6837. SO WHAT IF YOU

SO WHAT IF YOU

By just saying the words you can be as tacky as the

next  -  left-leaning or circumspect, right-winger or

central-city leaning neutral. It's all nothing; it's all

your genuflecting in a pool of shit and blood to make

amends and ameliorate your conscience. Go ahead,

go ahead, stand on your magic mountain and bellow.

-

I have eyes, yet I see not, and ears, but I do not hear.

My last jar of Vaseline I used for crankcase oil in the

hopes the heat would break it down into a more liquid 

form. It worked as far as Iowa, and then I ripped the

main-rod. It's just like politics  -  all those little whores

sucking the big guy's weenie. I use that word only once,

here, to get past the usual censors of nothing but that.

-

I put my engine to rest long time ago. Like Mao said,

'political power grows out of the barrel of a gun', and 

who am I to argue. Chinamen geek. Maxine Hong 

Kingston powerless witch-hunt lookalike bitch. Deng 

for dung, I always say about Chinese politics.

-

Here, the old men are sitting around getting haircuts and

blanching about their testimonials dinners that went wrong.

Who dresses these guys? They get up in the morning like this?

I never wore shorts my entire life, and never will, and these

skinny-legged pinfoils are wearing orange and green and

red like some golf-course freaks on his way to their devil.

Wish fisherman's hats to boot. If any of them have a

pension, it's just to relieve their tension  -  they wouldn't

know what to do with anything anyway. Why bother.

6836. A MR. NIEMYER

A MR. NIEMYER

He wasn't a clockmaker, exactly  -   though I'd seen

him fix many. More like a very short man, and that

was that. Nothing distinguishable at all about him, no

real 'thing' to point out. He just was. And I knew him.

How it came to be, I can't remember; I'd seen him once

or twice along Eighth Street, when it was filled with

shoe shops and hippie stores, smoke shops and an

Orange Julius too. Now that's all gone, and I haven't

seen, I have to say, Mr. Niemyer is forty years plus.

What's it matter now, except that you're probably

saying 'well then, why write?' And I don't know  - why

do anything? How to make reason of the way things

come back into one's mind, one's realm, again out of

nothing, from so long ago. What is the past that we must

must know it, and know it twice? One day he asked me

in, gave me some food, and a bottle of beer  -  which I 

didn't really drink, and it may have been actually my 

very first beer out of home  -  on the road, as it were. 

We talked. I saw he was very nervous, and then he told

me about everything that he'd lost, that had been lost,

in the war  -  his mother, his wife, his children, his world.

Burned, embers, nothing, death. The only way he'd survived

as sole survivor was by hiding on a ship and ending up in 

Baltimore, from where he came to New York City on a 

chartered bus, pretending to be a member of the Knights

of Columbus heading to a convention. He got out in 

Philadelphia, took a train from there, alone, and with

one bag and his clockmaker tools, he'd found a room

on Allen Street, and stayed. And stayed some more. 

And stayed  -  only because, he said, he 

was afraid to ever move again.

6835. PATHOS

PATHOS

Pathos wears a jacket,

as children paint the wall.

6834. AT THE THOUGHT OF

AT THE THOUGHT OF

Myriads of storm-clouds entice these propositions, and I

have nowhere else to go. In 1974 I walked Elmira College

daily, only to find myself caught in a campus of want. I

was not entirely there, yet I wrote those endless papers, and

made sure I formulated endless thoughts. I had some form of

formlessness, and haunted artistic corridors too. Looking for

line and form, finding the scent of color and oils.

-

People seemed to think I was a magician  -  finding that open

coil with which to energize my heart, shocking myself into

existence, landing on Earth, from some other place indeed.

Quickly, and oh, I learned all those other languages and all

those other tongues. Each day, in the postal lobby of the

college's mailbox hall, I picked up my copy of Granma,

most faithfully, and read my Daily Call. Red Marxist 

menace papers and chatted with Mao Tse Tung. For

nothing at all that either, except a drawing by Andy

Warhol, or a hush and a shudder from a visiting

Rod Serling, who himself was soon dead.

What was I to do? And at the

thought of what else?

6833. SWOLLEN HEFT PARK

SWOLLEN HEFT PARK

At the corner of Wedgewood and Ellis, that's where we go,

where men shell out steel for some minutes of danger. Even

parking a car gets troublesome  -  all these wooden handles and

these crazy-assed locals with shotguns and sabers. The sign says,

'Do Not Idle'  -  way too philosophical for any of that, and what do

they mean anyway  -  the cars? or people standing around? Why

can't they just be more clear about it? Do they want us there, or not?

I can buy popcorn at the concession stand, or ice cream from that

wily fuck who comes around with the noisy, jangly truck. What

is that his bells play, 'Turkey In the Straw'? I can't figure nothing

of this out  -  my nerves are shaky and my time is running low.

6832. THAT WON'T BE NOTHING GETS HURT

THAT WON'T BE 

NOTHING GETS HURT

I walk unknown, like a stumble-foot loose warrior,

yet I still put out the garbage and do the laundry here.

That's way too much contradiction for me : Brooklyn

maybe instead. The five story walk-up, the old neighbor

who used to work in the Navy Yard when it made real things;

bombs and warriors and steel planks and ships. That corner

drivel diner with the nine-hour old gray coffee still sitting

in the pot, stewing all day, and people drinking it like it

was goldwasser or some elixir. Yhew! Kill me now.

-

Then along comes a Mary Ellen or something, with swagger.

She walks right past my young self and I have her. Now she's mine,

and always. We walk down, entering Prospect, and sit on a bench 

watching some tired kids play an old game of baseball. The dry

paths are base lines, worn out by nothing at all; and the backstop

stoops, it sags and wobbles. A foul ball could knock it over.

That won't be nothing gets hurt.

6831. NO GREAT TEMPLATE

NO GREAT TEMPLATE

In the way of satisfaction, they have given out

tokens : ideas of salve and love. No man is an

island, except those who are. Let the little children

come to me, as I go about my Father's work?

-

The pottery kiln was still warm as they buried the

small bird in the yard, It had fallen or been killed

or somehow died. Probably no more than ten days

old, I'm not sure it had a clue the nest was no longer

its home. What's it called, a fledgling? Dead,

before it even had a chance.

6830. OF A FIRE

OF A FIRE

All I hear are echoes -  and these flames crackling

away. The woods are burning down? Wasn't it

Norman Mailer who wrote, 'Of a Fire on the Moon'?

Yes, it was, about the moon-landing. It was quite a nice 

image; that 'fire' on the moon. The fact that there wasn't 

really one at all didn't mean anything  -  he made reference

to the lift-off of the module back to the command ship.

And then, the Grateful Dead, they hit their gong with

'Fire, Fire On the Mountain.' I always liked that too.

-

So, what is it about fire that brings me here? What

obscure idea must I jettison to tell you what I mean?

Poets aren't supposed to explain, just rather find that

crystalline magic which prospers the image to come right

at your face; to be recognized and be understood, sometimes

without making a smidgen of sense. If it has to be explained,

well, then, one may as well just write prose. Like a guidebook

or an instruction manual instead.

-

I think back now, over these last 10 months or so and realize

there's not a thing I miss : I don't miss the purpose or the ways 

or the people or the reasons or the meanings. I don't miss that 

coffee-shop at morning, or all those sweet girls talking at me,

those guys with their funny hats and lively ways, the black

squirrels who run the campus, the little cops on their one

man scooters scooting over the grass. The annoying people

on the bus or the train. Nothing really at all.

-

It's more like I just miss fire : the fire of ideas, and the fire of

lips and the fire of the hearts I may have seen and touched.

A fire, such as those fires, it stays with me, and goes now 

wherever I go. It doesn't have words; it just burns on.

6829. WHAT WOULD I BE?

WHAT WOULD I BE?

(my life as a drone, so many  years on)

I am not my own best, always falling short. In

my ways, I amount to a Delmore Schwartz, running

between cars, maybe, raggedly demented, never up to

promise, not having reached potential  -  crazed, cranky,

and gone. I have to say I'm sorry for that; bad scene, yeah.

But, why? I don't know, can't say I know, and won't pretend

it's so.  Wasn't drugs nor alcohol  -  I was always too stupid

for that, and lived my live as a slave instead. Doing what 

people said, living like a drudge beneath the stupid heels of

a workaday boss, a scene of loss, of stasis, of patience and

waiting. Of doing, and shouting out, I was more afraid of 

the hurting, the constant God-damned pain. Six hundred 

bucks a week for peeing in a gutter and listening to shits.

Oh but I was the wiser fool  -  they all go home to live with

themselves, while I went home to live with someone else.

6828. COMING HOME BALI HI

COMING HOME BALI HI

(all a really true story)

One time I stayed up all night, with the guy from California

who had the water bag for the mountain passes hanging on the

front of his Chevy pick-up truck. That was a long time ago, and

the truck was maybe a '64 in '76. Something like that  -  but I was

tired and we stayed up, mainly because he wasn't and he just kept 

talking. I must have been pretty worthless, just nodding and listening,

probably not saying anything back, but this guy had arrived about

8pm, from driving like 5 days across the country. He was probably

still wired or up on something and raring to go. He'd parked out

front, entered the house, we all said hi and the rest; had coffee, and

that was that  -  he just never shut down. Where hospitality is

supposed to end, I guess I never knew. I was a working guy, fact

was, and I had to be there at 8am. I guess I could have just said

'goodnight' and left it at that while I slept, but it was seemingly more

interesting this way. My life was pretty much a bore, and work was

a drudge. Did I mention 'what else is new?' I can't rightly now even 

remember what there was so much to talk about : I guess news about

Benecia and San Francisco  -  his two recent towns in California  -  

and cars and trucks and his version of news of the world, which wasn't

mine, but that never mattered. They had a different head there, that

California bent that I could never get. Until much later then, he 
changed his mind  -  by the nineties he was hating taxes, hating 
Mexicans and hating all sorts of regulations and California 
restricted things. And then by 2004, he was dead. Blew his own 
brains out. Smithereen'd his head all over the inside of a stupid

car in his own backyard. Just goes to show what sleep deprivation

will do, maybe, after a while. I don't know, and it doesn't matter

now. It wasn't me and I wasn't it; him either. Both ways, we'd sort

of each saddled different horses to ride and only this one crossing 
at the gulch was what we, momentarily, had decided to have in 
common. About five-thirty or six in the morning, we heard the 
garbage-men come by  -  this was back in the day when two garbage 
guys walked along with the truck, threw the contents of cans in the 
back of the truck  -  all done by hand then, and live. These guys talked 
to pass the time, as they worked. When they got to his truck with the 
water bag on the front, they started laughing and loudly proclaiming, 
like 'Get a load of this! California plates! Guy rides 'cross the country 
with a canvas bag of water on this bumper!' We laughed too, just 
hearing them  -  little men, with not much understanding. 
Water bags were advised, back then, for passing over the higher 
altitudes, the Rockies and such. Extra coolant just in case, 
something about overheating, needing water,  I didn't 
know. But I didn't care. It was cool  -  coarse, tan canvas bag,

with two nice leather straps, holding about 5 gallons or so of water, 
with a great graphic of an Indian Chief's head on it, printed boldly. 
That's probably, when you sort it all out, the thing I understood the 
least  -  the Indian Chief. Is that a way of thanking America for taking 
his land, killing his children and  wives? 'Here, we welcome you along, 
here's some extra water for your backward trek.' Baffling, no matter. 
I'm still alive, for now; he's the dead one. Both. The Indian and him.
 Soon enough, the sun came up, the sky got light,
 and I did, eventually, get away.

6827. LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT

LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT

It is long after midnight on a dark night of love

with the rain pounding down on the hours above.

Between now and then, I'll split the vague difference

and have you step into my dreamworld alone. Watch

me wanting you. Bring forth your stepping stone.

-

There are too many stories in this naked city for me 

to know or care about five or ten. I quibble over 

nothing, for all of it is boring. Long ago I left this 

world with a quiet wave goodbye. The street I left 

from did not even sigh. There were screen-men on 

the corner, blind, yet watching me as if they could see.

-

I've shouldered many burdens over many years, but never

 you; now I get the chance. To have and to hold, yet you are

so cold. They never said Death would bring me to this.

It is long after midnight on this dark night of love.

I am wasted, abandoned, alone.

6826. BROUGHT FORTH FROM THE WATER

BROUGHT FORTH 

FROM THE WATER

The last crazy landing, the final man, the frontier

beyond which no other frontier beckons : I went

to deep space only to find another way home.

Wormholes, indeed. Holding out my hands, all

things were relative; the same temptation someone

would have in the wilderness. But oh, I'm so tired

of dilapidation. There is no time, no time at all. 

-

Here is my coloring book, take it with you to sleep.

6825. GAMELON ARE THE HORNS

GAMELON ARE THE HORNS

The mystique widens as the message grows :

somehow someone is coming again. A religion

takes over; first he's here, then he's killed and gone,

then he's back again only to leave again and say he'll

be back again but you won't know when. Whew!

That's a heavy burden for me to bear.

-

I don't know if I want to carry that burden. Hey, excuse

me Sir, but do I get a choice? A real choice, not just the

alternative is damnation kind of choice; that's too easy.

Is there anything You can do? 

-

I went to school, all those years; I followed all the

dictates of what they said and did what they told me to

do, pretty much. Now for that I get nothing, or what

do I get? I still have to listen? It's just noise to me now,

like a Summer of horns by guys on LSD.

-

I have a solution, a solution outside of faith; it makes

me real and whole and functionally correct about all that

I do. What's this big criterion anyway, about this life? And

what are we to measure it against? The dwindling light of a

fading candle? It goes, it flames, it withers, and then is gone.

6824. MAKE LOVE TO THE SPARKLING PATTERN

MAKE LOVE TO THE 

SPARKLING PATTERN

Someone says 'you can't be there, there's nothing there,

there's not even any reason to uphold.' I want to nod, and

say, 'yeah, you're crazy alright.' But I don't  -  today was

a too-nice day for me to carp and quarrel, even with the 

rain. I walked the Wakahoba Creek with a heart of gold

and a pattern of love. The woman next to me assented, 

and, alongside us, freely, this miraculous dog kept up

and stayed with us, loose and curious, the entire way.

There was a sign, said 'Copperheads.' I guess it meant

snakes. Or was that some sort of old phrase of money?

No one knew anyway, and I didn't care. I got to the

little barn and shed I'd sought  -  nicely red, and some

people nearby I'd known before. We all sat down and

talked. Did I realize here a pattern? Yes. This life is

a silent grace, a period only broken  -  now and then  - 

by the right kind of talk if you let it. I saw their faces,

the freckles and the spots, and knew this was another

moment : something to have and hold and treasure,

like the flight of a distant bird, coming back for

another dose, another cage-kept go-round of living.

6823. BACKLIT

BACKLIT

Here, where the velvet of a black rules the

fabric of the night, here three men are smoking

cigarettes at a table for four. A slow neon, just 

over their head, pulses something about beer

and moose. Two of the men hold cards, while

another is making a call. If there's a fourth,

perhaps it's to be him on the other end.

-

The perky, young girl with the tray passes by. She

throws a smile their way and asks how they're doing.

How are they 'doing?' I, who question everything

want her to ask again, get their attention, and really

rub it in, press for an answer, demand.

-

Not to be, she's gone. If these guys have wives and

families, she'd be their daughter, or good enough to 

be. What can you expect from youth? A youthful

cavalcade of might and wisdom? No, I think not  - 

rather just another tearful wedge of the self-possessed

with emotions where their minds should be and  a

cartful of frolic for brains. I get up just for getting 

up, realizing I still have a handful of fives.

6822. MIDNIGHT DAILY

MIDNIGHT DAILY

I seek to rip the sky from the screen and the

view from the precipice, but I see there is

no way : people come and stay, while others 

come to jump. At the reviewing stand in

Heaven there must be quite a show.

-

What literal explanation can there be? Other 

than a shrug without real knowledge, most people

just stand around  -  even the kids at Princeton,

whenever I noticed, were concurrent with something

else, with not being there at all  -  dancing in place,

nodding their heads to a febrile music from the

earbuds in their achiever's brains. Gym clothes

and running shorts alike, the look of the day.

-

It's midnight, daily, before I get to close; this dumb

and vacant store stays open late just so that I can

learn. Read something else. Understand what

cannot be understood. Nod my way to the

land of another language and place, all 

with a very sensitive eye.

6821. I AM

I AM

I am that one you passed today  -  that one bent over

and stooped. My name, it is Legion, and you may

call me so. I am, perhaps, what you too would be.

Please look my way  -  try to say, something.

I am not here just for me, but I here represent 

something we all could be.

6820. GODS DON'T KILL

GODS DON'T KILL

My lanky friend, the atheist, was standing on his

ant hill, alone. To hear him tell it, he wouldn't even

eat an apple because of the references within.  Ont

boot was set upon a rock  - the smallest of things, 

but a rock nonetheless. We're we're being subjective

each separate item so matters much.

-

Far above him, the eagle who'd recovered was soaring 

along : new birth, new bird, no more pangs of DDT.

He muttered something about why people using their

Gods as foil aim to ruin the world and spoil and kill.

I answered to his reason for disbelief : 'Gods don't

kill people, people do.'

6819. HARMLESS THESE ANIMALS ALL

HARMLESS THESE 

ANIMALS ALL

Hold forth these words : I love all Nature, even the

bad, for it is greater than me, and speaks in a silence

I understand. I call it Husbandry over all the land.

Harm nothing, and go as you came.

6818. HERE IT IS AGAIN

HERE IT IS AGAIN

I've decided, the here and now, I've decided to

be afraid of dying. It's getting late, and I know

it's creeping up on me : some horrid tin-pan disease 

to take me down. One day, out of the blue, noticing

and knowing I'm through. Where to go? What would

I do? I want to live on, past all this; hell, I'd like to

live forever. That's how much I've got to do; but I

know there's a sneak happening. One time three is

all over for me. Live and let live, I say, today,

and every day. I know to be afraid of dying.

6817. BACKELOR THE AUDITOR

BACKELOR THE AUDITOR

I hear you, yes I do. Outside Newscorp today,

the Fox News team. I saw them  -  there were

three. The one in the scoop-neck blouse, well

she was the one for me. I couldn't make out their

words; they were saying some more idiot stuff

about the Supreme Court, or Israel, or AIDS.

You much know the types by now  -  they talk

and make fake emotions, and somehow the

little people eat it all up. It works, it takes;

and, yes, I saw it here today.

6816. MAD HATTER

MAD HATTER

They have come for the man in the tophat now :

he was always too tall for their taste. Lincolnesque,

perhaps, with that tough, granite face. People would

see him in a bakery or a store and just stare.

-

There was always confusion : the light-wand of the

late night sensations, why they've all come and gone. 

They are left for nothing now, with only traces behind 

of what they may once have been.

-

I've dug a hole for myself, and now one for you.

Let's jump in!

6815. PAROCHIAL

PAROCHIAL

(13 feet above sea level)
I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting. I live

in a town of more losers now, where the

tough stay tough and the weak get going.

All parochial concerns by small men in

shiny hats begging quarters at corner lights,

while their painted ladies wait in cars.

-

It's a place where everything is self-generated,

and the only concerns are the things of here : the

waters which course through these rivers and

streams come from nowhere else but here  -  and

go nowhere else but here either. A dredge-pond

wherein everything sinks. I keep forgetting.

Nothing that happens anywhere else will

ever be bothering us.

-

It's about not asking for whom the bell tolls, for

it tolls for thee  -  you know that one; the rabbit

in the ass, with those big ears sticking out, the

little chubby guys worried about nothing but the

mite in their barbecue-eye. And you must remember

this : 'we're weak, and we're little, yeah, but 

we take care of our own.'

6814. I WANT TO BE LOOSE (RADIO PLAY)

I WANT TO BE LOOSE 
( RADIO PLAY)

1. You've got nothing on me. I am invisible see.

2. The car-stairs lead nowhere at all, and the jumping

box only houses a turtle. 3. This will remain so.

-

4. The greatest DANGER which threatens Mankind is

COLLECTIVISM. Everywhere attempts are being made

to lower the happiness and the way of living of Mankind to

the levels of termites. I am against these attempts with all

the strength of my being.

-

5. Space, and space again, is the infinite deity which surrounds

us and in which we are ourselves contained. 6. There are moments

in which the surroundings of time and object do disappear, and

that is the sainted moment of mystics, to which I aspire to live

in; and mostly do. All other categories pale to this one,

which has no explanation.

-

6. William Blake says to me the following : "Have confidence

in objects, do not let yourself be intimidated by the horror of the

world. Everything is ordered and correct and must fulfill its destiny

in order to attain perfection. Seek this path and you will attain

from your own Self ever-deeper perception of the eternal beauty

of creation; you will attain increasing relief from all that which 

now seems to you sad or terrible."

6813. MORNING MAGIC, FULL OF SHIT

MORNING MAGIC, 
FULL OF SHIT

I awoke with an ache, a twist in my leg, and

a sore head like my tumor was bursting. I

could be dead in an hour -  and I figured that 

for sure. 'Well, he was just standing there,

muttering something about hating another

damned day, and then he lost his grip on that

creamer with Half and Half in it he kept, and 

it fell to the floor and crashed, and so did he. 

I guess he was dead before he hit; that's what

that tidy nurse said when she first stood up

from being bent over his body. 'He's better now',

she said, like it was some sort of joke  -  when 

the hell did the medical profession start hiring 

comedians? Is that because of Obamacare? Then

the cop came over, asking me fifty questions like a

quiz show, like I was a culprit  -  'how long have you

known the deceased...?' And the rest; what the hell!

I never even really liked the pain in the ass that he was,

always going on deep about something. He deserved the

dope he got, how's about that? Should I have said that?

Would I have been already locked up? How's this shit

ever get started  -  what a mess we're in. Morning magic,

full of shit, and I can't get anyone to listen.'

6812. THINGS BETTER OFF WITHOUT

THINGS BETTER OFF WITHOUT

(my new sea bright, nj poem)

Taste the sea life, go to the wave, walk through

the surf, clamber that jetty, sit back and relax. You

are better off living this way  -  completely free and 

without the words of worry you hear. Mountebanks 

and swindlers, all in this together. Keep your distance, 

sonny. And all those girls will get here soon. Scan 

the skies, like Laddie says, and you won't need a 

weatherman to see which one of them blows.

-

In the morning the black car was covered with June bugs.

I guess they were all dead in the heavy morning moisture,

at least it was so it seemed. I looked up to see from where

they may have come, but the only thing above was a

telephone pole with a vapor lamp, and some wires. I

don't know where these things live, but I guess I

know where they go to die. Things better

off without.

6811. SO GO DOWN TO THE VALLEY, DARLING

SO GO DOWN TO 

THE VALLEY, DARLING

Into a room full of staring I enter and I am. The

telegraph show is in the corner, smoking a Marlboro

Light -   just like a medieval animal I see he is breathing

smoke and fire. But he's just a Marlboro Man. And I

see that this land is strange indeed : the lamps have

curtains and the lights are yellow. Someone sits bent

over a piano of licorice ice, twisting and turning

those cautionary notes that only teachers can entice.

God bless those who care and those who enter here.

God bless the wrinkles in her clothes, and the 'I know

where you two just were' smirks on that beanpole's

other face. I keep watching, and I know they're

lovers who'd just sneaked away. Save my hands

at the side of this cone. Love me again,

or I'm going home.

6810. THE BACKGROUND OF THIS CITY'S BURDEN

THE BACKGROUND OF 

THIS CITY'S BURDEN

It has been said that suicide is authentic, a particular

and real and individual act : I answer OK, I guess it is.

I can't kill you, and you can't kill me, so we do it to

ourselves straight on. Authentic, yes, and right from

the source and to the source again.

-

Buy  -  as Styron said  -  an artist creates his own

authenticity, what matters is the conviction and

boldness. Invading alien territory. The here and

the now, they bring forth their own, constant

troubles. Some things just can't be evaded?

-

Bu why am I here, listening to Hendrix in the

night? 'Hear that train a'coming', once more. The

target that precipitates this act of suicide is one that

makes a blind necessity out of something that otherwise

'may' just be. Certainly no cowardice there.

-

So it is that I walk west along 22nd Street, in this shadowy

dark night alone  -  heading for something, looking for the

ferrule which which bolster this life; not its end, but the

life which continues. Somewhere I can go, home again,

where someone at least knows me. My God, I want to

hide, and then die, and then come back again  -  to see

then that everyone knows who I am.

6809. RENT THE HALL AND THE WALLS ARE FREE

RENT THE HALL AND 

THE WALLS ARE FREE

As I see it, if I said  - as the complete autocrat  -

'bring me the head of Diego Garcia, and I'll tell

you why later,' you'd scoff. Understandable, though

not for me. I don't have to say why. I see things.

6808. I'VE GOT THE FLIGHT OF THE BUMBLE BEE RIGHT HERE IN MY HAND

I'VE GOT THE FLIGHT OF THE 

BUMBLE BEE RIGHT HERE 

IN MY HAND

Each time the forest closes the night opens

up to the possible world  -  the stuff dreams

are made of : alternative versions of the versions

of Life. All manners of speaking, and words are

jumbled, and meanings cross. The wind becomes 

the butterfly which then becomes the bird. On the

forest floor, standing, a single human looks up.

6807. INCREDIBLE CONSOLATIONS

INCREDIBLE 

CONSOLATIONS

Things in the sky tonight are like figments :

solstice, longest day, fittest moment, nicest time.

6806. MY MAD DATE WITH THE MARSHLAND

MY MAD DATE 

WITH THE MARSHLAND

Yes, you can shoot me in the back of

my head when I'm not looking. I know

it'll be like that; some disgruntled cat

about something. My swizzle-stick goes.

I am the bridge-maker at the apartment

house of goodness, and I am reading the 

Maypole of Merry Mount alone.

6805. TYING THE SHORE-LINE AND STANDING UP STRAIGHT

TYING THE SHORE-LINE AND 

STANDING UP STRAIGHT

Like long-life to a mystical man, the strenuous

limit of day after day can be stretched forever.

We need do nothing but live and live on. Here,

by the water's dappling edge, ten or twelve boats

are docked and rocking  -  water and tide rising one

moment and falling the next. It appears there is no

one present anywhere, and the boats are untended.

-

Which is a pleasant matter  -  enabling me to just

watch and enjoy. The movement, the flow, the enabling

thrust of the ocean and swell. Why have it all mussed by 

people  -  I figure  -  with their beers and sodas and loaves

of shoreline bread. Children who wail and bawl about things,

mothers who prance and the fathers who dance  -  landsmen

each, with only a pretense of seamanship. A waste, truly,

and I'm glad they're not here. I can smile.

-

The way a wearer wears the bathing suit, the cut of a flagrant

seam, the buttock of woman's width, all these things, I've seen.

The modern angel of days and time no longer holds out surprises

for me  -  yet still, I don't plead for these things and would rather

not see. I get tired, of people, and would rather not see. I grow weary

of things, yet they persist to be. Ah, sunflower, weary of time....

6804. THE LEITMOTIF

THE LEITMOTIF

I can see the leitmotif of your manner, but I don't

want to  -  I can settle out, more abrupt and more

clear than your own half-measures would make.

The thematic tune behind all things seems always

there, it never changes. Once that melody is caught,

once that theme is captured, the rest is easy sailing.

Tomorrow is already a Monday and there are so

many days on either side of it. I want to wish 

for more than that, but eternal time is not a 

gift I have. All things run down, all things 

run out, as the tempo decreases itself.

6803. MY SINECURE IS THIS MONOCHROME BRUTE

MY SINECURE IS THIS MONOCHROME BRUTE

Well, the hub-caps were shiny : she was wearing a glare,

some Spanish-style shirt with too many spangles. She

kept bending down, pretending to look in the mirrors

of the cars to check her splendid face. So funny, all of

it. Is this the defining moment of any Elks-field car 

show, or are we just supposed to line up for beer?

6802. DR. YES

DR. YES

The good man says we 'act' our way all

through our day : one man as a father,

another as a husband, another as a friend

a co-worker, a mentor. I want to say back

that there's another behind that to whom we

must owe a prior allegiance, as it lurks.

Somewhere, a real 'me.' The nagging

feeling of a genuine self who grows tired

of all these strings. 'I want no more of

the puppeteer', is what this self sings.

Master narrator? The one who stands 

behind the stories, to explain away the

truths, the misdeeds, and the mistakes

as well? I will take that idea and run.

Self-deception, meet the authentic me.

6801. THINGS TO DO

THINGS TO DO

A semblance of purity can pierce one's veins just

as much as the real can : purity knows no bounds.

It is in this interim magnet of force fields we live.

There are many things I wish to do, and I am doing

but a few  - I can list my lines of heart and lines of

mind, yet they all lead nowhere. Others fly to China

or Pakistan and Oman. Some go by ship to other side

of this ocean, or the other. I simply stay at home to 

work my way out. Work my out of the wormwood 

I'm in  -  an enticing spot not overly conducive 

to good reasoning. I am mad with a frenzy 

all my own, and it cannot be explained away.