3218. CAMP KILMER

CAMP KILMER

(Hungarian Uprising, 1957)
In holding the kinship aloft,
it's a banner across a well-cut
field; all these people, newly arrived.
Hungarians, up in arms, displaced
and gone. And the Salvation Army
peril? - so many things to know or
not to know. How do I sleep in this
unsound land? Where do I lay my head?
What will I do, and where will I go?
I heard someone ask such delicate
questions, carefully and quietly,
and alone.

3217. I COPIED THE MONA LISA

I COPIED THE MONA LISA

I copied the Mona Lisa.
I have things that disappeared.
I took the favored capsule with a
wink; its nod and smile too. I marked
the distant background - all the hillocks
and greens, as if a meandering river
ran through, a brigand's hat and a
carriage too, a castle, a moat, a coach.
No monk to seek disfavor, I stalked
across this land at will : a distant, rural
cousin to today's new urban kin.

3216. DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN

DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN

I brought the man down from the mountain
in a box; he was holding a dead-man's letter
in his clasped hands, addressed to no one
in particular. I never did take it from him.
We just buried him instead. Lilacs grew from
that point, some years later. Lilacs with letters
instead of blooms. Bees and birds seemed
always buzzing around.

3215. KNOEBELESCENT

KNOEBELESCENT

Wasn't what I'd say I'd said before :
jiminy-cricket and all the Balfour
Declaration stuff. The funny Jew guy,
in the leather boots, jumped off the
stage as soon as it stopped in town and -
wouldn't you figure - ups and breaks
his ankle. Had the whole town laughing.
-
No sooner had the Doubloon-King entered the
darkened arena (it was fight-night) everyone
already knew he was destined to lose. Five feet,
ten inches up against a big six-plus footer. Taller
and bigger, let alone the reach. 'He can call his'self
whatever he wants,' the crowd mumbled, 'but he
ain't no King of nothing!' Over in three rounds.
-
'Well, I guess you're supposed to like the blood,
not sputter over it!' The guy saying that was
Henk Wilcox, a local, and he was speaking to his
cousin Inky, who was just then commenting on
the massacre. 'Like going to a lynching and
crying 'cause the guy soiled his pants.'
-
Damn, damn, I love these old small towns.

3215. ALL THOSE EMPTY PIECES

ALL THOSE EMPTY PIECES

I jumped from the spire and sand all
the way down to my (very religious)
death. A truly personal moment, that.
I met my maker going down, as I'd
met him going up. In a pure and
uninhibited silence. Like going to
a bank when drunk, satiated with
all that's wrong, wanting to stay
quiet so maybe no one notices
the wiry drunk taking out a
wad of money. He may have
looked over, as well, but
never said a word.

3214. MIGHT BE THE WILD ONE

MIGHT BE THE WILD ONE
Could be, what the Hell, goes where it wants,
runs the train-tracks' gamut from Easthaven
to Blunting Point and returns back again by
rounding Center Grove. And - all the while -
it's me the flagman notices. Hiding out in the
tobacco car with Jim Weston's pretty daughter,
pulling her down to my level while pulling her
panties down too. Just goes like that always
and ever. Rock rock and clap clop, the train
wheels trundle along, and we keep our rhythm
to that meter. We're really a team now, we are.

3213. MAGNIFICENCE

MAGNIFICENCE

Ever since the water fled, the iceman cometh
and the dark of a November sky was found
clutching my name, I thought enough and more
about you. Feathers fell from some hawkish
height, floating distantly only to land away.
In red pajamas or blue bandannas it never
seemed to matter - the same harmonica
guy always had you in his pocket. I wondered
about a hundred things at once, but mostly -
just today - watching those house-dress ladies
enter a 6:45 mass from across the street, I
wondered why. Incredible. They do this every
morning : parking their fabled cars like Midas
at the ends of the lot, they walk their gossipy
way across the pavement to huddle as they
enter the church. For what, my God, for what;
and is that even a question? What strep-throat
faith could this allegiance be? These women have
nothing other? I find it all so sad. Death and
resurrection, were it to mean anything at all
to them, would still have to have rules and
regulations attached. All the strictest
nomenclature to keep them in
their places, their archly
paradisaical places.

3212. AMIDST OTHER UNKNOWN CONDITIONS

AMIDST OTHER
UNKNOWN CONDITIONS
I was born into an adventure I was never quite
sure of; one where nothing ever quite measured up.
And then, of course, like so much else - the early-
morning milkman, the bread-truck which delivered,
the froth of cream at the top of fresh-farm milk, it
was simply all gone. Those two large dots in the sky,
curiously - and with aplomb - both greatly
different in their distance from me, yet still
about the same size to see. Ah! now that's
Relativity! I weathered most storms, I was
able to ride most seas. My problem,
before too long, and mainly, had
become communication : if I knew
what I wanted to say, no one was
listening, and if someone was
listening, I then knew not
what to say.

3211. THE MARKHAM BROTHER

THE MARKHAM BROTHER

He is a distant lad - far off, a continent away -
and always willing, it would seem to take his
part in action. He holds the hammer by its head,
and pounds. He looks askance at whatever
resembles a fantasy line, a story without
compunction, an ending where no logic
intrudes. 'I abhor things I can see right
through,' he says. So, as that may be, I
simply let it go; too tired to fight, and made
jagged by the rough-and-tumble, I meekly
roll away and let matters go wherever
they may go - for (if I may say),
it's really all the same to me.

3210. YES (YES)

YES (YES)
I am running this boat over the edge of the water;
a hard edge of glass, a clear sheet I can see through,
watching things go by. It is all a blur, like flying from
Parto to Balaroo, those distant stars I placed atop the
firmament I left long ago. And now, everywhere I
look, a hard, bright sunlight reflects off every
surface - the blast of illumination, the fiery glow
of presence, a reflected glory of all which is. I slow;
over there, atop that bulkhead and patio deck,
someone has suspended an effigy of a man - could
be a sailor or cowboy as well, I cannot readily
identify. A hanging human it is not; instead just
something to remind one of what it could be.
An outstretched hand, hanging there, in the
wind. At the same time, this boat slow-glides
over the shining water. Part of me wishes to
sing. Part of me wants to scream. I am caught
between two worlds, like a slime creature just
learning, ashore, to walk on two legs.

3209. EXILE AT FULMER'S POINT

EXILE AT FULMER'S POINT

All was in the taking down; my jasmine wand,
your harlequin. Standing at the top of a hill,
watching the sun fall slowly, dropping without a
sign from an insensate sky to some more morose
exile at the other side of this world. How long
and often we have waited for these moments?
-
Alongside us, in a white Park Ranger truck,
the slavishly attentive Ranger sat in his seat.
I watched - the window was open but an inch
or two, the air-conditioner poundingly blew
with the engine yet running, and there he sat,
diddling like a fool, jamming away of his onboard
computer keyboard : the names of all the stars,
the declensions of the planets, or just, as of us,
the names and identities of fools? Actually, he
really knew nothing at all, and I knew it.
-
Soon a vivid and rainbow colored sky set the
lower light of evening straight before us.
Reds, deep yellows, and even a halting green.
I could not deem, for anything, a reason for all of
this - and at that moment realized, no different
than the ranger, that I too was a fool in a dark,
unknown palace of intrigue. You and I, we smiled,
and somehow managed to walk away together.

3208. ON A BETTER FULFILLMENT

ON A BETTER FULFILLMENT
They brought the bread and the cake,
together - water and wine and loaves
and fishes. The clinging crowd was
grasping at spiritual straws, singing
low laments at the foot of Jesus Hill.
Cedars and cypresses, both, fell at
their Gilgamesh feet. A miracle was
about to happen, and they knew it.
-
Just as a maiden reclines for her
first, so the sky fell down now and
covered the people. An old, primordial
mass return, a gauze of consciousness
little known and long forgotten, now
hovered. With one great voice, the
fervid people cried out : 'My coins
and heart together, oh Divine,
shall join with you.'
-
Night came, and the satisfied people
went about their ways, the tongues
of fire still licking their brows.

3207. WITH YOU, MALAKA

WITH YOU, MALAKA
With you, Malaka, I am walking the lines
of this underground passage; only awakening
and only emerging as a new light overhead
beckons. We sit in cool chambers to think.
-
Glances at moments too soon let us
notice that that which calls us is nothing
more than uncertainty or possibility -
things to come, not necessarily coming.
I am fueled by the thought of what
comes between us; something like
a man, holding a lantern, in the dark.
-
I peer out, now and then, and return
only disappointed. What do I see?
The bloody calculus of but internment
and war, the twisted lines of conflict,
men with forked tongues, breaking
things before they are even made.

3206. BEETHOVEN IN YOUR FOOL'S CAP

BEETHOVEN IN
YOUR FOOL'S CAP
( an abstract : in the aerie)
There are so many layers of
what's to come, and to date
I can't find a thing. All the signs
and directions said it was Beethoven
in your fool's cap. I saw (by my own
mis-direction, that) there was no
end in sight. The kernel was the
corn of the matter, and, then, not.
-
I was reading your summation and
all I could say was - 'the bathroom was
the edge of the shelf, no?' That's how it
seemed anyway - and, and - I did
not have a Christian artifact; no blood
on a towel, no thorn from a crown, and
that was not wood of the cross in your
third-floor aerie. I was there. I saw.
-
A knock on the door from the KGB.
High-powered professionals and their
ideology. Putrefied remnants and bastards
at heart, it all becomes apparent : when
everyone writes, no one listens; when
everyone writes, no one reads. And what
is this life, then, for you, I wonder? 'A
constant struggle between good and evil?'
No, no, that's far too pat by far.
-
I have learned that the Balkan people
are descended from the Bacchae : (now
get this) : still sinking their teeth into
humanoid animals, into roast ox on the
spit, into an ox's stomach filled with a
finely-chopped offal, into a roasted sheep's
head out of which they lasciviously suck
the large, sad eyes like efficient, little
vacuum cleaners.
-
And these are only things I've newly
learned. There is no sepulchre like
Death, yet there is no Death like
what-has-been. We surmise so
much from so little. (That really
was Beethoven in your fool's cap).

3205. BRODSKY

BRODSKY
I awoke with Lord Weary's Castle,
my foreboding sense of doom, and
a few ideas. As that man Lowell,
dead in a taxicab but a few steps
from the street, so too I dwell
near something, but as yet
incomplete. It was Brodsky
whom I remember stating
one veiled version of this
truth best : 'I sit at my
desk; my life is
grotesque.'

3204. ENFILADE TO FUSSILADE

ENFILADE TO FUSSILADE
I ranged abruptly through a
military book, brooking the
range while climbing the hill
which needed taking. The
rat-tat-tat of an old-style
gun-strat ran ringingly
through the air. Dodging,
I held back, clutching
behind an oak tree -
hiding timorously
where I could not
see, and no one
could see me.

3203. ME AND YOU AND 33 THINGS BEFORE BREAKFAST

ME AND YOU AND 33 THINGS
BEFORE BREAKFAST

Ripping like a slugfest with Carter Hawley down the
highway and headed to Hawkeye Mountain. You
watching out for storms and weather, with your
big dark sunglasses and funny straw hat. 'You
remind me of country glamor,' I said, meaning
only anything good. 'Well I better,' you said,
'unless you mean some brand of country butter.'
-
Everywhere around us were mountains, hills
and meadows. The lush green of the treetops
was scraping the sky. 'I must have missed the
turn for Eden,' you said, 'or at least I didn't
see the sign.' I slid my hand down onto the
seat, sat back, and stretched straight out
my legs. 'I'm not moving 'til I have to,'
I said, 'and even then I'm not.'
-
Your face right then almost had a
smile too, staring right ahead.
'You're just full of it, full of
good ideas,' you said.

3202. ONLY WITH THE WATCHING

ONLY WITH THE WATCHING
And only as I knew the walkings and the places,
it was only then that the shadows welcomed
me in : the fences and the barricades, the
razor wires and the gates. All the foolish
people, those staying outside, they gazed

in wistfuly, watching my every move.
-
I carried their torch past the booming
cliffs. The light reflected off the glistening
rocks, water-seeped, and wet with spray.
Nothing I could do would match
the moment, nothing I could say
would best the motion. Striving
for perfection, I flounced the
moon, I spar'd the sun. I leapt.
In a frenzy, it was all over.

3201. ARTICLES OF CONFEDERATION

ARTICLES OF CONFEDERATION

We hold these truths and nothing else.
When in the course of human events.
All that came before that was that which
did come after. Philadelphia and its
Independence Hall. I saw you standing
in the limelight. Broken like a two-cent
fish fresh off the Penn's Landing dock.
-
I'm so tired of waiting for that cracked
bell to ring. I'm made sick by the tourists
and all that they bring : those festering
retards from Indiana, all those fucked-up
Boy Scouts rolling off buses from Ohio.
-
One thing is for certain, out here in the
distant front : Ben Franklin's ghost house,
a real crock of shit. Over there, where
Betsy Ross whored, there's nothing to it.

3200. LITANY GANAROSIS

LITANY GANAROSIS
Twenty-five years ago and more
what was done was done. I once
did drop the girl off at the hotel,
but I always left without seeing
the remains. All those hokey
hunters and farmers in Troy, PA.
-
And it wasn't just that, merely less -
ocean girl, who'd never seen the sea,
sky-diving lady, who'd never been off the
ground. How little it all mattered - none at
all. Somewhere in that small downtown was
the Ben Franklin Store. Named for a fellow who
wouldn't spend a nickel, but was always wanting
yours. I knew them all, the paupers and the
poor - and I walked with a head held high.
-
I sold tools to the mechanics, I sold water
to the swans. I drove school kids to their
deaths, I held councils with the deaf.
Small town oasis blues. I sang them
with the best, in 1972.

3199. MEDITATION 123

MEDITATION 123
I drew life from a different
fountain - one as such before
the lightened doors were closed.
And, now, in a beautiful sunrise
like this, I am sensing the new.
Cool breeze and yellow dawn;
where the birds shriek happy
singing and I am sitting alone.
One twist of a single moment,
and it's a strong and
different day.

3198. RAY GUN AND NEW GENES

RAY GUN AND NEW GENES
Came down from the mountain - yeah -
already forgetful of things : had my
John Ashbery typeface so beautifully
mounted and the big heap of sap-love
juicing out. These elm trees too spread
wide their wobbly haunches. Never
before had that gaslight gone out.
In my mind, it was 1954 - and I was
once more just learning to read. Oh
Bayonne stirrups, oh Kill Van Kull,
oh Magister Ludi and Erik Von Schull.
I take my tommy-knockers loaded
and she's got a sister too. This time
it's my horizon to where we're headed.
You can make it through.

3197. CASTARE'S GATE

CASTARE'S GATE
Is that how it's done, Charles;
how is it done? Why? Remember,
as I told you once, I am watching
over the kippered bridge connecting
me to Lambeth and you to London.
It was Mr. Blake himself, as I
told you, who ranted on the grass
about the summer soldier and
the military stuff. It got him, alas,
nowhere. All the prophetic books
in the world, as I see it, won't carry
you far past Castare's Gate.

3196. HE HAD

HE HAD
Very thin blood, and he walked
like a lynx. The rabbits came out
of his ears. The wind went around
him and the rain never touched.
Sunlight blinked when it came by
his presence. It sometimes goes
like that in an everyday Paradise.

3195. THIS VILLAGE IS BURNING

THIS VILLAGE IS BURNING

'I am the Samuel Pepys of guilt, yet I care nothing
at all for your wastrel ways.' After saying that,
he turned his head and said 'Good God, boys, look
what we've done now!' At that, I did notice the
man unloading a truck was wincing and the dark-
black smoke encircled his head. Right after that,
he fell down. Yes, yes, it appeared for sure : that
mongrel dog Death and all the village was burning.
-
'You've done this of spite, you stupid, evil man!'
Someone shouted that, as glass popped and shattered
from heat. Everywhere, things were blowing about
and some form of star-crazed fiery powder seemed
settling on all the street. People screamed and oaths
flew. I had never seen death for so many.
-
I sensed the trick of a Devil in this : a fiery plummet,
the crumbling of buildings a'flame, the piling of bodies
and rubble. The stealth of destruction was suddenly
brought out to the very forefront of things. An implosion,
as of minds in confusion falling upon themselves, seemed
descended on all things. I had never seen death for so many.

3194. SPEAK WITH CERTAINTY OF THINGS YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT

SPEAK WITH CERTAINTY
OF THINGS YOU KNOW
NOTHING ABOUT
I cantilevered the rainbow at 7-11.
I threw down the guns at Wawa.
The train kept leaving, and it
never arrived and some David
Bowie guy with mountain-wild
eyes addressed the waiting crowd
with his saliva. Somehow even
the Poetry Editor of The New Yorker,
old what's-his-name Muldoon, showed
up to play. Sackcloth in a library, and a
fondness for Yellow Moon. What is that
anyway but a name for newly-centric
forms of vodka, beer and well-tanked
wine? (The only vintage around here
worth saving has been already saved -
the guy with the saliva said that - and
the nicely-settled aardvark Ethan, he
ought to know the time at least).
-
Once before boarding the train I took
the elevator to the 4th floor to see Kristy.
And there she was and I should know;
in a tan shirt with eyes to match. I caught
on immediately that she wasn't looking
for me. All that closing the telephone call
'love ya' stuff, like girls wasting time in an
office while talking to a husband at Plato's
Retreat. All that vague and unknowing patter.
-
But, no matter. The moon falls to the horizon
and no one's counting any longer. So we sat
on the train and talked. The husband, she said,
being Danish, was always down about something -
all that long, darkness and nighttime stuff, 'like
growing up in a cardboard box' she said he says.
And then 'the only thing that gets him off is sex,
yeah, really.' I worried about that only later on
my own and lonely way home. 'And I myself,'
she further mentioned, 'kind'a hate it all, so I
suck a lot of dick.' Yeah, right, just like that;
I got where and was going, and got off, exiting
this (only now somewhat) aimless train.
-
It's like that at the Frick Collection too, as I
think of it now. The outdoor courtyard, where
sit the people who don't mind sweating, and
the ones indoors, clutching their tumblers
and drinks, who must, as they say, have
their air 'conditioned.' With me, it's either
way; I can take it from the bottom,
I can take it from the top.

3193. I RAN ROUGHSHOD

I RAN ROUGHSHOD

Never apologized for that to anyone;
ruined my parents both, lost all my
friends before that, shot pigeons and
squirrels with air guns and rifles, chased
after skirts and girls for their trifles.
Damn it all, my life was running good.
Then, I did four years in the workhouse
for dealing stolen cars, stealing government
property, kiting fake checks as well. Learned
more in there than I did on the street. Like
Hell, 'rehabilitation' tried to come calling.
I stole the car it drove in with.

3192. MAGNETO

MAGNETO

Rapid-fire declension extending lawns
into parks and parks into mansions; five
silly Mexicans riding the turf. Land-lubber
landscaping throwing arrows at birds and
arcing what we do not know at the mesas
and arroyos we never see. Do you not know,
Pablito, that we do not live those ways known
to you? Fresh-field grounds, both soggy and wet.
Oh, adobe-san, be not so foolish as to keep
trying to ruin the land we live amidst -
all for what you do not know.

3191. DO VARIED THINGS

DO VARIED THINGS
Run your mouth off at the hat,
eat your forkful of sideways
dirt, land your marigold on
the blooming gate, walk your
pond through the meadow
unleashed. Clean your dog
up after the mess, wear your
sidelocks atop your face.
Bring cookies to the bakery,
overdress the dead, find solace
in the sound of screech-cars
squealing. Never let the Mantis
know it's praying. Do varied
things, at all times,
varied things.

3190. HERE'S HOW WE MAKE THE TOAST

HERE'S HOW WE

MAKE THE TOAST
Here's how the mantelpiece rubbed arms
with the fire - oh, there was always something
amiss, yes, we all knew that. But no one ever
was speaking, and there were too many kings
and queens. I shaved my face, that morning,
with the license of freedom and desire. Yes,
it should be said, everything went smoothly.
-
But - a body asks - why? Why should
that be? How can that happen? And here,
as well, far beneath this railroad trestle,
this stupid Metro North right now along
the Hudson. Some distant rock hills,
those Jersey Palisades, stood
stern across the shore.
-
I wouldn't have known from nothing,
this Hudson River Line, taking me
right up to Beacon. And back down
again. What's that all about? I can't
say...now that all the Indian-natives
are gone, those campfire-blessed
locals who once dwelt along this
route, marching and huffing their
way across these icy, wintry paths.
Prosit. Long Life. Good Health!

3189. PHOTOGRAPH

PHOTOGRAPH

I might have known you would have made me nervous,
standing there alone and looking out. I saw your picture
once, and then again, along some seashore alcove, the
trembling waves breaking behind your form. It was
all I could do, smiling like that, to stay in place.
I gently lowered my aim, and fired. It was a
speeding bullet, on the way to my heart.

3188. GOING FORWARD SLOWLY

GOING FORWARD SLOWLY

Moving along : gale-strip wind-blown cover.
This minor shed shakes in the wind. Watch
the pale force moving; see the heavy branches
and all their leafy throws shake wildly in the air.
-
I reset my watch to Denmark time.
That distant, northern feeling, some
faint demitasse of a Scandinavian powder,
nothing of the South at all. No European
pure-blend, this. Those old, Italian cafe
flowers wither, even as I hear your name.
-
It is no fault of another, this wiry skeleton
of emotion and heart. I knew it would come
to be - at that North Sea wharf where I saw
so many faces looking out, just looking for
what was to come. An old idea, King Emlet,
now Hamlet to you, this scribbling bard,
this never-ending torture of a seaside wall.

3187. IF RINTRAH ROARS

IF RINTRAH ROARS
If Rintrah roars, and shakes His
fiery fist - who am I then, after
all, to object? Some Blakean God,
wanting to come home to roost,
return to origins, seek the source
anew, comes screaming right at
me, and through; well, better off,
then, just getting out of His way.
All that crazy God stuff unsettles
me anyway - and, let's face it -
He's got, for sure, His own hidden
agenda; wild and woolly, out of
control, and nothing considerate
of me, not at all.

3186. THINGS ARE NEVER WHAT THEY SEEM

THINGS ARE NEVER
WHAT THEY SEEM

Come with me, then. Let us notice the great
hundred things : the pantry in the parlor,
the lettuce on the cob, the wilt, the general
idea of - as it were - transfiguration.
-
When I was once small enough, younger
by far and as well, I watched, with my
father, a great conflagration - the roaring
flames bellowing black, and billowing too -
of a refinery fire or a gas-source gone mad,
running wild over the marshlands of
Staten Island. Nothing seemed to
matter, just burn instead.
-
I remember a crippled boy, then, too,
in his polio braces, coming over to where
we were, and asking for help at the water
fountain. He wanted a drink and was
hobbled by his handicap, hindered by
his braces. I didn't know, and couldn't
understand. That black scream on the
horizon had all my attention anyway.
-
But, then, he got his drink.
My strangely happy, good-deed
Dad had helped him. Smiles and
nods and thanks were exchanged.
The fire roared. The growing
crowd exclaimed.
-
Me, I was glad to be watching, to
being a presence, to be trying to
figure these things out. I realized
right then - things are never what
they seem. And I understood as well
the naming of all that we see : the
water to drink, the same water used
to put out flames? The nod to continue,
the same nod we'd exchanged? A
straight line is never more crooked
than after it has been called straight.

3185. HOUSEHAT PIPEFITTER

HOUSEHAT PIPEFITTER
Had I but left a penny out of place,
it would still be there on the morrow -
for that is how slowly things change,
nay, how really they do not change at
all. And you, silvered mirror, go on
always reflecting - if not yourself
then what it is yourself perceives
to see. A likable life enough.
-
Househat pipefitter - you
really should look at these
words, and pictures too.
There's no earthly
reason to ignore.

3184. DOMESTIC REALITY

DOMESTIC REALITY
Pudding, and putting out the lights.
Dog - none. Cat - food. Faucets, you
say, are off. Domestic bliss, don't scoff.
Feet up on the couch - now, please,
what's with that? Like that book?
I never brought it back.
-
You know, the one time she was
here before, she sat in that very
same spot. A lot like you. Funny,
how things are, like that too.
Well, OK, all done then, let's go.

3183. THE WISDOM OF THE SAINTS AND THE RHYTHM OF THE AGES

THE WISDOM OF THE
SAINTS and the
RHYTHM OF THE AGES
Take your pick : all the cards are on the table.
Norse sagas, Icelandic odes, Alaric and the
Goths, Romana Paxicana, fie, fie on both your
houses. Augustine and Benedict and Martin
Luther too. It's all and everywhere a shambles,
and sh-sh-shame on you. This old castle,
I only notice now, is built of newer nails.
-
Chambersburg and Hatteisford,
they both had the key. Drinking
whiskey from tumblers of glass,
we had the idea and we had a blast.
Now, a few weeks later, I awake still
groggy-eyed and realize it's 'civilzation'
itself stretched before me. All those old
lies and prevarications. Assassination
had to be. And, once more, take your
pick, all the cards are on the table.

3182. MIDDLESEX FELLS AND THE BLUE HILLS

MIDDLESEX FELLS
AND THE BLUE HILLS
Picking at your Merino wool, I simply wonder why.
The long sky is darkest blue, almost perfect in hue,
and it seems as well to stretch for nineteen hundred
miles. If ever these eyes are glazed or waxen, it is
only because - if that's the case - I'm dead. In any
other circumstance, my purely human attention
remains riveted. Every star is, let's say, my source
of wonder. And now I turn to landscape.
-
Every picture ever made is but a semblance of
beauty; an attempt, however feeble, at something
recognizable so as to portray what we ideally
would live. Even all those Turners and Constables,
they put forth the very same message each time.
The world is a seminal vestige of Eden, and we
all are yet living in Paradise. Hard to prove, OK,
but what else is science about? All that feeble
conjecture, like a protuberance, some wart,
on a fractious Devil's nose.

3181. PUTTING IT ALL OFF

PUTTING IT ALL OFF
Going through the paces : stained glass
blue light illuminated from outside with
light-rays coming in. Reds and greens
as well. A regular La Farge fire. The
uneven sidewalk seemed buckling too
with people. Big, crazy late June flowers
arching over table and chair and the
doorway itself nearly hidden. I looked
around - once more - for anything I
would recognize; saw only you and
heard the noise from the distant lawn.
And, yes, right then in my loneliness
I decided to watch the Sun rise, watch
it rise as if for the very first time
on a very distant planet on the very
first morning, somewhere I'd never
been before. No more putting it off.

3180. WORKING THAT CLOSE TO THE FIRE

WORKING THAT CLOSE

TO THE FIRE
What would you have me do? Bubble-gum
angle-iron steel girder up above. A workman,
no different say than Adam or Cain or Abel,
whatever, is going about his stupid task : while
breathing a heavy dose, spitting a Coke, picking
at a sandwich, talking about his wife, and, as well,
splitting hairs about every little thing. I awarded
him the golden plaque for 'One Useless Endeavor.'
-
Wednesday was the final day at home. I listened
all the while he told his story. She was leaving,
his 'ever faithless cock-sucking whore of a wife,'
and taking the kid as well. Her new guy lived
in Belmar, and had a dick the size of a thimble,
he'd bet. He owned a three-room beachfront
bungalow, and the kid loved it there. The wife,
he didn't know and couldn't care. He hoped
she 'liked being a slave to a little dick.'
-
Whew! I sensed something amiss here, some
fearsome rage about to explode. Pity that
sandwich, pity that hammer, pity that load.
His co-workers as well - I thought of them.
What must they think, having to work
that close to the fire all day?

3179. IT WAS A TIME OF SENSE

IT WAS A TIME OF SENSE

I made millions making nothing; the
tired birds were singing in the sky, the
lark larked and the wren wren'd. Or
whatever they do. High overhead, a
jet or two tore open the sky, drawing
like a pen-mark a white strip in the
blue. I barely changed my pose in
looking up. By the fence, two girls
were talking about something -
funny, by the way they were
laughing. A broad and effusive
boredom seemed the order
of the day. I knew not why,
but just went on.

3178. PRAIRIE HOUSE (frank lloyd wright takes off)

PRAIRIE HOUSE

(frank lloyd wright takes off)
Carrying the bulk past Promontory Point,
hauling water to the top, great arches 'midst
Richardsonian splendor, all that crazed
American space. I don't know where to turn,
as, all around me, rocks and ledges and subterfuge
and ceilings stretch. The fireplace, though now
settled, itself roars blazing flames. Everything
seems amiss, all these Columbia'd plains. I
seek nothing more : self-reliance, a cove,
a simple place to hide me out.

3177. THE CAPERED CONVENTION

THE CAPERED CONVENTION

Fifteen different men went to deepest Africa,
in nineteen hundred and ten. That was all, and
that was wild. Diffused and derelict their good
intentions were, though nothing of any worth
got done. I sit me down now only to listen.
-
A small man sat down at the piano and played.
He tried steadfast alertness and an accompanying
air of serious thought. I watched him carefully
until he was done. I got up when he got up.
-
I lost my faith in God and man when I was eleven.
It has never returned - I am saddled with bitter
thoughts and anger too. That is my music; I read
the notes as a carpenter reads his plans. Scribed
lines and pencilled markings. All together, things
as one. I sit me down now only to listen.

3176. SOME PEOPLE

SOME PEOPLE
Some people dance, some people waltz,
some people scale fences and others take falls.
I want to be neither nor any of them. I'd rather
my force was spent building bridges to your heart,
scaling heights into your mind, rising the crest of
every cloud that floats its blinding way past you.
In Winter, yes, it may be, I too wait for snow -
scanning the dark gray skies for what is coming,
what has been announced, the wind, the flakes
and flurries first, and then the massive storm and
all the things that have been announced. Though
it doesn't always work, it gets me by. In Summer,
quite the other way, I hide from blinding sunlight
in the day and seek instead a respite in the shades and
the shadows of night. Things come on like bullets -
fast and piercing, cutting bone and limb , slicing hearts
in two, sundering what all was once together. And, yes,
it goes that way - even then the seeming fit still fits.

3175. TOO MUCH LIKE DEATH

TOO MUCH LIKE DEATH
Uncle Wiggly says the carousel is broken.
He should know - he usually fixes everything
with his hands. Rough, endless hands, big
gnarled fingers seen never using a tool.
If anyone can get it going again, he can for
sure. 'Travel light' was always his motto.
I always nodded, knowing that I never
really go anywhere so it wouldn't matter
anyway. Then, the day of the locusts, just
like that, one day arrived. I looked for him
everywhere and - just like God - he was
gone. There hasn't been thunder nor
lightning nor miracles since. No fire
in the bramble, none of that stuff. The
world (oh figmented, overwraught,
contentious thing), has became a
very serene place. Uncle Wiggly
saw to that.

3174. FINGER-POST AT MAIN

FINGER-POST AT MAIN
The last salacious cat from Waldenmire
just came smashing through here, yelling
about overhearing the maid and her consort
chilling open bottles of wine on the 28th floor.
'Why, why?' he screamed, 'not this, no more!'
-
I went home early, since I'd gotten there late.