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.