593. BEWARE OF JOHN FORD HOAXES

BEWARE OF JOHN FORD HOAXES
It's not in the way of seeing
that we see - long vistas and red
river rocks mean nothing. That
carbine, wrapped around some
rustler's head, could just as
well be on yours. Everything
as one, folded and fondled
twice over, is meant to
leave a message : something
crass, about the regularity of
how we live and die.
A corpse in the copse,
meat on a campfire to roast.
Beware of the John Ford
hoax.

592. MARMOSA

MARMOSA
Your white shirt.
The little stretch of garment between
hours of air. A watering sprayed in
the sky - where the squirrels smiled,
the white bird soared.
-
I never took the card you gave me
from the deck you put it in.
All along the Boulevard,
there was always
something
different.

591. IN THE ANCIENT RAIN

IN THE ANCIENT RAIN
I am walking the rocks of a million years;
skipping over the bonefield in the
more-than-ancient rain. Everything I pass
is all asunder - meanings, extrapolations
and designings too. Salt runs from rocks,
as well as from all the old passages of time.
An indecision now certainly marks my
decision to go on. I am in turn now only
bleeding for you. Emotion. Heart. Head.
-
Nothing different between those three
makes me pledge myself to such a unity -
the way the world is held together, the
regal manner of ice-age and death and
extinction. This ancient rain (and yes, yes,
I am still walking over the bonefield)
resounds with its echoes of all that was.
-
Forever is a long time.
The instant is now.
The ancient rain has
dissolved all things :
all empires and castles
and kings.
-
We are like children of a storm,
silent and struggling, while trying
to play in the puddles it has left
behind. This ancient rain draws
pictures in the clouds, reflections
on the water, and - in the distance,
like raindrops peppering the puddle -
shimmering ideas of what still can come:
Chimera and overflow, malice and doubt.

590. CONTALDO

CONTALDO
I slaked my thirst at Marigold's, where the
waters parted the sea; hybrid flowers wilting
on the wall-shelf, an abused piano calling to me.
I sat down to play and some angels brought a
harp. Nothing too great, but it did for a start.
-
In an instant, some hoodlum came through,
asking for money and taking it too. His name
was Contaldo, and he spoke with a leer -
'gimme any shit, and I'll take it from here.'
I think he was pointing to my chest.
-
The only assumption I could make was that
he had a gun - otherwise why walk into a
place like this, unless you're really dumb.
Oh well, here we go again. I gave him my
fifteen dollars. He wanted to hear 'Happy
Days Are Here Again.'
-
I told him I didn't know it; that was good
enough for him. He said it didn't matter
anyway since he didn't know the words.
We both got up to leave, together. He let
me exit and I let him go. Some guy was
eating his lunch on a small table outside.
-
We waved to him as we passed,
keeping a steady stride.

589. MY SOPHISTRY

MY SOPHISTRY
I threw your line-up card in the waste basket of my mind -
your profile portrait and your curriculum vitae too; all
that stuff, whatever you called it. Give me a fist
to the mouth instead - that I'll understand and
listen to. Your engineered infractions of
my time and place...I think not.
-
It wasn't gravel that wore down the
ramp; it was the unending pitter-patter
of thousands of distracted feet -
going about their daily grind,
unflinchingly wise and noble
as well.

588. THE AGE OF AQUARIUMS

THE AGE OF AQUARIUMS
At each end of the great world,
in each direction, there is fatigue.
I met Christopher Columbus and he
said that to me - likewise Vasco DeGama
and Magellan too - each of them told me:
in every direction, fatigue, and a tired old end.
A world of edges and flotsam on the sea:
broken things, hanging over the end, fat sea-mammals
gurgling as they die, bereft of both water and air.
Piles of coral, as sharp as daggers, cut the world
with Creation's original intention - to tear apart,
to rip asunder, to stab and hurt and maim.
Like old ladies on their way to Sag Harbor
(why not, where they belong?) the endings of
time and being show the hand of their despair.
"I am tired of this queer life. It is weary, here.'
-
Through the sky, a comet whizzes.
From some far and distant celestial
port, a line of dazzling light sizzles above,
coming down eventually, to crash even itself
over the edge of this vast yet dissolving place.

587. 1933

1933
The men who hurry are none
but worry; they make each
bromide safe. 'Every day, in
every way...' and the rest.
Folderol, Faddy-do!
-
Oh buddy, Mr. Subway Brain,
Dr. Pepper, Ryan's Emulsion,
and McLain's Weekly - everything
conspires to afford the contingency:
Yes, Yes! Those really are your
Warclouds on the horizon.
-
Don't color outside the lines,
God-Damn it! Now Daddy's
outside in the car beeping.
What am I going to do?

586. OVER THE FAULT LINE

OVER THE FAULT LINE
There was ever a moment like this :
the grand city of the vizier, running down
on its heels, its armies discouraged, its
banks sacked, and only moles left to
tell the stories. Men around campfires,
armless men, broken in battle, crippled
and defeated on the distant plains - they'd
struggled home, dragged on tree-trunk litters,
salvaged in animal skins, carrying the parts
they'd lost in battle. The string of arms and legs,
gathered together, bore a wagon of its own.
Sadness and sunrise, each morning, went together.
Their mothers and wives had died; nary a care
was left except the new urban worries of pain
and money and food and sustenance. They told
stories around the fires at night. Some swore,
really swore, they'd seen that man, one distant
midnight ago, arise from the dead and walk on;
'arise from their graves and aspire, to where my
sunflower wishes to go.' Someone else swore
they'd heard those words - recited back from
what he'd called a 'future,' but couldn't tell
if real or imagined. The others, totally
weary and beat, merely shook
their tired heads.

585. LIFE ON THE EDGES

LIFE ON THE EDGES
Quadrillian fandango going nowhere,
stepping sideways over rockfields of
doubt and motion - delicious proclivities
for love and abeyance, for reading
stories in the fossils of huge stones:
'this one flew without wings, this one
left thought-patterns on the outside of its
skull, this one, while technically blind, could
only see THROUGH things.' I sometimes just
say a simple 'yes'. If I really believed these
tales I'd be mad with fear by now, AND long
ago as well. We are, after all, only the human
sum totals of all the crap we believe in. I
want to understand you - maybe that makes
sense - and don't really care about the rest.
A full and total understanding would be best.
What you look like naked, how you moan beneath
the moon and stars, where you hide those
little things that make you precious. Special
moments beneath an oh-so-ordinary sun, one
different diamond in a boxful of coal.

584. OMINOUS

OMINOUS
I put your hand in my boot and we felt the lining:
it was made of dimes and quarters shining. Then
you bent down to show me your cloak. I
laughed, thinking it was some sort of joke.
Between the two of us, only a small sense
of change was made; a jacket of glass,
to wear in the shade.
-
The idea was to wear down each other like the
water which wears down a rock on the
simple-stream aspect of repeated abrasion.
But not really abrasion - because in 'human'
terms we find it difficult to understand
that 'WATER ABRADES' as some
science tome would say. 'Abrade'
means 'wears things away.'
-
Some little kid with a red toy engine
was sparkling by off in the hedgerow.
He made sounds like a siren, pushing
dirt and pebbles. I wondered, if the
land caught fire right then, even with
his toy fire truck, would he know
just what to do. 'Innate' means
'inborn, as if natural.'
-
Yes, well,
I guess so.

583. FANTASTIC PAJAMAS II

FANTASTIC PAJAMAS II
Maybe a real moron just says 'No more!'
and lets it go at that. It's a vernacular
architecture, anyway, these days and the
languages we use - fifteen moments
for the fine old calf, another half again
for Mabel Mercer and her Wandering Realtors.
Silver still shines like gold in the carriage-house
of the deceased. Claude Rains in the ashtray,
Cecil B. DeMille at the water-wheel pounding.
('You really are the cat's meow!')...

582. THE CRAZY MAN IS CRAZY

THE CRAZY MAN IS CRAZY
'Just like your cunt is my pocket,
wherein I put whatever I want;
that sorry semblance of stars and
the chemical beakers which hold them,
those slab-sides of new in a very fine,
calm brooding - of which full lips can
only start the story.'

581. SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE

SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE

(Too Much / the Car Wreck)

Just like something for everyone, we have
the habits of the scroll; the baby-talk fast-
feed lingo of the Soul. 'An idle mind, the Devil's
Workshop.' 'Pick what you want, pay for what
you pick.' ...and all the rest. They stand the test.
They come out best. BUT FIRST please retire
the bullshit, the horrid crap, the over the median
crazy car-wreck; glass and loosed tires flying
through the air, the singe of rubber and metal,
gas all a'fire everywhere. It's a terrible scene.
The focus is rare. There's now something for
everyone, but TOO MUCH is there.

580. AD MAN

AD MAN
Somehow I grow very weary of all the noise
I hear : jetplane rampage train roar whirr.
Just like that, some permission has been
granted to totally assault my ear.
-
I cannot turn around, to someone else,
and ask why. As I cannot stop some
bastard from trailing banners
in the sky.

579. EPITAPH

EPITAPH
(Gravesend, Brooklyn, 1978)

'When I was alive,
I was dead. Now that
I am dead, I have never
been more alive.'
-
At Gravesend, where the river markers
mark nothing but dirt, the old Citadel
church still welcomes whatever vagrant it
can hold. A can of cold soup and a few
prayers, whittled like a talisman over
unsuspecting heads. So little, going
for so much - while so much
goes for so little.

578. ENCASED IN IVORY

ENCASED IN IVORY
I am greeted by so many sights,
things strange and new to me : that
warrantless tusk, an elephant in
distress, blue water running down
the face of some African rock. This
gentle fellow, holding stolen jewels
in his outlaw hands, smiles, gleaming,
as he anticipates the moments ahead.
-
We hold such wild greenery as sacred
and rare - moss on rocks, thick and
varied growth overhanging every path and
trail. Somewhere behind us, the unknown
sound of a monkey or cat : a banging in the
sky, the gleeful cackle of another natural
force. Isn't that the seeming sense we've
striven for these decades on? If so, we've made
it work now, for both ourselves and all of 'them'.
-
An African river hunt with the spoils
of the sport going for naught.
A hollowed-out bark, skimming
swiftly, watches with the eyes of
those within it, every move I make.

577. CHAIN PLANT RECKONING

CHAIN PLANT RECKONING
We've taken the blinders off the dairyman's horse;
now it can see what it passes. No more than a simple
'clomp, clomp', its welcome noise colors the
morning. Ah! That should fix things!
-
Rooster engaged, making sunlight noises.
Old barn door, on weary hinges, creaking
its song. I walk on ahead, holding a
pail filled white with foamy essence.
Morning light, morning milk - both
seem equal for me - the
wonderful sensation.
-
Toil, labor and sweat.
Hay and straw, silage
and manure. It seems,
sometimes, I swear, the
pleasure of life comes from
its work. Nothing less,
nothing more.

576. BIOLOGY

BIOLOGY
All
species
make
feces.

575. THE DOCTOR OF HAPPENSTANCE

THE DOCTOR OF HAPPENSTANCE
Provisions for the horizon, the art teacher said,
must always be made first. One can prepare the
ground and the colors, but must know - before
beginning - where it will end. In other words, no
walking blindly through the forest of knives.

574. A GREAT WEAPON

A GREAT WEAPON
('The necessary musics of a needed age')
To be used right a great weapon should
be used on a great battlefield. Thus, (saith
the Lord?) I have dominion over you...
(You know and I know that story holds no water).
There's nothing great about living like this:
a sorcerer's jackboot stomping down, the
bad hands of an apprentice making rookie
mistakes, the liquid vehicle of a bad gland
dispensing all that semen.
-
When I was 9, a great thing happened to me:
looking up to the awesome sky I saw five thousand
1950's stars blinking on high and every one, in an
unwavering path, heading straight for an ending
already foretold. The man with the arrow, some
celestial archer, bent down to lift me up. I was
fearsome and proud, deftly traveling through the
ages of time - something Man would call it anyway.
He offered me a plug. I took it. In it, he said, were
held all the secrets of the cosmos.
-
When I came back down, he was gone, and I
was, somehow in a slightly different place.
Every measurement and distance,
slightly changed, amounted
to completely new things.
The universe sang on
the ground, with, he'd
said, the necessary
musics of a
needed age.

573. LEARNING THE MULE

LEARNING THE MULE
(look it up in the Temple)
You came into town on a crippled ass,
one walking sideways, cross-eyed, and swaying
while braying, bumping into all manner of things.
Everyone laughed, and then you fell off.
The townsfolk, unzippered, swore they'd
have their way with you - as their Bible
foretold. I was then a scribe, writing
all this down. Ignorant people amass
ignorant things, and this was, most
certainly, a sight to behold.
-
Behind the lemon tree, a girl was
playing sticks - longer straws for
gain, smaller twigs for loss; and a few
pebbles for use to easily keep score.
I wondered why I was always losing.
I realized only later she was a cheat.
-
The rabble sure can talk. Ten million
words a minute and not a damn thing
said. The fellow with the stern blue
eyes - every word he spoke was brutal
and insincere. I found myself hating him,
and wondered if that was right. Nothing
really, just the guilt-heavy sort of upbringing
I'd had. I'm sure he could have not cared less.
-
The Realm of Barbelo (in case you hadn't
noticed) is still alive and well.

572. YOUR OLD CAN OF STUTTER

YOUR OLD CAN OF STUTTER
...has kept me up way past the night, here comes
the light and it's right through the shutter. I wouldn't
know what else to do had I not read your
book : telling me to wither and die but never
give in, remembering the Alamo in so many
other ways, Sam Houstoning me, in fact, right
past the garden doorway and onto St. Ambrose
Street. Where the icing is free but the cakes
are immensely expensive : Heaven-sent malarkey,
fifteen girls for nothing, thirty men painting
thirty walls, one in each color of lightning.
That old chorus cat you called Mr. Finch,
it still sits motionless on the window ledge
right where you left it. Going in, going out?
-
I came home from Akron tired as a dog.
-
('Automatic poetry always makes me sick...')
graffiti found on a washroom wall in Ohio.

571. KANDUHAR

KANDUHAR
(Man Alone)
Morgana at the station, lining
the wheels. Ten minutes before daybreak -
a part of the moon still in the sky. Leftover
darklight, pounded by stars. Some lethal
infraction amidst bare bulbs and lamp-lit
rays splashing shiny light from pillar
to post. Coffee maven wheezes passing by.
An upraised hand, by Tommy Braden,
passes a 'hi' to his friend Tim-o Smith.
As solid as that bag upon his shoulder,
they've known each other for years.
A newspaper left on the bench extolls,
for whatever reason, the Yankees and
the Phils. Covering all bets, placing,
shills. Everything's in play before
the early morning's light.
OK with me.
I just want to be
alone.

570. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
Where are you going America ? in your
solid chrome-headed plastic filigree
watchtower-dome hat plating to tag
the Tag Heur to paint the new room
gilding the lily until the landlord dies :
swan-swocket land-locked Myra-prism
artfield naked ranger wearer of stripes
and douser of all fires water-hose-weasel
splendor-splattered orgasmatron water-pistol
expansion-loving troglodyte with one leg held
high up stepping the fruited plain jumping rock
to rock in your excalibur surge to reach the
onion-silvered stars and all that Heidi-Ho!
Where are you going America ? and
where is it really to which you go!
Go moan for man go moan.

569. MAN UP EARLY TO DISTURB THE RAIN

MAN UP EARLY
TO DISTURB THE RAIN
I have no excuse for the wobbling of the planet -
how space elides the stars and everything above
us changes. I just know the errant meaning
of what we judge. The past, made of people,
is nothing. Every Swanson and Lechmor,
merely names to learn. They've mostly
paved Chicago with stories of ale-pot
fury - old industries now gone to seed;
Detroit too, Cleveland, the whole
great Monongahela.
-
Over in Pittsburgh, those storied and
furious mills are now silent and shut,
as quiet as some nun in an outhouse,
seething with embarrassment to publicly
pass her shit. It's all no matter what came
before - we are doused with our own
new stupidity, crippled, and wobbling too.
-
It is said the stars pass no judgment.
It is said the planets, ever silent, don't
even see us in our folly - thus we are
more aware of them then they are ever
of 'we'. They have no concept such
as that. They just rest, as a fired mind,
blazing - a wild consciousness drawn
deep into space; a wild mind
setting the furies afire.

568. MAL DE MER

MAL DE MER
After so long I am charmless,
and dizzy, mysterious and lost.
I can't turn around without hitting
myself. In trying to look up now, the awful
dispersal of time and its days drops me back
to bedlam - some wicked sort of dismay -
a distraction I can never place. I sleep
among my figments and imaginings; truly
my very own Hell. Looking up, lethargy
paints its sky with a crimson color only
fiery clouds and pits of disaster know.
Somehow the dead know the dead in the
same fashion as the living know others
living. Alas, I know neither; neither
one nor the other know me.
-
In trying to look up,
in looking up, I
am nowhere.

567. NORTHWAY

NORTHWAY
I wasn't always holding things in
the manner of some arctic traveller
making straight for the Bering Strait.
Dogs on ice, braying for bones.
Someone blowing a bone-flute, the
little sound, alone, scraping over
the snow and ice. Wind which howled
like a rampage sung the tune of forever.
Each morning, a dim light awoke the horizon,
which then trumped lazily its next approach -
more, more, more bright white bright ice.
We never seemed to move, though we
travelled all day.

566. DOWNTOWN

DOWNTOWN
There was a catcall from the welter
of noise - someone rudely shouting
a name. No one looked up to see what
was the matter. An inauspicious, noisy
muddle such as this certainly marred the
day. Workers in coats were struggling home,
wrong buttons on heavy jackets, smokes
from chimneys and cigarettes too, dwindling
upward in the dusk of a frosty night. 'We'll
save whatever we can if the big frost comes,
but for now all we can do is wait. Everything
else has already been taken in.' I couldn't tell,
really and for sure, if that was a gardener
speaking or a tailor. It's always like that in
this jumble'd eve of a city racket. Noise and
chatter, smashing together like pots and pans.

565. SHROUDED MAN

SHROUDED MAN
(for James Fenimore Cooper)
Let me put it this way :
the icicle is in the bowl, the
hand is on the water. What is
before me is the glass-image mirrored.
A life of death, a resemblance but not
the real. Why does the glimmer-glass
shudder, Mohican man? How far the
golden path through these Algonquin
hills? We've lost the world eternal.
All we've got now are settlers, hustlers,
roustabouts and bastard misfits knowing
nothing of either world. The Natural
calls the Supernatural, but to them,
nothing answers back.

564. YOU CAN'T NAME ME

YOU CAN'T
NAME ME
White wall, white shed, broad barn,
rural scene, city head. Two hands
holding candles - each a'lit - and
both looking for each other. Fire
into fire, flame into flame. The
reason it's different is 'cause
everything else is the same.
-
I awoke at dawn, and knew
you were there. I got up and
wet my face, opened again
my dreary eyes, and tried to
get away. Opening a faint
door to the greenway of the
dark, I felt like nothing so much
as returning to the deep deep
dream from whence I'd come :
a place of malice and mystery,
a place of silence and dark.

563. SOME IDEA OF AN EXPANDING AFTERLIFE

SOME IDEA OF AN
EXPANDING AFTERLIFE
All stars and moon and a
thin line of clouds - the black
and inky sky looked like nothing
but depth and presence, a new
brightness opening to some other
time and place. Idea? Brilliant
light? Bright opening? Opening
Light? I think otherwise in a
sporadic jazz-beam of broken
prisms and scattered rays; the
stuff one can't pin down. Like
passing shadings on a grayed-out
wall, they last for a moment, or
two, and, moving, are gone.

562. FORENSIC EVIDENCE

FORENSIC EVIDENCE
Magic dodo-bean airship palaver
keeping sentry on the high-topped air.
The handgun of the salient, shown to go
off, resounds with an echo unceasing.
Anybody hurt? Dead too? Put the
important ones in the important
cemetery, the rest throw into the
field. No one ever said a Civil War
was easy. We've run this river red
with rebel blood, and they've done
the same with us. Brother against
brother, blood against trust.
-
At the Southgate Seminary, two men
studying the Book are praying as
they nod their heads. They know
very little, and have chosen God
instead. All before them, out on
the modern field, it is Decoration
Day - where not just that one,
but every War is remembered

561. THE BLUE CARD

THE BLUE CARD
So many people smiling at one time.
Speaking biographies in wide, open space:
'we're alive and vibrant and happy.' I hear
such a gloried message is the style of the
day. Unknown to the others, the ceiling
has a crack, a major flaw widening. All
I can see is daylight through the air. A thin
airship pierces through the horizon.
(Were this a Magritte painting, I'd
swear a train was due, coming right
in through the fireplace too).

560. HARRY THE COMMUNARD

HARRY THE COMMUNARD
Contempt for the masses never ends
happily - they bend and they sway,
while from their little fields wild
flowers grow. On high, the
roofs of barns and corn-sheds
appear as nothing but extra
buildings on a sad movie lot.
A few sparse scenes, filled
with people who never move.
People who never move at all.

559. PROCLAIMING THE DECORATIVE ARTS

PROCLAIMING THE
DECORATIVE ARTS*
(dedication foundry)
'Bare, ruined choirs, the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune, all that crap you hear
on rabid commercials and the airwaves of
sloth and lethargy - I don't want to hear
no more. Pounce on the tiger like it's
eating a bone. Burning bright...in the
forests of the night....Yeah, that
William Blake can eat my hat.
-
He - and all the rest - they can go straight
to Hell too, if they're still waiting for
rides. I've got a '67 Chevy that'll
take 'em there. A little gas on
the pedal and we're off to see
the shtetl, or whatever.
-
Some bawling infant on the
sidelines of the pale - it's
seemingly never happy
and continuing to wail.
For that kid alone, I
proclaim the decorative
arts. Hats off to Larry,
he's got a good start.'

*For there is hope, of a tree; that if it be cut down, it will sprout again. Job, 14:7

558. APEX BROTHER

APEX BROTHER
'Everywhere I go there's nothing but conflict
and pain. Everything's composed of aspects I
can't deal with nor understand. The cat and the
canary, they both know what I mean.'
-
He squatted down while he talked,
lighting a small fire in Central Park;
next to a moonbeam rock, clustered behind
a stand of old trees. 'This small fire's just
to burn all the things I've ever written - and I
aim to too.' He pulled piles of papers from out
a valise, a satchel he'd carried in. Banded and
wrapped, he said what they were : 'these are all I've ever
done, my works; a novel short stories, essays and poems.
All these wonderful ideas. I just can't live with them anymore
and I made a vow to myself. They're all being burned.'
-
The little fire fired up - an unsightly reddish flame
and a glow of which I'd never seen, nor wish to
see again. Black spirit and white sprite, both
it seemed rode up in tongues of flame and
flared away. He was crying by now, all
a horrible sight.
-
'Everywhere I've gone, it's all been a
terrible flight. Nothing but conflict
and anger and fury and pain.
Everything's made of stuff
I don't get. The cat AND
the canary, they both
know what I mean.'

557. THE LIGHT OF ANOTHER DAY (Miranda)

THE LIGHT OF
ANOTHER DAY

(Miranda)
These endless square miles of plinth are killing me :
listen to that man talk boy he can talk he never
shuts up and it's only 6am before the light
actualizes before the room ends spinning before
whatever I'm supposed to do is even materialized.
Two rogue dogs from the driver's kennel have
taken to licking each other, or something, and they
stretch to bend in a contortion I only can
see in a half-light of the morningtide and then the
cute little votive Spanish girl once more steps
off her morning train from Elizabeth and waves
to me as I watch her walk away - in a red colored
Fall jacket she bedazzles with sway. I'm thinking of
some President or another, speaking off-the-cuff
from some pediment along the Shasta range - the
usual crap about preserving our natural beauty and
wonder. Yeah, I think I know what he meant.
The world is a sorrowful, dog-licking place and
the only beauty that comes around is when you
can find it in the face of another warm and pleasant
human being. I am watching her walk away.
I am watching her walk away, and the
light isn't even up yet, the light
of another day.

556. THE OFFICIAL HARD SURFACE OF A GOD

THE OFFICIAL HARD
SURFACE OF A GOD
I'll take my hand and put it down
wherever I please and whatever
the surface. You can make no
distinction to set me off. The
mica gleam, the stone hardness,
of this world and all creation
is but an echo of the perfection
of all my Paradise : water that
is not that at all, air that turns
solid, wind that runs like sound.
Every determination (you should
understand) has already been made -
ahead of time, as you say - by Me.

555. CANDY KISS

CANDY KISS
The ground was littered with silver,
the glittery kind, of cheapness and
fun. Someone had spilled, and
left, a big bag of candy kisses -
a vague, chocolate of a type,
wrapped in foil, in a gumdrop
shape. Teardrop, gumdrop,
elongated oval, silver-wrapping
tear-tag toil. Pull it back and
tear the foil. They literally
littered the ground.

554. BEAUTY

BEAUTY
Oh that Summertime bulge which
leads me right to your heart - again
and again and over and more. It
is the sweetness of an orange sun
broiling over the ground. Orb celestial,
Summer wand, charmed glade.
The roundness of your fullness,
plump, now glides me on.