Wednesday, October 8, 2014

5981. MIRACULOUS WAYS

MIRACULOUS WAYS
In so hundred many matter and different ways
the words are frequently overwritten  -  he walks
in night, a cigarette's red point athwart his darkened
face. And I know nothing of that intention. He waits, 
for what? To rob the midnight bank? To steal the
split-level fern and one of the most-high daughters
of the house? I am writing, here, a descriptive realism 
that carries no luggage. Mr. Ashcan School, that's me.
The Armory Show inside of my mind  -  crowds lined
up just to see. I put down the instructions  -  Picasso
follows and Cezanne tries to talk : show me 'depth'
in a few jagged lines. Outdo even yourself, oh Piero
Della Francesca. Come to me all you who labor,
whining. Here, here it is dawn at the lake  -  rowers
skid by in silence, only the oars slapping the water
and I hear a girl's voice. There's a wild coyote or
a nearby red fox, running hard, in determined motion
across the grass. Cars are passing, and a countryside
bus makes its NYC run. Everything like this happens,
over again, and it's nearly the same  -  I want to paint
with the words what I paint with the paints : the most
fruitful instructions with which to continue this life.
Every moment, in its time, is miraculous.

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