocturnal
reckonings and dire views as no one ever knew...
before there was a beginning, there was this.
All that was happenstance seemed planned, while
all that was planned seemed merely to happen.
The purple vase with its so-dark flowers.
The red cloth across the table.
A velvet dark of powers and force beyond
the room's control. No one dared enter;
so neither did I.
By staying 'without', external to the scene,
I was not of it, nor part of its slow action.
This did bring a taut reckoning - what happens without?
What happens within? Like a Turkish still-life,
of petals and scent and misgivings grave,
I was sure and serene just by staying apart.
I was truly 'without' - an old man
moving well past his mark.
It was a sad thing but fortunate too -
seeing this lamp-lit vase from another view.

64. POSTAL RESPONSE IN RETURN

POSTAL RESPONSE IN RETURN
The same quandary as you.
In this field of endeavor we wonder.
Does the fire anneal the effort, or will we be,
once more, stranded at our own forges?
A few bushels of red apples.
The corks from a hundred bottles.
The wandering hiker; a motorist in distress.
I once sent a letter to someone, telling them
of the dawn I'd witnessed. They sent a postcard
back, from Albuquerque or Tulsa or somewhere,
stating simply 'I thought your confusion was
easy to sense. You should look for better clues.'
A few bushels emptied of apples.
A hundred bottles without corks.
The very same quandary as you.

63. THE PARIETAL EDGE

THE PARIETAL EDGE
A thud, and a bump.
Things hard and important and
seemingly introduced at will :
the random stroke of the slapping
woodpecker bounding from trunk to trunk,
the callow hammer of the cinderblock man,
breaking great stones with a smash.
Just as the flowers which eventually take root
in the rubble can manage to grow and to blossom,
so the mind - empty of matter it's said at the start -
can be filled with whatever it wants and make shape
and pattern and meaning. A form of the gloved-hand
looking for an owner with five fingers each. You'd think,
'nothing special' - but it takes a very particular search
to find just the right gloved fit.

62. TAXIS

TAXIS
This thicket is thickening and while I am away
it gets more dense still. Trees throb like monsters
of wicked gel, and all I see are figments and shadows.
There are winsome absences and things vacated now -
unseen generalities and specific anamolies.
I saw her again today - walking her dog - and those
with her were nodding. Someone piped up 'is that Bud?'
I turned to reply in negative, but couldn't find the
strength to speak. It was nearly evening. The taxi drivers
were just sitting around on their bench, smoking as they do.
I wondered about their composure, their calm, their elan.
Do they witness odd scenes every day and say nothing?

61. AN EVERDAY THIS, AN EVERYDAY THAT

AN EVERYDAY THIS, AN EVERYDAY THAT
And so for you, Hugo, I ask - have you
taken for granted the places where you are?
The cemetery grove where the two green parrots sing?
The broken down old pool, once used by the
municipal poor? The medical museum at the edge
of the parkland walkway? It is all ringed by railroads now,
a strange thought in that nowadays even old railways
are wickedly passe. Today they build surface lines -
trolley-like things on tracks, considered more 'user-friendly'.
A man was recently killed on one right nearby.
Stabbed 8 times in the head and the neck by
a crazed person wielding a huge knife.
Everyone screamed, and some tried to help.
But it was all over so quickly, and that crazy
guy still held the knife. What could anyone do?
Later, I'm told, the cops came and shut down
the line - sent a man in to mop up the blood
and clean up the place, so others could ride -
I guess. I imagine public workers today
figure stuff like that to just be part
of their job. An everyday this, an everyday that.
(Cleaning up the mess of an everyday slob).

60. THESE DAYS

THESE DAYS
The man in the checkerboard suit was wearing the
halter below his knees and as he carried forth the
furnace broth it all went flying as he bent to sneeze.
It always seems as if something goes awry.
The porch-light breaks, the gutters fall down,
and even the parking garage, I've noticed, these
days is seriously sagging to one side - all those heavy
big cars. In a crisp uniform, the wonderful girl who
cashes the tickets at the entry-gate, is smiling at
everyone who passes. I just want to eat her, myself.
She's been there now a few months.
I once saw her passionately kissing,
(I guessed) her boyfriend.
But - for all I know - it could have been
a fare-beater, so little the real world is with me
these days.

59. JUST LET IT GO AT THAT

JUST LET IT GO AT THAT
'There's something between my toes I can't figure out.'
The doctor laughed and said : 'Don't worry, it's nothing.
That's the space of time leaving coagulated little moments behind,
things you can hardly remember but recall nonetheless as
something that was; even though there's no clarity,
your mind and heart will someday do something
with it all. We don't have to bother over a thing.
If we made any move, we'd ruin the effect.
Just let it go at that.'

58. YESTERYEAR HAD THAT EFFECT

YESTERYEAR HAD THAT EFFECT
Just going there once meant nothing -
there was a fierce wind over the cliff
and it blew things down to the rocks far below.
That's where the river ran through - dark like
blue ink - winding its way past boulders and trees.
Just outside the horizon line a train crawled by
and the distant bridge could be seen.
Indian Head Rock, the Face, whatever they called
it never really stuck. It was just a place high atop
these Palisades. A June day revel in the wide-open
sunlight. A bright Fall morning with shadows
draping the landings. Stone pediments, old
foundations. Bricks and mortar from days long
gone. It was all over, in its own way, in a flash.
A distinctive piece of time, a spot on an
enigmatic calendar of old.

57. THE CANDLE WAS SPENT IN MOURNING

THE CANDLE WAS SPENT IN MOURNING
'There's a dime's difference between you and me,' he said,
turning the wheel of some old grinding stone 'that's the difference
between a mission and an admission, you understand?' I nodded.
'What it means is that we're pretty close to each other in
goals but entirely different in execution.' I really didn't
like the use of that word at all - since he was crazy and
had already done time for shooting someone a few
years back. He carried a small gun inside his bootleg.
He had a knife concealed at his belt. He liked to say
he was like Daniel Boone - 'always willing to talk
but always well-armed.' I didn't know a thing.
By that comparison I was water already under
his bridge, a berth without a boat. That was
years ago. I just found out he's dead: killed
in a biker brawl in East Hempstead, Long Island.
Just goes to show, there's no telling for taste.
No reason for what men do.
It all comes down to strength,
or some simple form of
a really personal
fortitude
used
well.

56. 'MAN KILLS WIFE AND DOG AND SELF'

'MAN KILLS WIFE AND DOG AND SELF'

The headline does not just cover the moment - it speaks

for something broader than that. I am walking the walkway

to nowhere, really. At my feet is a dead bird brushed off

to the side and forgotten. It is small and still lovely and brown.

I wonder at its death, and the why. Along the way, just as

sadly, I hear the wails of a squirrel, trapped it seems in a gutter.

In panic, in anguish, it is calling aloud, a noise of help and

desperation. A few people stop and talk; it is trapped deep in

the gutter, with no means of rescue. Perhaps only time itself

can silence this thing. More sadness abounds - high in the

sky, a soaring hawk. Around me, dead leaves fall.

I figure there must be sadness like this everywhere, and constant.

We attend to that which we can - or may - when we've a mind

to, so as to protect ourselves. The hurt, of course, is always

there. We just do not want it to be ours. That which we ignore,

if we can, we ignore at our peril but of our own will. After all,

there are no bombs falling from above. Our salvation at least

will be spared those types of deadly and fiery deaths of bombs

and furnace and flames and flares. Still, an ever-present sense

of dread and doom still loiters. We really can avoid, in fact, nothing.

Man kills wife, and self, and dog.

Another most pitiable and horrid tale.

Something gruesome like murder - for news,

for tabloid, for sensational shock.

A headline does not just cover the moment.

It must speak for something broader than that.

55. FERRY

FERRY
Do we, bereft of longing, yes, and waiting,
passively accede to crying winds and
lusty tempests? Who chides such a
shrill and angered night?
Some ferry, cutting waters both bound and
bursting, with milled candles ascends and
sways in oceanic time - whereon the doomed
ride and drink dry their coffee.
Out of rhyme? Out of time?
Dressed well, a reaper (Death) now o'er
the water comes - darkly with grim blade
and no smile at all - to scan the surface
of all which is before him spread.
The sick are walking the fevered plank,
hitting the water silently with but a splash
as their red eyes meet both their doom and dawn.
Tired the black waves lap the wood.
The bridge has been abandoned -
as the ship blends with the natural ocean's
slap and time, and the ragged bo'sun
howls. 'This is mine,' Death's voice
is heard to say 'no ferry's day in no
century of time can take any
of this away.'

54. GROUNDSMEN AND LANDSMEN

TOO EARLY FOR PRAYER

IN THE DAYBREAK AIR

(Groundsmen & Landsmen)

They are - seemingly - everywhere.

It is a pretty Princeton morning, once the

sun comes up - the rustle of leaves, the cold,

the squirrels, and some sort of new frost atop

everything. A fine white ash, perhaps? Something

post-apocalyptic? But no, it's not that at all.

It's the cold, and the chilly morning daybreak air.

In spite of that, and hovering over all things,

as if new and robust Kings of matter and form,

these crazy men in back packs, air-force screaming -

swarm. Their grizzled and earnest countenance belies

a form of new contentment too - not one of vacillation,

but rather, one of mission, force and a strong, determinate

substance. 'We will scour this land until it is clean, or bare,

or wiped of every trace of what has been.' Anyone else,

it would seem, had better hold on. These men are stalking,

with conclusions foregone. 'We shall not cease', it seems,

'until there is no longer, not one, a leaf!'

53. IN ON THE JOKE

IN ON THE JOKE
(Something About a Hat)
This - [this] - was a solid line,
an esplanade of wide-ranging features,
a broad steel pilaster set to slice,
an eventful prime moment well-remembered.
I remembered [somehow] leaving my
dark green hat behind. I recalled that the
nice girl nearby was calling her husband on
the telephone - in a sort-of panic - stating:
'I left my keys at work in my jacket. I left that
there too. I didn't realize it until just now.
Where can you pick me up, and when?'
It all went like that - smoothly progressive in
an opposite manner, unlike an old cartoon, say,
where a villain can be concealed by a tree.
They were always nearly completely obscured, except
for a tophat or some sort of long coat. It always gave
them away, usually without them even knowing.
Whoever watched [along with YOU the viewer], the hero
or the lawman or the comic foil coyote, was always
in on the joke; and expected as well you were with him.

52. ASSIGNMENT

ASSIGNMENT
I'm not startled
I'm not aghast:
As things return, I
remember they've passed.
I'm not obscure,
I'm not obtuse -
most anything will do,
when I need an excuse.
I've been told of snow
that never stops falling -
higher than windows,
doors and railings.
It's all the same,
as I look about -
amidst my failings,
amidst my doubt;
I want to know
what's left to do.
Once you tell me,
I'll leave it to you.

51. ON THE NOMENCLATURE OF THE FROG

ON THE NOMENCLATURE OF THE FROG

It's a simple thing really - words defining image,

concept caught up in words. That, and all the rest

of the tightly-woven and dramatic stuff a community

of scientists alone would know, brings us to the

next point...how sure are we of what we claim to know?

Bestial rotation? Unencumbered directional impulse?

Nerve endings aligned with vision and sense? A

rounded perception of depth and distance? How do

we presume to know all these things by only a simple name?

It is, after all, (is it not?) but the conjecture of gaggles of

men which has indecisively decided upon our world.

Interpretative Dream? Interpretive Dance?

Is there really any difference out there at all?

...Or are we to proud to say no?...

50. CLASPING WHAT WENT BY US

CLASPING WHAT WENT BY US
I may have meant to come by silent things beforehand -
things such as this, which went away. Confusing is it?
Only because you, looking for meanings, became so
intent on shape and content that you forgot what
went before : that moment in the sky, our hands
in the levelled water, waiting for fish, or frogs.
Anything like that at all.
We may have meant to come by silent things beforehand -
but, like Pinocchio without a nose, the most obvious things
were gone already - the leaves dropping like soiled
paper from trees, the precious sound of the songbird,
running off, and - lastly and most decisively - that
rustle of the cool, crisp wind as it passed between
our twice-pressed palms.

49. TINSELTOWN AND HORNBY

TINSELTOWN AND HORNBY

'You know I ceded that territory a long time ago.
It's about habitat and there's really none left.
People talk. The hours - all the same - sometimes
seem longer and at other times short.
There's nothing anyone can do anymore except rage.'
And then the guy with the chiropractor thighs
steps up and says 'I wasn't born yesterday and I
can see it in the stars - there's nothing going on more
important than the element of awareness making
itself felt now everywhere. I noticed - for pity's sake -
people now are recycling their recycling and filling
their plastic water bottles with water. And you say
the world's not wacko?' It went on like this for
a long time : two morons, it seemed to me, dancing on
the head of a pin which had been set afire with some
flammable gel and thus kept them moving about very
quickly. Their logic was flawless...if you like shit for
your breakfast.

48. LAST WINTER PLUS ONE

LAST WINTER PLUS ONE
Everything's a part of my deal - the fingers, the feet, the chin,
the gut. You can't get away with less than that. I
harbor no fools gladly and tolerate nothing less than
a breach in the wall - someplace you can sneak through,
or slip away, like fearful water in a quiet flood.
I built my house without a hammer, using hands for
a mallet and blood for a glue. Every picture which
hangs covers some flaw in the wall.
There's a mysterious ornament hanging on the porch -
something like a curse on the side of the doorway,
a place where no one comes anyway. A fusillade
of racketeers, voicing opinions only for
each other, a tribal matron pleading prayers
for something hidden. Perhaps both these things,
in their way, equal ancient nomadic tribes of old
today claiming some God as their special protector.
It won't matter. Blood's in the ale we peddle.
Selling it for a dollar-to-donuts, ten cents on the pint,
five dollars a day in a pesky way, this stuff
will run out by nightfall for sure.

47. THE GARLAND AT PINE MANOR

THE GARLAND AT PINE MANOR
'Pristine the property's not - there are tire tracks
and mud holes all over it. But once there was a
house here, and a barn and shed over there.
It all looked very different.'
I tried imagining what he said : looking for
ways to reconvene the past. Glass like a glimmer
on some inland lake, a flat body of water moving
nothing, a clutch of woods and broad greenery
along the edge of some marshy swamp. It did seem
plentiful, all that water and land.
It's so vivid now, how we've changed in
this modern day everything old and past
to bare memories in some tired attic of time.
No one cares what's gone, or missing.
Only money matters.
Only money talks.
And no one knows how quickly
that cheap currency
passes
away.

46. A REQUEST FOR THOMAS

A REQUEST FOR THOMAS
Show me that man who can whistle the wind -
the one with the stallions and steeds;
that guy, high on the hill, looking down
from a lofty place and seeing movement
and motion, that wind in the reeds.
Make it simple and true : magnanimous and grand.
After I have seen him, perhaps then I'll cede the point:
I've been wrong forever, on so many things;
wrong forever in all of my deeds.
I'll need more than a declarative sentence -
music and a lilting tune, a melody; some kind
of song wherein I can remember the words.
Bring me that message. Let it be heard.

45. FOR OH SO LONG

FOR OH SO LONG
How I managed to have it both ways is beyond me:
the cadaver in the bushes certainly must have
distrusted the future, but not as much as I did.
Like anyone else, I'd grown dead tired of the razor's edge.
The blue water - which had turned a putrid green -
was just as dead upon arrival. We'd carved the meadow,
by degrees, into foolish little houses made of rags and sash.
There wasn't really anything left, nor anywhere

left to put it. I could have shaken hands with the

Devil AND that dead guy together at that point.

I drank for free at the party the family threw.

His sister was there, dancing with

anyone who cared to dance.
Amazing it was - a psychedelic chisel

striking hard onto a steel-cast brain.

44. THE LAST PARACHUTE AT AMLOR

THE LAST PARACHUTE AT AMLOR
I scanned skyward the eyes I wore
and watched above me something soar -
without being sure of what I saw
I sensed it was of broad abandon.
A man it was floating down towards me:
like something from the sky - skillfully erratic,
crazily imbued, and crashing softly at some
right-angle to the ground, to suddenly roll like a
bale of hay. Unshaken by advice, I did what
anyone would do - dart the open field to see
what had fallen. And there it was, bruised maybe
but sound and not bloodied. A young man of
about 35, with a skillful hand and anxious eyes,

who stated 'that was weird! I don't think
I'll do that again.' I said I hadn't seen his plane and was
thereby doubly surprised to see him falling.

'No more surprised than was I' he said, 'no more

surprised than me.' At that, I helped him gather his

billowed cloth, pack his snaps and suspenders away.

He bent to remove his boots, and from a backpack

took sneakers out and put them on.
He turned, said 'thanks for the help!' waved, and
set off down the field. I watched him until he was but
a diminishing and a distant dot.

43. ENMITY : THE VERDICT

ENMITY : THE VERDICT
'They do not become full-fledged partners or brothers
until first their heads are off : we look at their track records
and then cut them to bits - any ribbons left we then claim as ours,
IF they can still stand up.' With that, I pretty much figured it
was as over as it could be. The guy speaking turned and left the
room, leaving some fearsome animus behind him.
I never knew it could be like this, with people getting so
chopped up over money and position - defamation of character
had, certainly, nothing on this sort of interpersonal assassination.
It wasn't anything I wanted a tattoo about, on my neck or
anywhere else. The summation to the jury went something like this:
'It is your responsibility to turn the impetus of this evil, if
you too so deem it, from the vulgar necks of our fellow men.
Before we are all finished, all dead. For there has to be
a higher reckoning to which we turn, first, before such
foul emotions as these men show is exercised upon us.
Men have died for less. And, second, before this rude
exception becomes the rule. Your work is before you.
Do it, and we can go.'

42. THINGS I CAN NEVER FIGURE OUT

THINGS I CAN NEVER FIGURE OUT

('to ruination')
I am in a room with very little light,
someplace I can never properly illumine.
Unable to find things, I stumble on -
occasionally hitting this or that object
in some painful way. A lesson to be learned
therein? Perhaps, but not. I shudder to think
of all that I've misplaced.
There are those saying (always) 'change the light,
put in a brighter bulb' and all the rest.
It wouldn't really matter, but they don't know.
My philosophy is a feeble candle, a barely illumined
yellow which paints walls dark and brown - it's
never a question of 'candle-power' or of
a wattage lost or found.
For I am HERE and here I'm bound:
shackled like a hardened criminal to some
wall, pierced like some St. Stephen by those
willful arrows - or even, in this brutal half-life of
illogic and reason, hung upside down to die or burst.
Either way, I lose. Which is worse? I'll never
really know. For (incredibly) I'm not so bad off
in this dire situation - I'll take what comes,
my place, my station. 'You only live once.'
Here's to ruination.

41. ISLANDER

ISLANDER

He made his way out of this world,

hear this, watching May subside

and wither; but he shall last forever.

(Death has no appointment here, is but

a substance there, and fading).

April was his only foe - a nemesis to

be avoided. Spring sometimes sweeps

its swallow-wings aside to fly and flee,

and April passes on. His shadow too lies

buried now - beneath a damp and darkened

mound of mossy green earth, beneath a mourning

light, beneath too a sunrise of strengthening sun,

beneath the old, arriving one who motions to our

lives too to pass (depart) for Death.

Beneath that shadow ever black and dark,

renew us, Spirit, Vigor, May; relate us there

to soon recall our days as spent (in anger, hate,

or rage) - as passed, as vain contentment.

Come anew, and enter.

(He made his way out

of this world).

40. EUGENICS

EUGENICS
The guy said 'I got a hankering for 'Chun King',
which I took to mean he was hungry for Chinese food -
to which he said 'yes'. 'That's so simply American' I replied
back to his mouth 'it's the kind of thing my parents used to say.'
I wasn't giving a compliment, but he was too dumb to know.
'You see' I went on 'first-off, that stuff's not even 'Chinese'
really, it's more like crap-in-a-can claiming to be what it's not -
so why would you want that here, in the middle of New York City?
There's good Chinese grub around.' I was trying to sound cool,
maybe even aloof - not wishing to offend him or show him up.
He could'a broke me in two if I pissed him off. Can't just call
someone stupid, or an ass, sometimes - even if they are.
But - he'd been living like a bum for years now, so little
of it mattered to him. 'If it fills my stomach good, I'll call
it whatever I want.' Hmmm, yes, well okay to that.
Seems sometimes like there's one born every minute.
Idiot fractures of time, twisted manifestations of genes
gone wrong or wasted - people with just nowhere to go.
Funny how they manage to linger on - just staying put in
place with all their tired rank deficiencies.
Oh well...can't advance the race if we can't kill
a bunch first. I think that was called 'Eugenics',
back a long time ago.

39. IT WASN'T BUT FOR SEEMING

IT WASN'T BUT FOR SEEMING

It wasn't but for seeming that I was alone;

it was also for other things - like no one to

talk back to, or no one to ask for clues. It appeared

as if everything was empty and silent around me.

The tormented guy with the tophat, standing on

the train platform waiting - stretching his neck

like an idiot to see if the train was coming.

Down the track, up the track, what could it matter?

He missed the last one, and he'd miss this one too,

for sure - unless of course I pushed him in front

of it. Faint possibility, vague, meandering thought.

The rustle of some frank newspaper caught me short:

winsome notes on some stupid sports story, or a new

look in some Dictator's eye, piecemeal enticements

by political hacks, a fashion shoot shot in the nude.

It was all the same : no shame, no game.

I took a pencil from a box on the shelf where they

keep the timetables and ticket stubs. No one noticed.

With it I began writing on the wall - in text too small to see -

'I am not this person who was just now here;

I am not this man you see.' It did take quite a

long time, but I eventually covered the wall.

38. THE GLORY THAT IS SALLY HAMILTON

THE GLORY THAT 
IS SALLY HAMILTON

I love a girl with a sense of humor;

Sally Hamilton was that and more.

I was sitting by her in the Metro Cafe.

She was at a table of four.

Lovely blond face and hair, and

eyes a twinkly blue. The older guy

asked her for forks; she came back with

two. He quickly berated her there,

in a foolish sort of way; said 'what are

you thinking about, we'd need at least

four, I say!' She got back up from her chair,

and went to the wall, picked up the metal

bucket of forks and dumped them on

him.....all.

I love a girl with a sense of humor.

37. OF THE FRAMEWORK OF TIME

OF THE FRAMEWORK OF TIME

The framework of time, like an elegy,

runs to its edges and darkness - sidling

past the luminescence around us and diving

deep into the innards of those dark, black hearts.

The kind of conscience a murderer has,

the kind which never sees parole nor even

the light of day. Dark recesses where the

power-bombs reside. Words brushed off like dirt.

Remorse bears its gloom like a curtain -

a wave where the wind blows through it,

a shadow perfected by contrast, a dark -

embittered like the ancient night sky.

Five red cards were on the table,

each one bearing a different face.

On the back of each, though blurry

and faint, was a different legend to

match each number - 3 for death,

5 for the maiden, and a 7 for (merely)

'good luck'. It was all that and

nothing more. I'd grown tired of

playing and heaved them all to the floor.

36. THAT MISERABLE MANUFACTURE

THAT MISERABLE MANUFACTURE

(Hart Crane, 1932)

That miserable manufacture, I knew it

wouldn't last. The way the hands on

that clock started drooping on rock - like

a Picasso still life on acid; and the way

the carolers walked thru the door without

stopping to sing. This life's a funny thing.

I remembered bowling once, with Hart Crane,

over at Bridge Lanes, somewhere in SW Brooklyn.

His stupid father has just blown in from

that candy-factory in Ohio. His mother, in turn,

leaving a note, had fled quickly. It was just us

three left, gay Hart, Harry Crosby and me.

All that Brooklyn Bridge reverence, I found out

later, was crap. All he really wanted to do, this

pigeon-poet sensitive character Hart, was cruise

for guys all along the piers. But, no matter to me;

he'd always written nice stiff - 'the apples, Bill, the

apples!' - probably my favorite line of his. Anyway,

as it was, I knew confused characters never last;

they're manufactured incorrectly, their jets finally

give out like some sick motorcycle carburetor of old.

Hart's solution was to jump from the back of a ship.

Some sailors had finally rebuffed his sexual entreaties.

Poetry had left him flat, his father had called him an ass.

It was all just bad manufacture - nice bridge or not.

They never even found his southernmost body in those

warm-climate waters into which he'd jumped.

35. THE SMALL-BORE HAMMERLOCK

THE SMALL-BORE HAMMERLOCK

A wistful look in the window

brought back to me all Ramona

and all of Gail - neither one matching

the expectations of whichever page

they were on. And as that Hot-Dog King,

Max, with his expensive and sleek

Mercedes Roadster, said about it -

'that's a lot of hot dogs and relish my

friend, and I relish a lot about that hot

dog'. Face it, that crazy man was in love

with his - car.

Maybe there's something to be said for

shit like that - in a sort of time-perspective

relativity we never see, metal never loses its

sheen, paint never fades and fenders don't

rust. Eternal verities, like newness and flash,

just last and last. Yeah, right. Tell that to

the warden, the ferryman, the gravedigger.

It's like some silly priest story about your

eternal life. Destined to live forever, and

bribed - first by a promise, then by a kiss,

and then by the fantasy of eternal bliss.

34. HERE'S TO THINKING.....

HERE'S TO THINKING.....

You had it made the last time I saw you,

rolling sideways over your bottle of beer,

skating down hills with an imaginary lash,

talking to the doctor in the language of another

day. I was taken, momentarily, by your dash and spray.

Here's to thinking.....that you were settled in the

last time I saw you - living like a skunk in a rich man's

closet, heaving minks and otters out the cellar door,

loading up on ciders and wine with an eye on the

other side. Leaving windows open to the night.

Never looking back, nor turning out the light.

Here's to thinking.....that it would never end. I saw

you on the wharf, hauling great ships in with your

bare hands, using catcalls to fell the rabble, dining

on eggs and butter in the leeway of the dirge.

I wanted to follow you, to stay. I really had that urge.

But, alas, even the heavy points fell in time.

Now I see you - wrinkled dumb and dying,

embittered bent and crying - and can't think of

anyplace I'd rather be than where you're not.

It all came down so simply as each thing fell

in place. The coastline wasn't yours, the

casement window had always been locked.

You'd really done nothing of note -

an entire life, I see now - had been

hocked.

33. IN COUNTING FICTIONS

IN COUNTING FICTIONS
I wasn't there for the beginning - when I arrived the hero was
already dead. A pool of blood and some red rags were all
that were left. The place stunk.
It wasn't as if I'd expected anything different. We'd run the
wind to the crest and valiantly tried stopping the flow.
The girl with the red boot-laces had already tied up the
satchel in twine. I always thought she was pretty, though
no one else had ever mentioned it. 'Satisfaction guaranteed' -
I considered - would have been a good motto for her.
I sat around reading Ashbery poems and Larkin too.
Something from like 1964. The Whitsun Weddings,
I think. In them, solace had no source and whatever
had been meant to move you moved you.
It was all pretty simple.
As he once had said, in a cartoon of two
women drawn as heads: 'My dear, if that's
the Civil Service, give me plain bad manners.'

32. NOT TO BE TORTURED

NOT TO BE TORTURED: JUST SHOW HIM THE

IMPLEMENTS OF THE TORTURE INSTEAD

It was Tuesday in the hallway and we were nearing

nothing so much as more boredom. The cat had

scratched out its own heart and the multi-flora

roses had already died. Nothing seemed as if it

would change. A sparrow was pecking at the window.

Arriving in a rush, the jar of time-future proceeded

apace, and I thought (just then) I heard a whimper

from some far doorway. It was nothing but a feeler

for sense or sound, trying out its muscles in the open air.

I knew then that I didn't know now.

Everything made me want to walk away -

but some gimcrackery buzz-handled safecracking

cook had mentioned to me just previous that

he'd be 'back real soon'. I looked forward to

nothing. He was like a shadow with a hole where

light comes in. And I was very tired.

If this was to be torture, or my end, or his,

then we may as well have gotten started earlier.

As it was, I could have been drunk by now at

the John Street Bar. Across the street from Sidelio's,

by the Rockin' Rover Dinette. Over at the Mission of

St Manuverius the Pushover. Alongside Darla

at Petruvio's Steak House. But I was

RIGHT HERE instead.....

and it really seemed that way for real.

31. THE MAN WHO GREW TIRED OF SILENCE

THE MAN WHO GREW TIRED OF SILENCE

Each day he walked the long hill, as if in captivity,

with a numbing silence all around him : bent slighty

while arms held askew, carrying a bag or a book

or two - he'd trudge the morning incline watching

the Sun approach or the birds fly or clouds erupt

in rain. No matter, it was always his silence which

held him in thrall.

Others who passed would cast a glance, perhaps a

nod, but never a word or two - instead just the echo

of that same silence, due - he'd think - to something

innate, something held within him, some reticence to

talk or chat. Anything would have been better than

this silence.

One day, in an April moment, he began to talk aloud -

to anyone and all passing. Simple things at first - things

which brought responses, cheery hello's and smiles,

the small talk of a million minds. Then it got complicated.

Stories and endless divergences. Incredible tales of

furies and feats. Rambling theories on sound and squid,

soil and matter, what should be done, what someone did.

It all entered a ramshackle world - they soon found out - of

this man's own making; so that before long he was within silence

again. Once more, his own very dense closet - no word,

no sound, no utterance passed. 'Well', he thought 'it had

been an adventure. Maybe someday I'll try it anew.'

30. SEEMINGLY INCONGRUOUS

SEEMINGLY INCONGRUOUS
(a memory of Mary H)
I don't want to dun you but the water
is still running beneath the footbridge, the
slamming porch door still echoes along the canal,
and the two horses you left me still mosey around
(I always think) looking for you. It's just like that now.
If wisdom was a memory I'd have a toothache.
If a brother was a lamb, I'd have a flock.
And, in the same way, whatever you said to the sideways
angel in your hipster pocket still reverberates all these years later.
Jack Kerouac I never was, though I did once swim the Potomac.

29. HOUNDING HENRY

HOUNDING HENRY

(a farcical dreaming)

I was hit as if by a ton of bricks. I lashed

out at something - pushing back as hard

as I could. This wasn't just bread in a freezer

or a brick in free-fall. Everywhere it seemed

there was something tough to take.

The fever, they said, never really subsided -

he died, one night, in a very hot fever, rolling over

twice before just screaming out : 'Palaver!

Fulcrum! Mastery too!' Someone wrote it all

down, but no one could figure it out.

At morning, still in darkness, the commuter buses

drove by - they piled up at the curb like lesions

on a sick person's forehead - and then they stopped.

Someone got out, wearing a black coat. He bowed

down the way wrens do, or maybe penguins -

stiff-legged and in an artificial manner.

I felt it was unseemly to ask any more questions -

the western wind blew sideways, and it took off

someone's hat - which wriggled down the street,

rolled around sideways, and went right down the

sewer : in a form of utter and total silence.

And then it was all over.

28. TOO COLD TO MAKE AN EFFECT

TOO COLD TO MAKE AN EFFECT

'Maybe it's just too cold to make an effect' I heard

her say - it sounded scientific. I was watching the

leaves move on the trees. The upcoming vision of

Autumn, like a votive light in my eyes, stretched

out before me. Wondering what to do, I moved

away instead of closer. Delineate the positive;

stretch the possibilities. Something.

There seemed a positive force in all things - but

wrapped everywhere in silence. The lady feeding

the squirrels, as she does every morning. The two

guys stopped at the top of the stairs, earnestly

talking to each other about possibilities and

challenge. It was a funny world - something I knew

long ago. The way options meander into rigidity.

The way a florist sells nothing but flowers.

27. NABBING GRETA GARBO

NABBING GRETA GARBO

Nab the great pilfery and find the aplomb.

Put the gorilla on ice and marshall the comrades at arms.

It's a sentimental journey, where this road ends up.

By four-thirty tomorrow they'll have found out who

won, what the new Pope's name is, how far it is to

Conestoga Bay and where Edgar Varese purchased

his clothes. HOWEVER, you really should know, there's

no satisfaction to be found in any of this. Everyone is to

be still on edge - the guy from Iceland with the jiggy

moth and the couple from Bermuda holding the camera

lens in their half-hands. There's a form of (very ragged)

ragtime playing in the background - Scott Joplin and

all the rest. It's always been like this - no matter where

you go, the windjammer's already broken the breeze and

the proof of what you're saying has already been taken

away. Generally not a problem but, today....?

26. BROWN BETTY AND ALL THE REST

BROWN BETTY AND ALL THE REST
(on predestination)

My idea it was to see all the world.
I'd have had better luck with an atlas.

I wore a corduroy jacket to last game at home -
it was ninety degrees by one pm : big mistake that was.

I turned around once just to ask the warden what time was
my next meal : he laughed like a crow and said 'nothing really
at all is coming your way - you should have eaten on your first
go-round' - whatever that meant, I knew I was in trouble.

Spinning tops and the dirigible of all foundations,
together amass themselves to nothing in my way.

I found out long ago one can really

do nothing about Fate.
You can do things a different way,
but it all turns out the same.

25. TAKE WHAT THE TOLL MAN GIVES YOU

TAKE WHAT THE TOLL-MAN GIVES YOU

Just just look look just look at all this -

take the token that the toll-man gives you

and ride ride out ride along the edges the edge

where the roadway bends to the valley

where the trees are hugging the edging

where the branches of great arched elms

slip slippingly and seriously down

looming large as they shade the road

the road and make they make no noise

look look back even as you pass them

- it is all quiet and majestic.

24. GEORGE WASHINGTON IRVING HOWE

GEORGE WASHINGTON IRVING HOWE:

It is said that Washington marched through here with his troops -

I'd suppose at the head at the head on his horse

looking narrowly down while while trying to figure out something -

something to do somewhere to go someplace for hiding

from the battered ramparts of Brooklyn Heights

(as today it is known)

and the high-top fortress the redoubt of old Fort Lee -

Fort Lee where the rocks are heavy and wide and broad

and broaden too they do over the river beneath them

and the tired ragged troops were unsettled

unsettled were they as the pace of their feet

- slowing sluggish and sad - marched trod marched on

ahead ahead even of them themselves.
I don't often pay attention to attention anymore to Washington -

seems he's been everywhere around here and I've tired of that :

Trenton and Washington's Crossing and all that too -

been there for the moments been there for the due -

and those big-looking boats which were really quite small -

cannons and horses and mounts-pieces all -

there's not more to say to say more wouldn't pay

and it's ever it's ever over before it even starts

and mythology like this (I say)

doesn't really cut it any more.

23. LUCY LU AND MARJORIE TOO

LUCY LU AND MARJORIE TOO

(after dining at Toffenetti's)

She was singing like a drum majorette and I

wished I was in her soul and the four walls were

creeping in and in the darkness there was no light at all.

It was simple but crazy in a crass sort of way - and

whatever meaning there was had long gone away.

For how many years can one struggle in vain?

The man took the gun and it went to his brain;

but if death is so final and life meets its match

then why do we end it and then start from scratch?

Her suspended songstress charms were aloft in

the room - ribald and raucous and bursting the

gloom. This was no time for sergeants, there was

nothing to do. I stood on my table and cheered

Lucy Lu.

22. FAT VACATION STALWARTS AT MONTY'S PEAK

FAT VACATION STALWARTS AT MONTY'S PEAK

I have stood on mountaintops higher than this

and nothing special has come of it : twenty small

parcels of land stretched out before me, some

bitterroot that the Indians ate and, of course, those

two half-naked babes drinking lemonade. It seems

like it's always been this way - crazy Summer tourists

in thin clothes and tawdry colors yapping about

distended fallions while their cellphones and Ipods

bump on. What the hell's this all about? Can't anyone

now go anywhere alone? Are they so fucking afraid

of their silence?

An infantile babble both seen and heard - the worst of

it all, it would seem, comes here.

---

Notes: the sickening taste of lemon, the venom of an

eagle's cry, the saucy drip of piggish adolescents, the

way people reflect nothing so much as what they are

at heart and how poorly they've been raised.

21. NOTHING ON THE BONES BUT MEAT

NOTHING ON THE BONES BUT MEAT

'There's a lot of meat on those bones', he said -

'What a pretty lantern', in turn she said.

It's the sort of conversation you never hear,

thought I to myself. A lark in a tree, and three

monks who were walking along to the corner;

St. Luke's Church on Hudson Street in the

background and a clutch of people going by.

It was a mid-morning in some beginning of

another October again. I looked up. I saw the

old steeple straight to the sky. Instead of a

pointed top, it was short and squat.

'Bare, ruined choirs' thought I to myself.

'Where once the sweet birds sang' - somebody

answered, but they kept on walking by.

20. WHAT I ATTAINED

WHAT I ATTAINED

I always wanted to become a misanthrope and

I've done so (I hate you, man) - this much is

certain. I suppose there's an achievement there.

Leaves are falling, sunlight dims, the bare sky -

looming - watches, and I walk beneath a crescent

moon (by the way, why they call it a 'quarter-moon'

is beyond me; if it were it would be a 1/4 of a circle

and really strange to see). But that's just more of

man's stupidity. The only owl I've ever heard recently

was saying 'I'll bet you've not seen the likes of me

before, I'll bet'. Owl. I'll. Must be a joke there

somewhere.

They took down the partitions over the underpass

today. It was all bare and barren. They spread new

fertilizer beneath the trees. It smelled like a good,

strong barnyard, and I liked the odor. As I looked

about, some kids were dancing on the grass. Another

group of Chinese in a clutch were photographing

everything they passed. Jabbering while they did it

in the pidgin yap-yap the Chinese use when they

talk amongst themselves. Heaven knows. Maybe

even that mandate's over. No one knows.

I prophecize the end of my life, well before the

end of time. Not much of a difference in that,

but (as a prophet) I feel it's something that

should be said. Like 'carry me back to ol' Virginny',

or maybe 'the yellow rose of Texas is the only rose

for me'.

19. OLD MOVIES AND YOUR SLIP IS SHOWING

OLD MOVIES AND YOUR SLIP IS SHOWING

They characterized the dramatic moment by drowning

it in portentous music; the cheap means of emotion

used in cheap manner. That may have passed, once,

as the right thing to do, but it doesn't mean a thing in

this real world now at all.

Stovepipe hats like the Ministers wore.

Old steel grates over fireplace boards.

The limping butler chasing the ghost 'round

the corner mantelpiece. It's all so silly actually.

For now people speak with two mouths and they

hunch over from the burden of all that electric guilt,

the bend of want and possessions, the easy camp

of money. I wouldn't know a why from a when, myself:

Courthouse steps where criminals walk, the padded cells

where the judges are kept, the running water beneath

Mrs. Pie's skirts. Let's face it, the whole world has come

down to one thing now : the ABSURDITY that is both

yours and mine. We sling dice with the cosmos, hoping the

wrong star won't hit the right angle. We dress the charnel-house

in the selfsame ribbons the schoolhouse wears, and the teachers

bend over for more. Love is in the air - we might as well frolic

in it as long as we can.

18. 21st CENTURY MAN AWAKENED BY 18TH CENTURY MUSIC

21st CENTURY MAN AWAKENED BY

18TH CENTURY MUSIC

There's something disconcerting about that -

like a video repairman wearing armor or an

astronaut wearing spats : nothing real precise

but something like that.

We probably should wear our own times like

a well-fitted suit, shoulders in place, arms just right.

Yet, so often, it doesn't happen - great-grandma

in ill-fitting clothing from forty years before :

the style was high and the look was right; but

that was all so long ago. Now, rubberized reasons

contain our every fault : we must fit today's cloth

as a razor fits a face. The alternative is nothing at

all - be laughed at, perhaps, like a cow in a sheep's

stall.

When dawn rose up, the music came on.

I knew it from when, but from when was gone.

17. THE GREAT SWAN OF GANTISI LAKE

THE GREAT SWAN OF GANTISI LAKE

There it is again - and I know I've seen it before.

Like a trellis covered with roses, or anything beautiful

in that way, the great swan seems floating upon glass

or some water divine put in place by the Gods.

For twenty years now it's been lodged in my memory -

all those days back when : smoking by the trees, waltzing

on skates in some sickly freezing storm, watching kids

illuminate each other by firelight and campsite.

It never mattered once what occurred. That great swan,

so aloof, remained fixed on its space like a candle at a

death or music at a living room funeral of old. People

milling about, standing firm, standing fixed, provided such

a contrast to a sight such as this. That great swan would

sometimes nod. Like it knew exactly what I was thinking.

16. THAT YELLOW SCARF

THAT YELLOW SCARF

That yellow scarf that I remember hasn't been out

for half a year. When I first saw you, you had it on.

It was a blustery Spring day, and we all were huddled

from the wind and rain. It did you just right, that scarf,

as it somehow echoed your eyes and face in whatever

they did. The impulse to stare was there - more than

a momentary thing, like a fixation in front of a fire.

That's all I remember now and, of course, since then

the absence of that scarf : due back soon again I'd bet,

as the seasons change again.

15. IN THE ARGONNE FOREST

IN THE ARGONNE FOREST

Men there were who walked the miles - hatchets and axes,

guns and barrels. Low smog everywhere hugged the ground -

the mackerel shriek of the dying, the singing of foreign armies.

'Had we a minute, Joe, I'd sneak back to the river-bank for

one more look, but now we're stuck so deep in these woods -

there's no more left to do but go on'. The other grub-mate nodded.

Must'a been Joe, I figured.

It was a like a camera eye somewhere looking down :

some crummy war documentary about some crummy war.