3949. CAROLINE NOTION, 1831

CAROLINE NOTION, 1831

In the year 1831, we went westward

with nearly but an axe and a pike

tethered by wishes. The circumference

of all our dreams was broader than

Ohio. We passed that spot long ago.

Now, the manic natives have us

pressed; scouting around our wagons,

these savages have taken my wife

and kin, unexpectedly. I am leaving

this note in case I am gone, or dead,

when you get here to see.

3948. LAMBETH

LAMBETH

I am sitting in William Blake's

chair. But why? Strangely and

singly, people talk at me as if I

care. This British land is running

on, and I am patched in memory

from some other place  -  to try

and make my system work, make

my land have minor moments.  Those

illuminated books seem all I'm tracking.

'Tyger, tyger, burning bright'  -  this is,

pen in hand, written with a cocktail of

famished ink. The land is dry,

and howling like a dog.

3947. UNHAPPY

UNHAPPY

And now, and how. All this

shitty stuff again. They've made

and changed my paper, turned it

inside out, marked it for destruction

now  -  little I can do. I can hardly breath.

3946. THE MARSHAL MASK

THE MARSHALL MASK

The marshall mask of the face

bears every telltale mark : eyes

and nose, I am seeing you - and

things like that talk sex to me.

There's no real way avoiding 

what I see; it all comes back

in an instant. I am not a man 

to avoid the deep dark of the 

past; just look at the tracing,

and you will see. I relish the

shadows and depth. I linger,

perhaps but a moment too long,

just to look back at your fine

shadow, moving along now, 

and passing from my sight.

3945. TRAVEL

TRAVEL 

(leave me angry)

I denigrate nothing so much as

the moment that passes: We

weakly wave goodbye as

breathing takes our path. At

Baltimore's leafy Leakin Park,

I looked around me once to see

an empty lake; those men had

taken all the water. And, now,

she is standing near me, black

hair streaming, and I am in

the lake  -  but am I dreaming?

-

Once, while taking to the stage, I

saw a klieg light burning; nothing

much went on  -  all those smoke

and mirror things together. Blue notes

were beaming, the piano stood alone.

I fostered every entry, from Rosemont

to Federal Hill. I was nowhere, though

my ghost was in every detail.

-

Suffer me smothered to die.

Take me to Philadelphia. Put

me in Laurel Hill  -  and then,

whatever you do, leave me

angry and walk away.

3944. EIGHT WAYS TO UPEND A SCHOONER

EIGHT WAYS TO 

UPEND A SCHOONER

Lift it and flip, ram it hard,

turn and slam. That's only 

three, and I don't care

about the rest. These three

will do. I am happy to be

the doing doing this to you.

See the Laplander hold his

rifle  -  that one, over here.

It too will have to do  -  all

those native lands seems to 

count for nothing anyway.

3943. IN THE DUNGEON

IN THE DUNGEON

Here, where I am standing alone, I am chained to

the wall. I seek no solace; all this is as disgusting

as can be. Yet, I stay  -  for there is no other way.

My own shoes were long ago taken away; I stand

in fetid water all day, cold and lifeless, both me

and it. I will soon be dead, there are no two ways

about that; my head reeks, my lungs pound from

congestion, the slimy cold has entered my system,

and I shudder. Was I sentenced to this, or just to Death,

and what's the difference anyway? Five years in chains,

it's all the same. I have a friend or two in the rats which

scurry around. I'm fed by wart-hog-faced jailers with always

a leer and a grimace. I ask for a preacher, they send me

a rabid dog, snapping at me and howling. What's the use?

The two men I killed, at least they were dead in ten minutes

and with the justice of a cause. This, this is all useless dying,

a mute vessel going to Hell, a sign in the dark that nobody reads.

3942. ALL THOSE THINGS

ALL THOSE THINGS

Taking the season rightly in stride, I am

walking through leaves as they fall. Everything

follows that same progression : the passage

through time as if blind. Love and luck, together,

have no handle by which to hold on. I am running

this gantlet together with all those I know. There's

another magnet to draw me, but I will not acquiesce

as it leads me astray : foundation, meticulous spray,

the sight of green awnings still open on a wild yellow

house, the water that never stops leaking from the hose.

Why all this matters now, I really cannot say. It's a day

in the bright light, a day in the shadows, one after another,

and all those things (I may have said) amount to, really,

so very little at all. I am taking this season rightly in

stride, walking along, and checking my stride.

3941. BEARING THE SHOES OF EDWARD VILLELLA

BEARING THE SHOES

OF EDWARD VILLELLA

It was a windswept carpet of a night as we trounced up

Broadway. A long-distance goal would have been Lincoln

Center, had we been asked. As it were, our elongated

bodies fought the wind past scores of luggage stores,

lingerie wholesalers and stationery and office suppliers.

The occasional Afghan jewelry distributor added color to

an otherwise bleak night. Street-signs and traffic lights

distorted the pleasure of the walk as we ambled forth

unknown. At about the time I spied a yellowing bookstore

at a bend in the street, just then, the sinister carriage came

around the curve, with three figures within. Starting out,

they directly entered the brownstone before which they

had stopped. The tophats were odd, their gait was important,

and the long, black capes they wore seemed of another age.

A thin, white light went on in the vestibule, while outside their

black horse whinnied; a token perhaps of its loneliness

or edge. Quickly, the three entered the house. I heard

them ask for 'Mr. David Zimmerman.'

-

I have never felt as much out of time as that day. I have

never felt more a lone stranger that at that moment, when,

on a broad and darkened street, I sensed everything I knew

to be drifting away. There was a not-so-old mother, in a

thin house dress, at the other window, holding cloth and

slowly weaving her body in and out of time - to a tune,

perhaps, that only she was hearing. There was a

disembodied bird, its floating blue jay head and neck,

crown and eyes, hovering directly in front of me. As

it alit onto my arm, it regained its entire body. The

two side eyes were than added to by a larger,

central eye with one hooded lid.

-

I felt to talk to someone, remembering I wasn't alone.

Turning in the clutter of this odd reality, I saw instead

that I was alone; singularly enchanted, I decided to

rest. The coal-dark night of this lethal city had bested

me, had worked on my mind. Some monument to

Columbus was beckoning me. I verily hesitated to go.

-

I was holding the shoes of Edward Villella -

(I thought to be lost in the snow).

3940. FROZEN MULE MEAT : TOO MUCH RUNNING ON

FROZEN MULE MEAT : 

TOO MUCH RUNNING ON

Every little thing has jet lag - and too many

second moments have long lost their validity.

It's all frozen mule meat running on. Beneath

a night sky : Belinda I am seeing you.

Two fat ladies are window shopping; but

what will they do with the glass when they

buy it? (I want to ask : such specious questions

are my task). Creatures without names are

digging holes in the ground. People talk

out of turn. Everything comes back to 

where it began. No longer do we have

a heart, and I have commingled blood

and life-story in a single, massive heave.

Sadly, the trees are felled as I await so

little. The air has the jism of psychotic

flesh. I pomade the pastures where, long

before, the cow and the farmer flourished,

or tried. Walk on, time, and I have lost

all living : now all things have died.

3939. ONE RIBBENTROPP SISTER

ONE RIBBENTROPP SISTER

This bleak December, make my cloth

of gold and weave only angels into my

seams. Please, I ask this. My hands

are so tired, and they have lost all direction,

as I cannot even think what to command of

them. Let me take down the pleasure pilot,

lower the gas flame, and walk away sullenly

brooding. Only this once, I can claim, have I

managed now to beat salvation at its very

own game. I have become a hardened

hammer in the sin of this world. You

have sewn my flag  -  I hold it now,

unfurled. This bleak December,

make my cloth of gold (and

I will not be cold).

 

3938. SUSPECT SIDEWRANGLER

SUSPECT SIDEWRANGLER

The to-be brother the one with no keys, the fiery

hand-holder, the marshall herding things back:

that there's the guy I want to know; the one

person with any neck to hang from.

-

There she is, she sits in red : I knew her

when and even then it was crystal clear

she'd already been to Paradise and here.

-

We played cards with death, this guy

and I. He lost, I won, we parted ways,

he disappeared. She came around, with

some violent ways. I saw through her

every stitch and, in spite of everything

else, loved her like she was mine.

-

Now, the sky switches places, and

it turns around. There's no justice

coming, in this one horse town.

(The one's long gone, that man

with no keys  -  he took what was

coming, and left me with these).

3937. UPON REFLECTIONS MEETING

UPON REFLECTIONS 

MEETING

Eventually they do -  the sightlines

mingling all light and intention. Do

me right by this one  -  put your

sculptures where they may go.

Open that door, let the light

flood this room : I have to

mingle though, no  -  such

forced entanglement is just

sickening to me. I have the

carriages and the badges to 

show, but nothing for people

at all. Radishes in the Chow 

Mein? I assume, if at all,

that you're kidding.

3936. LET ME BE

LET ME BE

All this pining for things doesn't

work : over the flag at the Ferry

House the taxman has hung now

his orange sign so simply and

succinctly stating - 'closed for

failure to pay.' Too bad, really;

there's so much more to say.

-

A history of men and their glasses

and knives and napkins. All those

fair women, dandy to dine, and it's

1954. 'When the color goes out of

your face like that, I swear you

look dead'  -  that gray and ashen

profile, pumping nothing back.

-

Verisimilitude. How I love the world.

I want really to never leave at all.

3935. PICTURES AT AN EXECUTION

PICTURES AT AN EXECUTION

Moussorsky, modest never means shy.

Watch that poor man's feet; on high the

nerves shake and the body withers and

snaps. The natural association of pure

despoilation, one thing all together as the

rank and file trundle in. Fancy chaos,

and a plain old death  :  I am in my

waning peak of time, and yet shoulder

your responsibility. A blue collar vestige

of things that matter no longer yet

remains for me to pass through.

There is, really, not anything

left to say, and I've had a

good time at this hanging.

3934. IT'S NOT OFTEN

IT'S NOT OFTEN

There are places, I assure you, where

April really follows May, where fruit

unripens on the vine, and clowns

bring sadness to the masses : a land

where all things are breaking out,

loose and wild. It is the land of

Sin(e); not the one you know,

but another one entire.

-

There is no trespass here - you

may do whatever it is you please;

just decide to choose, decide to

buck your wagon and change key. 

Run all those limits to the chamber

you select. The light will be leaving

just as soon as it gets here.

-

 Men are talking stocks again : all

their lame scenarios of margin calls

and turnover gain. Simple men are

simple men, and will so always be;

the learned Rabbi speaks at the tomb, 

the monied writer has his hour at Library

Station. The fat lady talks of Australia anew.

-

Oh God, I want to sleep and we are

falsely taking of a hundred things. You

know you know nothing about anything

you know, and health is not the key

to your happiness at all.

3933. MINTS TO THE OPERA

MINTS TO THE OPERA

['You're trying to affect my 

longevity, Stevie. I will have 

my juiced alliance with the sun, 

forevermore : the style of all

my things remains unchanged.

Tophat, coat and collar - and

the famous Dame over in the

corner, that's her third cigarette

in a row. 'I do not Belzar, just

do not like him  -  I don't know

what it is.' The black fellow wearing

the big apron (what is this, the South

again?), he's carrying a tray of winding

foods. 'Come back again, those little

loaves are good!' The guy was telling

me, just now, be bought a brand new

Lincoln but he doesn't like it one tiny

bit. I took these mints to the opera  -

they're surprisingly good, and they

don't make a sound.']

3932. SIN, SHAMASH AT SIPPAR

SIN, SHAMASH AT SIPPAR

No, they are Gods, and those are

their names, while Sippar was their

place and Ishtar was Shamash's

sister. The Angels here have cords,

and they measure all the Earth - its

righteous ones, and those who are

not. Be ye wary then, of all of what

you are doing or about to do.

3931. RIMSHOT

RIMSHOT

Ride the rough road Sally,

come through to the other side.

Enter laughing then exit leaving.

There are bread crumbs on this

table which we leave for the little

birdies. Any time you want you can

see them at the feeder. Life has a

fatal rhythm all its own  -  it's lovely

and nice and then it's not. Ride the

rough road, Sally, to exit out the

other side. Love, salvation.

3930. AT A TIME OF TAKING

AT A TIME OF TAKING

(read fast)

I am not alone will not be by myself have

entered this place at a very torrid pace.

Those big lamps over the entrance are 

swinging but I do not like the way they 

look : the fake veneer of a Victorian crook,

Like some ghost of Fagin in a tale by Charles

Dickens. So much for that, I'll just walk

away. I want to blow this big library up.

I want to take people and carry them 

away in my hearfelt whirlwind - a biblical

means means of somehow achieving a

Life by a Death  -  I'll never know.

Give me a piece of bread, throw me

some coins, throw me some fishes, most

anything to make this time go by. In a

better fashion. In a cleaner mode. In

a way of perdition that will 

lighten my load.

3929. BE MY JENNIFER JONES

BE MY JENNIFER JONES

In a dark light, I have run all this

course before. I know the turns 

and angles, each being what they

may. The man with the corkscrew 

haircut is busy lighting a match, or

trying, in the wind. What goes out

is that which will not go on. One

blatant fissure, a crack between

two halves of an overrun life.

Near to him, I watch the girl in

a shoulder-coat; she smiles, turns,

and seems to bless the air with her

presence. An angry cab-driver is

yelling back: 'no smoke in here; no 

smoke in here!'. The guy throws it

all on the ground and they enter the

squalling cab. Drive away, oh please,

drive away, or be my Jennifer Jones.

3928. MAN SEEKING

MAN SEEKING

To a man seeking to wander the desert a

hundred years blind and parched, immune

to suffering but filled as much with sorrow as

grief, little things scratch  -  the bug under

toe, the beetle that hangs on a native's

eyelid, the caked brown something on

the mouthpiece of that last canteen.

Oh, never again. Not homeward, but

bound instead for a silence lachrymose.

The sort of tears a Jesus would cry from

his pores; a sweat red, like blood, and a

putrid spittle, foaming and rank like old

vomit. I know all of those things, yes,

having been here a very long time.

Not yet a hundred years, but long

enough anyway that it's no longer,

no longer by any means, sublime.

So hold your religion, and stop all

your crying. I have been here by

choice, and the penance is mine.

3927. THE GIN LAKE

THE GIN LAKE

This fodder keeps me drunk, sedated,

and stupid as any Neil Sedaka could be.

Don't take your love away from me,

remember that twaddle?

-

I fall down, only to smack my forehead on

the lacquered table-top before me. One

red welt later, and I'm still singing the blues.

Give another pinch of that booze.

-

Here, I lit the match that burned my

finger that lit the napkin that torched my

beard that burned my face that scarred

my skin. What the fuck? If there's any

more of that, count me in.

3926. AT MARY O'BOYLE'S

AT MARY O'BOYLE'S

My newest tongue, Mary O'Boyle, is

driving for you. At the rubble'd heap your mother

calls home, I see you peering from behind smoky

and torn curtains. Look at me, look at me, sweet

rascal, for I am calling out to you. Behind us, that

damned slag-heap, the peat burning, the spreading

and incessant smoke burning my eyes, it

all comes down to this one moment : Oh

how I want you now! Come out!

-

I cry like a singing cat for you, in heat and

wailing. I'll rub my rump on a fencepost if you

wish, I twist and turn in any exuberant fashion.

This dimming evening light, already gone and

now already early, throbs away November

like the headache you reek in my own sorry

heart. Where am I, if not with you? If you

are not here, why continue to do?

-

Come out, come out, oh Mary O'Boyle.

Your mother can wait - her and her toil.

3925. TEPID REMARKS

TEPID REMARKS
When silence was in order, I spoke.
When company was needed, I left
you alone. As nightfall arrived, I
arose, and when daylight broke,
only then I slept. When water ran,
I was not thirsty; when storm clouds
thundered with rain, I had no shelter.
When lightning struck, I saw the world
as dark. When it was cold, I had warmth,

and when it was hot, I froze.
-
These are the dissemblings of a madman;
a monster turned heretic, a doyen of death.
If I turn on you quickly, it is because of
the knife in my hand. If I whisper, slowly,
it is so as to make my noise.
-
When you were empty, I was filled.
When you were barren, I was rich.
Whenever you won, I lost. When
you grew happy, I floundered in both
sadness and sorrow. I do not know
the endings of these things - only
do I speak to clouds and sky. If you
are of God, show me. If you are
nothing, then go away.
-
I seek the energy of the birds and
the seas. I am dead tired with trying.

3924. SIMPLE

SIMPLE

Manufactured sentiment loses

every facet of being right by

aligning the heart with the mind.

Sensibly, we should know this,

at all times. But it does not always

happen this way. People talk of

children having pure and wholesome

outlooks which they should emulate.

No, that's not true at all  - it's a 

manufactured tale itself, of a

goodness false and barren.

3923. IF HEAVEN CAN WAIT

IF HEAVEN CAN WAIT

The scratch of the lantern on an old

barn board : like reading Robert Frost

in the dead New Hampshire night.

Shadows abound, nothing moves.

Why and how have I come to this,

I do not know, will never know. I

just accept  -  the wavering forms on

the barnside wall, the task of that

chicken pecking its ground, the

dim memory of years back, when 

the abandoned truck in the weeds

was yet running. If Heaven can wait

for perfection, for the needle of things

to be threaded and ready, I cannot.

Dismay sets in, the doubting moon tries

hiding behind clouds, the night overtakes

just everything else. If Heaven can wait,

I then cannot. I must take care of grace 

myself, for these moments of

goodness will never last.

3922. AT THE ATMOSPHERE

AT THE ATMOSPHERE

Along the water's edge,

the sacks are open; sand

and red dirt spilling out. A

few people, in canoes or 

rowboats, languidly steer

about, making ripples

on such lazy water.

3921. SACKS OF GOLD

SACKS OF GOLD

Mongolian hordes, riflemen on the

Borodinian steppes. All Central Asia

like a rifle recoils. How it happens,

no one knows - but the most simple

words re-kindle revolution. I wasn't

born this way, and there are so

very many strange things yet

yet for me to announce:

-

I can really cause harm by my thought;

time pulls its thread, steadily, through

all situations, and no matter where

we go it always  been there first,

either 'just before us', or

some time ago.

-

A spirit, an angel, or even a man,

traveling through space at the

speed of light, you understand,

would be unable to see his reflection

in a mirror he held, if he held a mirror.

But why would he? Let me refute:

-

There exists a cul de sac of Reality

into which we are all shelved  -  seeking

Eden, seeking Hell, seeking selves. It

amounts to mere twinklings and glimmers

of things, really nothing at all - Conestoga

settlers pushing an envelope over new 

western plains which exist only in their 

minds. Time has beat them there. They 

can see nothing at all, but their envelope 

of what's real includes it, so they think

they see. Poor Mankind, they

have outrun their time.

3920. WATERFALL

WATERFALL

(Best in School)

The words fall easy, passed and

sorted, but they just keep gushing

out. Watch eyes, I say, watch eyes : 

they don't need words to see with, 

and they can see so much. I am running

on, with a certain pleasure principal

at work. It is my moment to take

stock of a distinct reflection in

a distant painting's mirror.

3919. UNSURE

UNSURE

I am unsure of everything else, but know I

have shouldered my own pure weight  -  like

gold in a medal: obvious, but not of true value.

I can stand tall; all those generals and killers

and soldiers and statesman have nothing on 

me. This life, this life is but a line of moment,

a lemon to take for the drippings. My list,

which I am still reading, comes form far 

away; many of its objects are not Earth

things, and so many I can still not find.

Purloined and taken from me, all else.

-

I do not mind the moment or the matter.

Like fat Burgermeisters eating their

beefsteaks at a bar, things swell and

rise with laughter, and then subside.

I value only that which has no value.

Everything else, it will surely seem,

so quickly fade and pass away.

Yes, I am still unsure.

3918. DON'T BE

DON'T BE

Some papers found on a wetted doorstop, 

were they meant for me? Just like some ,

calaboose, they were stapled in the corner,

double-spaced, all arrayed neatly. Had

some crazy man left me this tale? I

tried reading  -  much too long of 

little interest : a medieval alchemist,

and man named Einstein with a

peculiar German accent; two other

characters named Jeremiah and

Rock. No way I could get even

interested in this. Why was it here?

'Post-Apocalyptic Life In Chaos' -

no kidding at all, that was the title.

3917. REGISTER

REGISTER

 'I am so tickled pink with your desire, you

truly make me blush.' And no more words

being said, desire was satisfied. I sat there,

gently twirling a leveled straw  -  all those

nasty drinks were emptied, the room was

thinning out. It had been five hours since

one fake name atop the other was so

registered here, with the friendly

desk-clerk. Can you ever

imagine that?

3616. AMENIFIED HIGHWAY BLUES

AMENIFIED HIGHWAY BLUES

Power comes like trouble shooting, highlands

over level water  -  the five-lane bridge here

supports nothing at all. I watch the swirling

something fly  -  eagle, hawk, or distant tern.

What do I know of birds? Hugging watery

sides, the uplands bear their fir trees tightly.

These are them thar' hills, of old Vermont,

of Hampshire's killing ways. The single road

here takes me high, roaming through a steepened

hillside cavernous and nasty-bleak with rock.

Oh I sing the words victorious while I am

driving so alone. Up high, a'yonder pealing,

there's a cabin in the sky; that's where I'm

stealing, and that's where my fates will lie.

3915. THAT HALLOWED WAY

THAT HALLOWED WAY

Shamed by circumstance, some men struggle

to survive, while others to perform will strive.

Those lights, deep and long, in the caverns,

they yet - nonetheless - shine. All men are

God-like; it's all mankind. That hallowed

way will, I know, move me along. There are 

no forces better than that, nothing more strong.

-

The soul man is flipping cards. He dances

while yet singing; does his magic play upon

the stage as jittery as some spastic moron

shaking hands. Everyone bows down for

this stuff : a pope, a manager, the titular

head of some nasty foreign land.

-

When God returns, I know a million men

who'll want to beam it live, broadcast for

the millions and more. It's all so stupid when

you think about it, and all been done before.

There's no corner of the world it wouldn't 

reach, but there's no sense worrying that now.

-

Once, visiting Paris was all the rage : scaling

philosophy with talkers of rage, drinking deep

coffee at outdoor cafes. People would sit, 

drinking their Campari and just comparing notes.

Then, one fine, elastic day, the last phone rang

and took it all away. Someone answered, and

the vast, unending cosmos started talking back.

-

Shamed anew, by circumstance, some men

struggle while others dance. This world

is a very powerful place.

3914. WATCHING

WATCHING

I have only to figure your hellish bent to be

beyond myself and calling : names for things

and things for names, and the unheavy lisp of

trading hearts and minds. The thin tremble of

an evening sky, seen so wide and over the river,

screams of a new yellow light. I have not seen

these things before : your all-esteemed vagrancy

and wild use of words, the leer of love as it peels

from your lips, and those stiletto heels with which I

see you plodding through time. I dream I am dreaming,

and you are standing across from me, skipping lightly

by the pool's blue water - pure pleasure on your face.

3913. AH! THE STOIC

AH! THE STOIC

Joan of Arc had her reasons : those ramparts to

be broached, all that crazy language and song,

the flames that pierced a soul. If I were her keeper,

I probably would have gone first. Now, there are

nothing but remnants; that story re-circulates in

a hundred different versions and tongues. The very

idea of Visionary Joy and things floating around  - 

these days would most definitely have the name of a

syndrome (check with your employer  -  sometimes

this is covered. But, oh no, flames first lick the feet,

travel up legs, caress thighs, cook that lovely meat.

Dear Joan, standing still, not a move out of place.

All those angelics coming down, to carry you away,

what did they know of nation, state and home? I

miss you, like air, like a flagellent missing his

whip, like a horse, racing down that tired track,

with really no legs at all.

3912. VERNACULAR CARGO

VERNACULAR CARGO

All that faceless music, oh no, no more.

That little white shirt and all that chemistry

pays the American bills as I watch these

professionals talk to each other. And as

much as they are enablers, so much too

they are not. These things are really senseless

anyway, and the people I see depend too

much on each other. Too hell with their

collectivistic impulses. As I see it, the bird

a'flight, already on the wing, knows better.

It's gone. Oh, the ways of all Mankind: I am

your shirt, but I want to be your button.'

-

How about this - I'll let my fingers grow long,

you stay distant after dining, and I'll take my

wine on the run and never think twice about

what we've done. On the backside of 

plagiarism, I notice, through the window, 

that man who is mowing his lawn.

3911. THIS SARABANDE

THIS SARABANDE

...Has got to go, cannot be danced.

The calliope sounds better, even when

it's dead. Look at that monkey, alive on

a stick! What gives with all that shtick?

-

We are alive on a tightrope, for a moment;

balancing like treble on an old bass clef.

-

Here's the reason I'm so happy: just today

I went to the place where we used to meet.

It's been paved over now, and they're building

nearby a gasoline station and convenience store.

-

We are alive, on a tightrope, but for a moment.

We balance like treble, on an old bass clef.

3910. DOING THIS TWO-STEP LIGHTLY

DOING THIS 

TWO-STEP LIGHTLY

Doing this two-step lightly, I am dancing

the jig off the corner. I can jump and fly,

but the seeming disaster that is Life resounds,

catches me back, calls me in again. Over there,

that tiny fellow with the broom, a Chinese man

tending to his restaurant's front - for maybe just

one minute, I would like to be him. No harm,

just to see. I can be anything I want - or at least

I was told, long time ago. All that time, and nothing.

I have arrived; the terminal is clear. Me, I have no

voice and my endless notebook is empty. I am

doing this two-step lightly - I suppose just

to exit this place. Dance. Dance. Dance.

3909. ONE PREMISE

ONE PREMISE

I've long ago done salivating over you : like

a baseball field in an awful rain, there is nothing

now that can ever take place. The wash has washed

everything else away. There are pools where the

bases should be. With nowhere left to land or

slide, I will have to stay airborne. Above you.

Disclaiming whatever you were.

-

I have to listen to farmers and priests, doctors

and bookseller lawyers; carrion fetchers, dogs

of dismay. Yes, yes, I will nod and give back,

but never obey. They are holding a mirror, each.

None of it reflects back to me anything I have

even seen or worked with before. Truly, all

these things far surpasseth understanding.

3908. WALTZING MORDANTLY

WALTZING 

MORDANTLY

Break the chains, secure the free.

Opposites attract : the low dog is snarling

at the gateway, the singular  postman walks

by, leaving a note and that's all. I cannot

blame the man for not finding out what

a canine incisor may feel like calf-high.

-

Once, a long, long day ago, I watched a

masked gunman riding the plains. He wore

a hood, like you never see in westerns, and

a long and weathered coat which nearly

covered his body  -  more like a riding

blanket than anything else. No Zorro

could have done it better. And then,

anyway, I wished to know so

many things more.

-

Who was this man, and where was

he headed? He rode into a storm,

how badly did that end up bothering

him? And, oh yes, what then of the

horse? Did anyone ever care, or

were they just beaten into fast

submission; the endless wild

horses harnessed, whipped

and thrown aside, just to

waltz like crazy over

hill and dale?

3907. ALL THE WORKING PRINCES

ALL THE 

WORKING PRINCES

Pencils always at the ready, these are

architects working at their tasks; throwing

stone and brick out of ancient seas.Today's

man knows nothing of this. From hemp to 

coffee, we traverse these insincere ways. In

darkness I see the workmen walking to their

site, heavy with their lunch crates, funny, singing. 

They talk, and all their ribald intentions are soon

taken away and I am left with nothing but the

holding of hands. Apache girl, Filipino Christian,

leftover lad  -  any of you, roll away the stone!

I want a new immortality! Marjorie Sunshine,

oh now please come to me!

-

Puzzles? Do you doubt me? I am here, on71st

Street, hailing now this jumbled cab. I notice things;

there, here, Saul bellow, Delmore Schwartz, Isaac

Singer  -  all those distant, writer friends, once 

gone, are back again for one last blast. You see,

 you see, I inhabit a land of the dead, and 

all these men are still here at their tasks.

3906. IDEAL FAVOR

 IDEAL FAVOR

'And then we'll hear a door slam.'

I am a lost sailor in a sea of woe, a

taker of messages from the oracle Yadoh.

I situate my human heart and mind on a

distant star, 'Alarsis.Un', from where I came.

(Never mind the rest; the rest is all the same).

3905. LEAVING CARDIFF

LEAVING CARDIFF

I wore new spooners while riding the carriage,

looking out a window that was dusted over.

Nothing much to see, my mind wandered.

I'd heard of trains which got lost in tunnels

and, as a writer, I was caught by some

running image of something being what

it cannot be. A story too clever for its own

good. I jangled some change in my pocket.

-

Do you know what it's like to just get tired

of dealing with someone time after time?

The same old behavior, the same useless

things. Like a starling, in seeking new wings,

running forward only to be dashed again

by that same old sun. I'd grown way too

tired to even complain. From today, I

swore, it all would be different.

-

I'd found a dead bird, in fact still warm,

lifeless and round in a concrete planter just

a few days before in the city. It must have

just fallen there after crashing into the

skyscraper glass above. Such things

happen more than you'd know. This

was a cat bird  -  alas, no more lives.

-

Back in this seat, I was looking to read,

something, anything, to pass on the time.

There was nothing intriguing at all; so

I sat there and wrote some notes to

myself. Alone, in a non-smoker car:

all this place, and no place at all.

3904. JUST KEEP TRYING

JUST KEEP TRYING

Your propensity for dangerous malfeasance

keeps things going : the leopard that got out

of the cage, the dynamite that went off on your

watch, that little kid who fell down the well. My

God, I wonder, how do you manage? Every time

you're around, something goes poof!

-

It's like a magic candle in a circus ceremony;

where the clown exits the cake only to fall

right back in to another one, and his fingers

are reduced to smoke while his costume's

ablaze. Lights, camera, action, and all that.

-

I built myself a castle on a solid, rocky ridge,

and just as quickly the ridge fell down. I bought

with certainty into a deal that couldn't fail, and

just like that, it failed. Yeah, we're quite the

damaging team. One for all and all for one;

like those musketeers were heard to say.

3903. FLEEING

FLEEING

Making up bedsheets with which to wrap the corpse.

corpse? Oh well, flowers and ducks will have to do.

There's nothing like this anywhere else, and

I'm really so happy you came. Sit down.

-

Let me look this over : fourteen pages of a

too-dense script to tell me now I am left with

nothing? Why this way? I used to be a rich

man, now the pilgrims want be dead as well.

-

This is just too much. I can't take any more.

Unlock that center door and let's push out the

horses; we can ride all night, and still make

Norton's Crossing by tomorrow noon.