3901. YOUR CHEMISTRY

YOUR CHEMISTRY

I am a bleating hog on your tail,

scented by feelings I can't derail.

I chase your chimerical odor through

weeds and dumps, swamps and ghettos,

and I swear allegiance to the love of you

each day. I've long ago grown deaf  -  to

the pleas of others, the cries of women and

children, and even to the odered surrender

of judges and juries. They can all go to Hell.

I've got new eyes set on the new sun, the

brightness of a lethal sky. The streets are shiney

with the rains, the sewers run fast to the river.

No one cares, nor gives a damn about anything

real at all. I am a bleating hog on your trail,

scented by feelings I can't derail.

3900. RECOMPENSE

RECOMPENSE

This recompense is shoddy, and the

boats are rocking in the water. It is silent

where I sleep : some very old and run-down

room on the sailor's edge of town. Seaport

wayfarer, that's me. It's been three hundred 

years, in fact, since I've left the port. No

matter, you wouldn't believe the way the vain

and the proud still lie to me. A long time ago,

in the basement here, was a dog-fighting parlor;

drunks and violent veterans would bet and stammer

with their vehement tongues  -  about chances of

death, about outlasting time. The filthy curs, all

bloodied and crying, would die a nasty death.

It all still makes me sick, and I'm glad they

closed it down. I cried nearly every night. It

was better replaced, not so long after, by a

second floor brothel  -  a much better deal,

I always said. (Or, as Farley the drunk put it

'first it was dogs, now it's pussies'). Whatever

the situation may be, I am - as I said - still here;

the original ancient mariner who goes nowhere. 

Men are dogs themselves, I only now realize  -  

but it took me so very long to see.

3899. FLEE WITH WINGS

FLEE WITH WINGS

I've always wished to flee with wings, run the 

highest mountain, travel the stars. People say

'go back from where you came' - oh lord, if

they only knew. This last precipice itself has 

downward, as if there never had been any

bottom  -  all like words and truth (the

stuff of which we wash our hands), filmy,

sheer, and always incomplete. I am the dotage

of this human age, this human place. Watch

me out as I watch out : for you, for your land,

for your waters, your minerals, your planet.

Take advantage of the things I can offer.

3898. USED TO BE

USED TO BE  
I am thinking of that girl with the amazing eyes, and the 
 wire which leads to my mind and heart. I am thinking of  
something now so old it is new again. Here I sit, shorn  
and shackled, remembering the life I think I've already lived.  
It's been said you can't go home again. Forget the 'again';  
you can't go home. This changing of the clocks and changing  
of the guards, and all that Halloween drivel soon to be, all 
of this is a sickness for which there is no remedy. I want
to run away. I want to be gone  -   I want to Tom Sawyer
my way to dissolution like that run-down carcass they
found on the boat. It may be my father, as Huck found
out, but it's of no consequence to me. I am thinking
only of her again, and all those things that used to be.

3897. JAVANESE PUPPET THEATER

JAVANESE PUPPET THEATER

Just yesterday I met a man wanting to stage the

Mahabharata under two sixty watt bulbs on a stage

cut from cardboard on a raft of fire. It all seemed

inconsequential enough to me to be done.  Lest

we fail for not trying, I let him run his idea out.

Like some silly basketball team on a college-gym

floor, we tried running out the clock, but found it

was longer and stronger-willed than we'd ever be.

Too bad for all that : right then the world blew open

and my words exploded. I was as insensitive as a dog

with a bone could be. Looking about, I sought refuge.

My path led to your boat. Oh Jesus, God of Kings

and Son of God, don't ever fail me now  -  both my

hands are on fire and there's a new tongue of flame

above my head. What am I supposed to do about

that? I talk to the converted and they laugh back in

my face. I preach to the unconcerned, and they

say I'm a crazy prophet. Just yesterday, remember,

I met the man  -  at least he had a mission. Today,

all salvation seems like a long and tedious bore.

3896. HAVING MET

HAVING MET

Having met time at its oasis, I realize

I care for nothing at all  -  have no wishes

or desires, am as clean and stripped bare

as a zen-featured monk on the way to Nirvana.

Ocular rotation brings me a daze. I reach the

stars with my hands and my hands with my heart.

3895. DONE THIS WAY

DONE THIS WAY

(all indications are)

'I saw two ants carrying

a drop of water between 

them. I grew really tired

of helping weightless guys.'

3894. NO MARKS (san francisco, 1976)

NO MARKS

Driving the ghetto strong, living

along Haight Street, looking for

that Starbucks or Peet's or anything

that hip  -  oh those traipsing, touristy

types. Right on the money, and right

on the hype. It's all in the gloved hand

riding the wheel, turning the chassis

and chain  - go where you feel. No

more crooked than Lombard Street -

every cat down at the heels 

and oh so beat.

3893. A CAR POEM

A CAR POEM

'Get out of Dodge;

or at least this one.'

3892. SWAYING

 SWAYING

(Elmira)
If maybe you could do for me

tomorrow what I do for you today

then memories wouldn't hold such sorrow

and sadness wouldn't  hold such sway. That

small-framed Neanderthal coming at me makes

me sneer  -  look at him there. Over on Elmira's

dusty plain, let's recall, Gen Sullivan killed all

the Indians  -  Senecas and Syracuse. They

called him a God then, a truly-talented military

man. They built him an obelisk on a massive,

high lawn  -  like bad luck, all that famous

blood. For myself, here, now, I watch and

listen in rapt attention to everything that 

happens and to what people say : if

you would do for me tomorrow

what I do for you today.

3891. WHERE THE BEAST YET LIVES

WHERE THE BEAST

YET LIVES

I genuflect too easily at all the graves

of saints  -  but it's the ones of sinners where

I get really carried away. No one says anything,

they just watch. This new northern wind blows

candy wrappers across my feet  -  here and there

something wayward blows. It was, I am sure, once

said that death is sacred, but no more. People are

slobs, of a general condition, and think nothing of

leaving their matter behind. It's all so relentless, this

dining and diving and dying. Everything together and

jumbled, as if there's no room for anything left.

-

I've always meant to be present at the second creation:

I really want to see how things come to be. The new

wave of a little river cutting rock, the diamond styles

of the new-found light of Heaven, climbing us back to

something we've lost. Maybe it's true about all that,

first time, the try; second time, the folly. It won't matter.

To be sure, there will be someone standing around selling

something to litter  -  coffee cups in Eden II, or another

candy wrapper with the sweetness of Hell entwined.

-

I'll be the sorry soldier holding his head, sitting back on

the concrete veranda, just pretending I don't see a thing.

3890. JAZZBO

JAZZBO

This porkpie hat you're listening to goes nowhere  - 

the head is attached to no neck, the smile wears

a brace. Things are too secure, and you need reliability

not chance. I'm so tired of perfect things. I want abstract

and messy matter; like a Hans Hoffman painting pushing

back against the pull. Dynamic tension, and the power

of will. No stasis here at all.

3889. MEMORY

 MEMORY

I broke my sails on the quarter-panel, on

the dark wood where you'd entered your

name in knife-point, like some errant scrimshaw

on the jaw of a tree. The words had darkened

over time, yet I remembered the instant well.

You were as crazy drunk as I was, and we'd

just fallen down laughing. The hand that did

this work still smiles, years later, though you

are gone. The ghosts of these letters linger.

-

How difficult is it for a man like me to age and

pass on?  -  I'll let you know sometime, though

don't (please) keep waiting on the edge of your

seat. Hopefully, like these letters carved in wood,

I'll still be around for a while. I'll enrich even you,

in memory if not in presence. Well, anyway,

here I am and here I remain. All pleasure.

-

In the old log book that guy kept on this

boat, in the quarter cabin where he slept,

at the wheelhouse where he watched, 

somewhere like that, I remember being 

twenty with you, watching as he wrote his

notes. We wondered what he had to write

down. All the time, it seemed, latitude and

longitude, and all that dreary stuff. All we

then cared about was this : I knew your

equator, and at what point your blossoms 

bloomed, and you knew mine. Onward

and upward, each day, we sailed.

3888. MARNA

MARNA

How soon this utopian pledge

elopes  -  with a token hand

and a heart to boot. She is my

sister, she is my love. We are

silent together. All these things

are a force for affectation. And , to 

to those who would wander on the

road for affection : when you see it,

take it. Let us bow to the sun.

-

Elliptical chords that I try to

undo  -  some sacred music of

a Philip Glass acolyte lost in his

slander: "'Einstein On the Beach'

is incomplete without this piece.'

The dumb lout really said that : the

classical press agreed, or at least

went along for the ride.

-

Oh Marna. My token hand and

heart to boot - how swell your

utopian pledge elopes. I want to

be all things. I am tender and

hurt, and in love once again.

3887. UP AND TO THE EXITS

UP AND TO THE EXITS

(exclusivity)

The whole idea here is one, singularity.

The notion of completeness being carried

by the force of authentic travel  -  like

the flow of the lightbulb's electric current

here flowing through my hands : I feel

a shake and a tingle, yet nothing much

more occurs, though I draw away; and

so many other things are like that too.

3886. BREAKOUT

BREAKOUT

Pip to Queequeg you cannot count on differences

to matter, because all things, at some point, come 

together. The large trees themselves they falter

and fall. All life is but a matter of moment.

3885. HOMAGE

HOMAGE

I am duty bound and spell-free to wrangle this

dulcimer from the square I inhabit : black train running

down the track, take no time and don't come back.

We have a kingdom of legion within our mangled hands.

Along the shredded horizon  -  look ! look  -  you will

see what stands. Only this  -  the trestle of dreams

and hope, spanning a cavern of lethal mistake and a

place filled with doubt. I have left your shadow. My

secret is out. Let me stand here and gloat.

-

I enter the threshold. Edgar Allen Poe sat here too.

We played cards amidst shades of death as I thought

about all his days. In his fingers, even the tea cup

withered. Dark eyes, burning in the gloom.

-

I never knew where to turn : I lost the shadow in

all the light. My ride was not returning. Walk,

walk, walk, all the distant way home.

3884. MORAL RECTITUDE AND THE RITES OF MANFRED MOORE

RECTITUDE AND THE 

RITES OF 

MANFRED MOORE

Yes, of course, it's a well-established fact, people really

can read thoughts but just choose not to. It's much easier.

'I didn't know that, was unaware all the time. 

What do you think I am, a mind-reader?'

-

Unlike that person, I knew all the time. He'd made it

clear to me in oh so many ways. I carried the blood

for him by merely listening; and our contest ran - 'which

of us us more crazy than the other?' Evidently he

meant it all. I didn't. He was more crazy than me?

-
I still remain : I like to talk funny to people, say odd
things, and more than once. Contain their curiosity by
going on. That's my test-tube of madness in my little
leftover chemistry lab of words and idle threats.
Watch out now! So...there, maybe it's all
the same. Maybe I'm just as crazy as
him, for staying. The lethal cocktail of
a rifle in my mouth; not for me at all.

3883. THAT SINKING FEELING

THAT SINKING FEELING

Why is it and how? I am walking around, in this 

crazy dream, larger than life in socks and sandals,

neither of which I've ever worn in my life. Never sandals

anyway; of course I wear socks, but with shoes. Just

goes to show you, I guess, how dreams move. I was

speaking my words that came out backwards  -  everything

I did was undone as I spoke. Everywhere I went, I'd just

already left. Each new place I entered, town, village or burg,

expecting something new, everyone already knew me.

I knelt down to cry at sorrow, and found laughter

coming out of my now-standing eyes. I was

famished while I ate, alive while I died. I put

the boat in the water, and the water put

the boat at the bottom. Oh help me,

help me, what am I to do?

3882. THE 'MERRIWEATHER POST' IN THE HARBOR

THE 'MERRIWEATHER POST '

IN THE HARBOR

'There's a document for every category,' the harbormaster

said that, spitting back his coffee, 'and I have to be sure I

get each one.' On the open table was his bottle of Jack Daniels

and two bedraggled dock-men slumped but cogent. 'They've

been out for four days, running the harbor tugs straight off

the Narrows - no wonder they're dead fucking beat. I'll let

them sit here a while and then sleep it off on the cots in the

back. It ain't pretty, but that's how I run this place.' He kept

walking, me alongside, determined to get through his tasks.

-

The four-o'clock sun meant business, of sorts. It was

the time of afternoon when things undone tended to stay

that way, and things needing to be done had been done

already. Trouble was, I wasn't sure of the clock. Gulls 

and terns and the rest of the harbor-bird contingent

kept squawking. A few watercraft idled their time and

spit back to the water - a thick, slow grumble, as of

time and the river. Me, I'd been too long gone and wasted

forever to make much sense of the place and the moment.

Being just here meant just being here.

-

'Roll up your sleeves, take this barrel over sides, and just

roll it along. The liquid inside's gonna' get a momentum, 

and it will do most of its work for you.' Yes, yes, how I

liked that idea. Harbor-men, harbor-men, the very best.

3881. ISRAEL

ISRAEL

I have hailed you on the run. All the tribes

of Israel agree, things are what they never

should be. Things are not what they seem.

You can have your pick of either; I am tired

of writing in this hive. Instead, watch me bow

once more to the most ancient of all : the Sun

God, which rules the sky  -  not your warrior

God madman Yahweh, fearsome wartime

jealous military-leader God. So demanding

and utterly foul. Instead of this, the great yellow

sky God above will watch, will watch, and watch

some more, and then burn out. That will silence

all the critics. Then you can have what's left, oh

Israelites : the burned fritters of your meat and

sacrifice, the cleaned solace of blood-drained

 kosher corpses. Above it all, the high God winces.

3880. SADDLE RIVER

SADDLE RIVER

(from 'Last Time In Luxembourg')

1. Rambunctious palaver: run to the river,

racheting the smirk, bring the hammer and

unsettle the clerk. Leave your name at the

desk, completely mis-spelled.

2. Remember that time at the waterfront kiosk:

the girl bending down to her dog, showing

everything under her skirt. What a moment,

and it was all so foreign and respectable.

3. I tore the hounds-tooth cover in the car we'd

rented  -  forgetting about the knife hanging off

of my belt. Two hours squirming in a seat, digging

a hole like a mouse in the fabric.

4. The man was singing on the edge of the pier -

like a matinee idol crossed with Charles Aznavour

and Deitrich too. Not understanding one word he sang,

I decided to ask for 'Volare'. He grinned, and went on.

5. I went home with the doctor's daughter  -  she seemed

to know everything and was prepared for me to ask why.

Her answer? 'In order to survive, you stupid American jerk.'

3879. THE MOTLEY MANTLE WHEREON WE KEPT THE FLIGHT CREW WAITING

THE MOTLEY MANTLE

WHEREON WE KEPT THE

FLIGHT CREW WAITING

There's a fracture in the stars where sun and heaven used to be :

one unctuous moment now, rotating and swirling like vaunted

cosmic dust. Disjointed things, falling into place, to make the

accidental furtherance of other disjointed things more real.

We add to the disturbance as we pile on. Indefinite objects?

Items not well-defined? 'What is it you mean by all this?',

someone asked the God of chatter. It thundered back:

'Don't ask me that! My goodness now what's the matter?'

-

Ugly and hollow, and as dissimilar as leaves, we walk the

padded mud called earth, and still we complain on what

we see  -  Age, death, wonder, glee, all caked together

on sordid shorelines all foamy and tan with disgust.

What do we care? And why? This one solid finger

of what we name 'Time' is ours but for a moment

and then  -  by design  -  even it scurries away

and leaves us, over and over, with Nothing.

3878. I WONDER WHERE I WISH TO BE

I WONDER WHERE

I WISH TO BE

I don't know the time, and long ago forgot the

day  - things pass like that, they pass away.

That sound I hear in the morning air - the same

people going off to work : the guy in the gray car

with the bike rack on the back, The woman, always

with a bag of food. It all means little to me, less at

least than I can see. I meander instead, to watch the

sun hit the Prospect House trees, the garbled patch

of water and Summer flowers spewing everywhere.

-

Here's a nickel, take a dime : I hear the old church

on the Limetop corner running its morning bells again;

as if this was some medieval town, I'm supposed to

note the time and give my reverence up to that church's

moment. How foul : they do not know I already do so,

in my way, long before and without them. Hubris like that

should be buried in the churchyard they run; a sick

graveyard of trimmed trees and dried, parched grass.

-

I can wrestle sin and time, temperance and crime, or

any old vice at all, here there and everywhere, and

any old time as well. I am King of my stupid matter.

The fence-gate is yet open, nothing leaves, but

then again nothing enters either. What great Duality

presents itself to me? I wonder where I wish to be.

3877. DIRIGIBLE LANE

DIRIGIBLE LANE

Take me down your memory,

ride in your wagon of then;

hold me like you never have

before. I am wilting and fearful

of living regrets  -  by just listening

to you I can live freshly once more.

3876. WITH REGRETS, I LEAVE YOU

WITH REGRETS,

I LEAVE YOU

Yes, yes, I had mentioned you to the magistrate, and

he laughed right back in my face. Angered, I wanted to

rub him out with charcoal, but did nothing at all. I walked

away, simmering my edgy humor in a basketful of

hopes and dreams : oh, when you were beautiful and

young; oh, when I was a stalwart cowboy; oh, when

the world was yet one green meadow. Like forever

ever had a day to waste.

-

'Please sir, I am poor and dying, can you ladle me

some soup? For too many years I have been out on

these streets, suffering the catcalls of passers-by

laughing. They throw me the quarter or dime they

first puke out their ass. Is there no further salvation?'

-

Men like that make me think; give me the heebies,

make me nervous as hell and sore in the heart.

I want to lift a baby to the pool, moisten its

blessed head and mouth a prayer for every

future moment the little tyke shall live.

-

When I was young, I was already old.

Now that I am growing old, I find I

have no interest in being young.

3875. LET ME TAKE FIVE OF THESE

LET ME TAKE

FIVE OF THESE

Wandering like minstrels the pouty boys and their

lovely girls bowed down together to enter Rainbow Arch:

love was in their eyes, though for themselves and not

each other. The one girl was eating a chocolate swirl

like it was the end of the world, and one guy kept moving

to something in rhythm; as if dancing, he swayed. I only

saw later, an earbud in each ear. Man goes walking with

music 'midst friends. They finally entered the errant

oasis, and I lastly saw them smiling to each other,

as if each, relieved, was glad to be finished.

-

In my own heart remain traces of what may have been;

things that I missed, wished not to have said. I understand,

by now, that I myself have arrived, as well, as some odd

crossroads of time where the shadings of all behind me try

now to mesh with a present which tells me there's not

much of a future. It's all very strange. Perhaps I wish

I was one of those kids entering the rainbow bridge,

but I know better than that by now. My heart

has missed that arch some time ago.

-

I hear the sound of a barking dog, not that

far off, though not so near. Over at the

parking lot, all those festive cars, and

music, and people and dogs. All at once

a jumble : I want to be part of something,

but find myself walking, slowly and 

backwards, away from the noise.

3874. THE WALL

THE WALL

Anybody wants to talk, let them talk. All the

monkeys have left their cages, and there's nothing

left here but scraps of salt-lick and peals of bananas.

The zookeeper's gone home to Peru. Every lightbulb

has learned to throw its crooked shadows at my face.

-

I listen to see if there's water running, a hose, or a

faucet, someplace to wet my lips. I'm parched and

tired and angry. Lost in a maze, am I locked in this

raided zoo for the night? Oh, no. I look over there :

the panther is lurking  -  it too is free of its cage.

-

Should it see me and lunge, what happens then? Can

I still be a friendly man, even to unfriendly animals?

I want to cower, but, too brave to show fear and to

scared to be brave, I decide to start talking in tongues.

Damn it all if that panther can't listen and understand

what I say! It answers back, something like 'no worry,

you're not what I came for.' I'm so really relieved.

-

Now, the morning light has already arrived.

The windows are rising their new yellow

light. I open my eyes and realize I'm alive.

No wall to contain me at all.

3873. MISSING SOMETHING

MISSING SOMETHING

(*see footnote at end)
I am missing something, dreary already, 
saddened and down. The skylark descends.

Nothing but crumbs all over again.

-  

Once I did marvel at rivers and lakes. 

Once I did soar with the swallow.  

And now - this report just in - all  

has become dark and hollow.  

-

I am walking the lame streets. 

This time, Philadelphia has no brother, 

New York City blows the big one,  and

I am stuck at the base of Paterson Falls.

There's an old bust here, of Alexander Hamilton,

looking back at the falls. City of Industry, 

and all that outdated crap. 

-  

This place is a filthy slum of scrap; 

why don't they just call it that?  

------ 
c/r 2012 http://garyjinn.blogspot.com/

*Confucius had a concept called 'the Rectification of Names', 

whereby when things go wrong it is because there is no harmony

in naming, things are no longer what they are called, and the 

Emperor has lost favor with the God. The concept says that 

unless things are renamed to show a truer harmony and 

reveal by the name each their true self, no good would occur.

3872. SO MADAM

SO MADAM

Sometimes a great notion : heard that : doesn't

matter. There comes a time when you stop talking

about where you live : doesn't matter, just is. I saw

Judith today, said hello. She smiled back and we

talked. She's a wonderful soprano who lives in

Princeton; as done a lot of Milton Babbit's work.

She seems somehow a little nervous, but she's

calm as a lamb. Judith Bettina, ma'am.

-

I don't know why I talk this way : a braying shed

of sheep in my head. Wearing the Wurlitzer I have

no watches to hold; nothing ticks in my head, really,

 'cept my brain. But I want to be free; like a slave in

a cellar would be seeking release, that's me.

-

Willow tree, weep for me : heard that : doesn't

matter. Whenever it is that they invent a submarine

that can work on land, well then, call me, I'll listen.

I ran into a tall, dark fellow today, he was robbing

hives from out the farmer's trees. 'I seek a honey

that can't be matched; but don't tell the bee-keeper

that.' I wanted to tell him about hives not really

being in trees, 'cept for a bear, but I just let it go.

-

So, madam, I'm still willing to meet you, just as

we'd planned. Can we make this work?