3306. EXPERIMENT

EXPERIMENT

I did all that your experiment asked of me :

I learned your art, I drank your wine, I textured

each of your long durations  -  night, day, and

whatever was in between. Each smile you sent

my way, I decorated just as you showed.

Like some eerie pumpkin's juicy mash, this

time-soaked derivative of living came my way.

I realize only now, we really should

have talked it over first.

-

That ghost from your gazebo, yes, it still

comes around seeking handouts and love;

throws its caution to the wind, prances

so like an idiot, shows itself off to

most anyone at all. My view now?

Hardly worth a bastard's effort.

-

In the last flood, all that mud washed

the evidences away  -  but I had

been there, hiding out, just to

see what a ghost does when

it's bored. Not much differently

than you and I do, it claims to

fall in love, seeks life, runs

crazy-rampant from edge

too edge. Then it tires,

and disappears.

3305. GRIEF HAS A FUTURE

GRIEF HAS A FUTURE

It is said (I've heard it said) that

grief has a future  -  with eyes you

can recognize, with a face that bears

resemblance (bears resemblance nightly

to a million things). I will write these notes,

and keep them (keep them here, by this

candlelit nook). She is crying again, and 

all those raging teardrops roll down her face.

-

In the alcove and hallway, there is a little,

dim shining, a reflection of something old,

or something new in passing. Something

passes (something passes that way, away).

It seems to be a living thing, yet flickers,

fades, and then  -  it too  -  passes.

(It too passes away).

3304. I DROVE THE SEDAN

I DROVE THE SEDAN
I drove the sedan that went right past
your mountain house, the gulch in the
gully, the wandering curve in the road.
I saw the swans on McAfee Road, and
the pond alongside Albion Hall. It was
all I could do not to stop. Simply stalled,
like that, I would have had nothing to
show for all that went before.
-
The red on the barn, I noted, had faded;
a less-intense and fiery red, a dimmer
version of the hue, the same sort of
flame a dying ember throws, a marker
cast down on a charcoal-filled earth.
I shuddered in thinking, here again,
of all the things I might have passed.

-

And then I read your words, making

me happy and sad together - how my

words made pictures in your mind,

and how emotions were awakened

that you could recognize. I loved

those words, and tried to thank

you for them though I failed.

-

I drove the sedan that went past

your mountain house - two doors,

four wheels, and all my mounting

and trying with it. Just as I passed,

in your window was a well-lit love.

3303. VINDICATOR I MUSED

VINDICATOR I MUSED

Do not allow the wise one to relish your

goods and ways - keep such thoughts at bay.

Enamored of everything else, he passes you by.

Fir trees along the Glimmerglass, James Fenimore

Cooper and his warrantless braves. Escaping

settlers, running through woods with muskets

and knives. Beneath a long-tarred and starry

sky, murderous yells and murder itself. I once

gazed down, from a gentle height, past trees

and shrubbery below, to the lakefront itself.

A fire beckoned, and three or four men huddled.

Whatever tongue they were speaking, I did not

understand. Yet, I knew they were ruthless

men and would kill me if they could. I was born

here, 'neath the reedy place, by the brook, beneath

the Spirit's canopy of light. Now, all things were

in jeopardy, myself included. I lived, only if they

died. I thought of a future, realizing there could

be none at all. Sweeping down, silently at first,

then with a scream, I cleanly killed

and gutted the them all.

3302. THE BEARDING OF NIPPLES

THE BEARDING 

OF NIPPLES

The bearding of nipples on the great

divine chest has been replaced by

obligation and noblesse. I do not

know  -  but think I can recognize

the genuflect of fear and awe by

which Man is harnessed : a 

something amiss that will always

show. To that I can testify and

witness, and will do so.

-

Such error is an invisible charge

which draws out the joy from life -

small, insignificant segment, iota

of semblance, sanctified sadness

of sentence, whatever.

-

In spite of solace and shame, the

even-yellow sun goes on, and

we are as lost in its circle and orb

as ever before  -   not knowing

where to turn but turning, not

knowing what for. 

-

Doubts and triumphs together:

I walk out with them, and

somehow leave alone.

3301. MERCHANDISE MART

MERCHANDISE MART
I hated your mother and never fathomed your
father. The Ides of March, like some delectable
yet stinking disease, kept my crapmouth from
hedging every bet. As I recall, she wore gold
on every other finger, while he wore chains
around his neck. It was never right, and,
as I thought it over just today, I still could
not understand why we even lived to try :
some linen on the back of a chair, a table,
topped by glass, holding some ceramic
figurines and a cup of steaming coffee.
An old piece of mail, with a very
foreign stamp. Two pictures of
a man from Africa.
-
Safari suit and dead-letter office, Nairobi
Kenya and a fountain pen blotch; stroked
feathers while whistlers waited, and the
fan-light in the old bushman's depot.
He'd taken us there, to show off and
buy lunch. I remember that photo.
Nothing ever worked out.
-
He too was dead, a single poison dart
entering his heart; along the beach.
Jim Rattigan, killed from some
jungle-tree ambush far, far
from home.

3300. AMENDED AND VARIANT

AMENDED AND VARIANT

You've made me disappear - stiletto and sabre,

all those things passed from lethargy to slavery

and back. Reflected globes are shimmering in the

water, on surfaces where they should not be.

So many things, rejected, seem still to be around.

Solace, like a pancake, flattens and distorts the

angles. We wash the air with a teary dirge.

-

It was ice cream. It was the night. Kinglets sang;

narrow drawers held hundreds of the little birds.

Festering, from tree to tree, bad vibrations rang,

motions without merit, dangling items left for

play. A thin flashlight line, and a bead of some

illumined moment, again made me think of you.

I reached for nothing, and it was there.

-

All along the spider's web, the masses in the

street kept marching; screaming they were,

all together, like morons, as one about something:

Hustled and hassled, huddled and huge.

I never understood a thing except my own

needs - for silence, detachment,

disconnection and dreaming.

3299. FAST SETTING AND MIRACULOUS

FAST SETTING 

AND MIRACULOUS

Skyfall. I was the one running. The new

crescent moon hung angled in the sky.

Twilight. Midnight. Morning. Like nothing

ever moved at all. I truncated the rebels

at the old border's edge. Rousted them

with ricochet and raiment, ran their

footsores loosely through the gamut.

Trumpets blared and a parrot sang.

Valley Forge and Maple Gorge, the lasses

in the violet sky were singing. No one bent

the dirges or bowed to dawn's early light.

Every blessed thing was every blessed thing.

-

The scourpath beguiled; all the marshalls

and a major stopped and gaped while

horses whinnied, slept and yawned.

That's just the way it went back then,

in that - older - revolution. Years later,

lifetime achievements and medals of honor

never meant as much; never. And now,

all the old ones, they're gathered on the

hilltop singing songs, dirges to what occurred

and hopeful scats to the newest of volcanoes.

3298. WHO RUES MELCHISIDEK? (I was walking with this God)

WHO RUES

MELCHISEDEK?

(I was walking with this God)

The white pants and the rain God,

all those magnificent things parading

down. 'I am King of Gods, mistaken

notion, keeper of ideal flames.' Spoken

like a boast, I could only think of

Patty Miles. 'But you are not, sir,

and all, all of this, is mistaken. So

let me take this peasant pomp you

proffer and run away with it, right

through your nose, in fact.'

-

And just then, right along Girard Ave.,

the Philadelphia streetcar clanged and

rattled. Some ten black fats got off

as one - 'You are, myself, I see, one

of these. Are you not, then?' He tried

taking my hand; he said 'Let us be off

now, and to the kennels. Let us buy

ourselves a dog!' Approbation.

Infatuation. Circulation.

-

Just below the street-level fence, cut

out from where I was, I saw the rails of

the old cemetery graveyard fence jutting

out - all those dead and quiet people,

oh all those dead and quiet people.

3297. EPITAPH

EPITAPH

His odd life agreed with him.

He developed piles and scurvy;

lost patches of hair, and  -  finally  -

a few teeth, before he somehow

sweated to death while freezing.

3296. LAYOUT

LAYOUT

This garb is what we wear, the blue frothy
coat, the red buttons, the lame glimmer-scarf
and the hat. On stage, it comes out very colorful
after they first tint the lights. The way they
want them. The way I never see. The way
it's been. It's hard looking out when
you're outside looking in.
-
Some then call me distant, others call me
gay, while others simply say 'weird wide
and on the way.' I take it all; as if on a Hallmark
Hallmark card from Hell, I can read the funny
lines and cry no matter. Shake my hand,
God-damn, and it comes off in yours.
Your joke will be my loss.
-
And now, for the ten-millionth-hundredth time,
the same old raging bastards are calling it
Halloween. Pagan-festive-fire-fest, soldiers
of the dim and dark dance naked 'round
oil-barrel fires at Washington and 12th.
Yes, yes, I was there for many. And the
Wolfman turning back and forth again:
wolf, man, man, wolf, wolf, man, man, wolf.
-
We never got drunk beneath the broad, full moon.

3295. DAY OF THE LOCUST

DAY OF THE LOCUST
On the day of the locust I was in
Brooklyn, waiting my turn at
Grimaldi's; watching the bridge
throw its harbor-fleet shadows
now over nothing at all. Tonnage
and cargo, long gone, had absconded
to regions that only the netherworld
knew. A maritime flag on the outpost
wharf? It simply signified yet
another place to wine and dine.
-
A hundred faces paced the walk -
those strange tattooed artists and
their bedfellow girls, those pierced
and dainty females all done up for
voyeuristic sex and the ribald
entertainments of Lebanese
sharks. Why am I waiting,
here at Grimaldi's, for
really nothing at all?
-
Everything is accidental,
and sharpshooters run
rampant all along the
shoddy rooflines.

3294. SURETY AND A NOTION

SURETY AND A NOTION
All these terrible days, and then you're

going to tell me I have to die? I don't
believe this. Like the windward willow
bending to the lake, dreary to droop
but staying in place, I withstand every
urge to flee. And I will do so too. I will
not die. You can mark my words, even
after I'm dead and gone.

3293. DRIVING HOME THE POINT

DRIVING HOME THE POINT

(my Mexican Chef)
They bat for average, and I'm dizzy as hell.
Can't stand straight. Whole world spins.
No way is that to pin the tail on the donkey.
Right, amigo. Go for broke, both you and
your little senorita there. Drive that Taurus
until it dies, runs out of gas or burns. Tar
the roof all day, spin, weave, flip - food,
pizza or gas. Whatever it is you do for dough.
Money I mean; the American stuff. All the
points along the border are pointing to here.
Are they not, Carlos Mendicimo Armagandos
Perez Aguirre? I think that was the name on
you tag. Brewmaster. Soup-chef.

3292. JUST OUT OF PETERSBURG

JUST OUT OF PETERSBURG
My mind recalls a hundred things.
My mind is filled with a million thoughts,
and I remember a few as well - each vivid
but 'just passing through', as the 'so-to-say'
crowd would utter. Why am I facing the
Gulf of Finland, just looking out from some
Petersburg scat - a paranormal fog, a
slithery eel of creeping light that now,
alone itself, barely illumines this
cavernous station for trains, which,
in themselves, seem as reluctant
to move as I do? The language
I am hearing is itself struggle
enough to listen to.
-
In my own country, we have small
music halls, auditoriums, as it were,
where people sit to listen. People,
filled with salt and sugar, nod and
bob to what the sounds direct
them. Not here - enormous
patchulated music halls
infringe on space and time,
forcing vast musics on all
those open and unaltering
musical ears.
-
Well, it is said, there is little
difference anyway. Perhaps.
But I have come by train to
this far and barely electric
place to take my spot behind
a bass. And here I am, now
silent - or just as silent as
History is - without a real
story to tell, yet filled with
thoughts and lore and tales,
looking out towards the
Gulf of Finland.

3291. NEUKIRK TO OSTERGAARD

NEWKIRK TO OSTERGAARD
While not knowing anything, all the known
world - nonetheless - drops at your
feet. Can you recognize such feasance,
understand the noise? The streamlining
of a bird, ancient as it is, is but idle banter
in the hands of a greater Maker. All time
ticks to this imagined tune, and every
ancient mariner knows these tales :
the bright star, set on high, the
the lethal barriers found at the
very edge of the world, the end
of all things, just around
that seaward curve.

3290. LEARNING YOUR TONGUE

LEARNING YOUR TONGUE
I dug your language at Vladivostok.
Getting too close to Korea, I started
to fear. All that Trans-Siberian
Railroad stuff kept me in stitches:
that stern Russian tongue, those
beautiful girls stiffing their lips
to curl at their nose just to say
'If you are from another land,
if you would love me, I could
make you very happy if you
would take me away.' Anyway
that's how I translated it - the train
guide said I was close, but also 'they
are really eastern whores dressing
right here for your silent masquerade.'

3289. RECITAL AT GROVES

RECITAL AT GROVE
We take these things for granted:
the blood-red heart, the feelings
it throws. High above, some jewel-blue
sky tries echoing back all that we feel.
The jet-plane zones off, its race to
altitude now hardly worth the humming.
Tired days, these are, when the roar
and cacophony of our own intentions
spills. We stop at nothing. We go to France.
-
Your milk-money, I'd noticed, was still
pinned to your dress. No way to travel,
honey. In each of those dangerous lands
you speak of you'd be a sitting duck. Why
I myself, were I there, might lunge to
get you, take you, steal your goods
and money. It's just like that, doesn't
really mean a thing. We are traveling
people, our generations switch roles.
-
I'd much rather stay behind, now that
I think it over, and sing of happy fields
and wandered pastures, coves and
hamlets where I'd been to before.
This recital at Grove, this reverie,
would be my own personal moment
of true joy and happiness.

3288. OMAHA THEATER

OMAHA THEATER
They were still holding the
branding irons in their
tumultuous hands; iron men,
fellows with sizzling arms.
The stench was awful - a
foul reek of burned flesh
punctuated by the calls
and groans of the anguished
animals. A cruel fest, a fight
by fire to name the herd
and brand the beast.
Callow-hearted fellows,
to say the least, just
stood around, laughing.

3287. THE CIVIL WAR

THE CIVIL WAR
Wheeze forth great nation dead and
bloodied, power has now left your hands.
The willow trees escape, there is smoke
and fire o'er the land. And for how long have
you really wanted this? Let us count.
-
The dead are in their sepulchres. They
sound alike their meanings all - the
Civil War graveyard of Elmira's bare
middle, all stories and columns and
words. The smoking guns, crossed,
atop what passes for a Union flag.
-
I haven't yet left before I've yet
arrived, and these beating memories
resound like flame and sorcery
in small boys' eyes. It is over!
It is over! My God, my God,
why have you forsaken me?

3286. MY AMNESTY

MY AMNESTY

To let you go? To fire up that silly
stove again? To singe the butter

on the rafters, make the rye bread
squirm? Whatever are you talking of?
I hadn't heard the headmaster before,
merging manners with the queen of
something else, the measure of the
mattered hand, the Matterhorn of
Marmaduke. It's all like unreality,
now itself so real. Make that twice
over, and once again. I drink to that.
-
The page-boy look, once wasted on the
young, has climbed its ladders to the distant
stars. Babel to Baba-Lou. Gravestone
side-steppers to the gabled mansions of
Erewhon and Potupoi - I have them
all, and they've stopped my minding.
-
Now, it's only you.

3285. LOOSELAND LOOSESTRIFE

LOOSELAND LOOSESTRIFE
These gardeners I see holding shovels
and sticks, they are talking amongst
one another. They stand on grass -
it would seem - more than principal.
-
And now it begins to drizzle again.
From where they are standing, more
annoyance than fact. The rain
puts their cigarettes out.

3284. WARFARE, PESTILENCE, AND GREETINGS

WARFARE, PESTILENCE,
AND GREETINGS

Standing towards the end of my life I'd swear to
see you - dunking lightbulbs, or swishing girders gladly
in the old and open Delaware Canal. Where we may have
passed as strangers, where we may have lived together.
I don't know. My dirigible sensations are gone, these
tired fingers rankle now with only dead pages, and -
all else together - I too await the ferryman to take me.
'You were born to live, my boy, as much as you were
born to die. Fear not the ferryman, he will always come by.
It's just a matter of time : warfare, pestilence, and greetings.'
-
I held you close, once, as a little girl. We shared time together.
Then, older and later, we moved along the same towpath,
it seemed, until even the donkeys and mules collapsed.
If they could talk, I knew they would have said 'this
pulling barges is just no fun.' But I was in another
world, and lived between the times. The meadows,
being once meadows, always fit me fine. Now, it
seems they're paved with discontent. Yours is
yours, and mine is mine. It's all just a matter
of time : warfare, pestilence, and greetings.

3283. MODELING FOR PRESS AGENTS

MODELING FOR
PRESS AGENTS
Just like Modigliani, or one of his
things, we drive for respect in
oh so languid poses. Half-draped,
half-not; watching the clock to
see what transpires. Everything
we do is done for effect, after,
of course, cause. Twilight dims
the rim of time, as we sit,
so lazily about.

3282. AND SUCH A GLIMMERING WILD ONE

AND SUCH A GLIMMERING WILD ONE
We used to hang at street-corners, leaning on stone,
skipping a beat, watching glass and water : no, no,
we never stopped. The hard-angled zoo we inhabited
with cigarettes and wine, poppers and spikes, all of
that we knew like no others. Leather-girls in their
toney skirts, and not. Hookers at Stage 9, playing
dead-dice with the boys. Wonton chefs, singing
weird Chinese songs. I never knew collaboration
to taste so good. It was a long, long time ago.
-
And just now you used a name I had not heard
since 1974 and before. I do remember him,
precisely, and even where his body stays.
Some nasty crypt near Bedloe's Island,
some Potter's Field, or one of those.
Those were East River days: they
took his lifeless body over on a skiff,
and soon came back without him.
-
We once pumped the monkey full
of juice, ate the girl before she came,
wired down the torchlights for the
approaching storm. Now, Jesus lord
almighty, it's all so over and gone.
Distant memory, afar, like an
iron taste on a bitter tongue.

3281. POST-APOCALYPTIC VENISON

POST-APOCALYPTIC
VENISON

Everyone who could
had already died.

3280. WHAT WAS SCHEDULED ONCE IS NOT WRITTEN TWICE

WHAT WAS SCHEDULED ONCE
IS NOT WRITTEN TWICE

Bleistein with a Baedeker, remember that one? Or anyway, I
think I've gotten it right - he held two fingers aloft, and judged
accordingly, laughed at the moon once, and walked on. Just
today, returning from some stupid romance, I watched the
calendar sky disappear: it passed right through my ages,
and left me thinking of nothing at all. Not the way of all
Mankind, exactly, but it would have to do.
-
Standing alongside the moon-faced pie girl, I watched
the building come down. Piece by piece now, they were
ripping at its facade. Two-hundred year old brick, simply
turning - under pressure - to an orange powder.
The noise glass makes, over and over, and then
the steel of the window-frames hitting ground.
Park-dirt this was not, nor did it seem exactly
even proper to do demolition in this way.
-
Who knew what I don't know? This cloth-fed
engineer, the Greek with the clipboard veneer,
walking around looking at things as they
happened? Was he the one with all the plans?
Sacred or not, as it happened, one old church,
lane-split, and a housing unit or two, all
chunked together. 'To whom are you
reporting now?' I wanted to ask. But
my tumbled tongue was caked with
dust. The moon-faced girl near to
me, she smiled and just took my
hand to lead me away.
So I followed.

3279. ANGELS

ANGELS
I'm surely not one to be wrestling
with Gods and the beatific window
dressings I see: five angels clutching
beads, a running man with a fiery
halo, an infant holding things down.
This fortuitous moment itself
knows nothing; runs aside,
tries to glide. Let's put our heads
together, let's sing and praise -
your multi-colored straw bag,
your orange-painted nails,
your sandals and your Snapple.
My God, my God, we have
come to this!
-
Not an occasion for malice, this
watching the sunlight grow,
opening up the nighttime skies
wherein I have been walking
for hours - endless hours that
were not from here. And, yes,
still I know what I see; and they
have dropped me here with
their extended, small wings.
-
Which wings are but concept,
anyway, idea. Like the thought
of how much blue is in that black.
Beatific angels, I ask you. The
light is now playing on the bricks,
and this faulty city is all I see.
Oh in such pain I cry out to you,
please, please, please
listen now to me.

3278. KNOXVILLE SHAKEOUT

KNOXVILLE SHAKEOUT
My Knoxville shakeout came like this:
plane wings down, hit the tarmac,
grab a bag and walk the ellipse. Tuba
player and sing-shift clarinetist both
along for the ride. Observe the stage,
survive the ride. At half past seven,
(yeah, they'd written it all out), the
music was to begin. Stride forth
like some piano man surely
breaking wind.
-
The crowd was along in pairs,
two by fours and tuxedo junctions.
Sitting to stare, small cocktails
in smaller glasses, half dead or
half awake it wouldn't have really
mattered. Why we played on,
to the stroke of one, I'll
never really understand.
-
Got paid in Rue Diablos, some
Devil-money shaped like squares.
I knew this was over before it
started; 'Joe! There's the
plane, get up those stairs!'

3277. A SIMPLE SETTLEMENT

A SIMPLE SETTLEMENT
I've always hated all that
retro stuff, and those who
side with matter gone -
I've had my Marilyn on
the halfshell while my
stomach groaned and
burned. 'Write quickly,'
the matador said, 'for
Venus de Milo is
arriving soon.'

3276. MY MEXICAN ELLIPSE

MY MEXICAN ELLIPSE
Luck brings this morning passing
strange, a break I'd not foreseen -
the girl with cornrow hair now
whistling some turgid tune.
Each synapse I own declares:
'Race this moment to its finish,
and you are nothing if
not what you seem.'

3275. THE DOGS OF WAR

THE DOGS OF WAR
When sometimes the dogs of war
are snarling, and rabid, tug their
leashes, then the foiling sun with
great reluctance deems it best
to set. All things darken by degree,
and shades and shadows redefine
the lines and shapes of all we see -
how fraught with trepidation,
new, all things are.
-
Might I, then, say this backwards?
Recite some ode of Horace in reverse,
faulting ends and enemies, turning
'round the battles and the fight?
No, I seek the straighter line,
where things, still in rows, hold
tight to all their marks and meanings.

3274. THIS LIFE JUST A TRAGIC ATTRACTION

'THIS LIFE JUST A
TRAGIC ATTRACTION'

'Receding water exposes bodies,
0r at least we expect,' the man said.
His cigarette dangled from pursed, fussy
lips and I fully expected him to gag.
Something there was about this fellow -
made strange by circumstance - brought
me to disbelief. Badge and gun notwithstanding,
if he was the Law, I wanted to be an outsider, now.
-
He'd said his loyalty was to the Law and that
upholding it had become his life's work. 'Yeah,
sure' I thought. I wished I had a five-hundred
dollar bill to dangle in his face - just to see
what he'd do for money. If he knew the Law,
then I knew all about Charley Chase.
-
I watched the back of his head as he
stood there, and I realized right then
that the piece of plastic I saw was actually
the back edge of his wig - toupee, hairpiece,
whatever. Yes, I wanted to laugh, but was
sure it wouldn't be wise. Other than that,
it looked pretty real, or at least I never
had noticed before. Good enough for me.
-
'I admonish you, if you're at all squeamish,
to look away. As we drag these bodies up
it's apt to get ugly.' I knew what he meant,
but I knew just as well it was bullshit - I'd
heard him and his cronies beforehand, talking
of women's bodies and things they had seen.
-
I guess it's like that everywhere - the lark runs the rush,
the beaver breaks the dam, things eventually do
just run out of control. No more stops, and no
one to stop it. This Life, just a tragic attraction.
This life, just a tragic attraction.

3273. WALKING ON THE MOONLIGHT NOT IN IT

WALKING ON THE
MOONLIGHT NOT IN IT

This is the circumstance : what one man wants
is what another avoids. Crystal bright and as
clear as glass, the fir trees seem to stand still
as light from the moon comes to them. I walk
between things, two worlds apart; neither in
nor of the place I am. Strange, how that
silent singularity marks a life.
-
I was raised in a place of wolves; red men
doing white things, white men falling back.
Beneath five hundred skies, I traveled
with wings of gauze 'midst azure skies.
The rocks and stones beneath me,
they each called out my name.
-
Epochs of time and eons of purpose.
I waltzed hills and valleys, danced
voluble dinosaur steps, ran fiery
sabre-toothed tigers in my racing.
My days were numbered and caught
by starlight and solar flares, brilliant
moments of flash and glory.

3272. MASKED MAN FIGHTING THE OASIS

MASKED MAN
FIGHTING THE OASIS
They still go on with that settled manner
of pioneers cutting through Iowa - and
even though it's all rubbish, they thrive.
Their dream-mud-hut-cabin is built of
reeds and sticks, sloppy slag-heap stone
with foundations of Indian blood. I
don't know why we read the book and
read it over and over again. See the
flag, yellow and blue, they insist flying.
-
Battering the betterments of batallions
of women and men : offspring decrepit,
those children of wanderers fall at the
wayside screaming out names. Everything
has fallen and all bridges are down. The
last man standing shall not make a sound.
-
This is like a nightmare now :
some Kiowa County Sheriff
beating to death the protesters
outside the old steel-mill. Union
men who blush for daggers and
fornicate until they drop. No cares
like the old cares - everything
else just fades away.

3271. BLUE BOTTLE OF VODKA

BLUE BOTTLE OF VODKA
I found an empty blue bottle 'American made'
vodka, branded by fellows and drunk by a
crew. They'd left it, as an empty, telling
stories all its own on a tidy window ledge.
And oh, those potato eaters, potato drinkers,
what have you : those tales they could weave.
Stories of evil and dogs, mothers with donkeys
and hens. Fathers with cleavers and friends.
-
'Nothing like this had ever occurred before' -
all tawdry bullshit too and they knew it so.
'My fine fellows', I uttered in imagination,
'everything has already happened, and
happened before and already. And I'm
not even drunk with your peppered
elixir.' We all left it at that, and they
stammered away. I've got their
blue bottle, now, in my hands.

3270. JESUS JALOPY JONES

JESUS JALOPY JONES

As it was once there was a man
with cinderblocks, building walls and
painting them red, washing the white wash
down to its essence, facing the cinder with
golden paint. He was making kingdoms for

children and markers for Man. He came

upon a Saturday, dealing cards and dicing
the doubles, calling things wild, and
lining the tables with magical felt.
-
I bowed down, just once, to see if
he reacted. Nothing came from the
face but a very odd light. He seemed
more obscure than was usual. I parsed
a sentence to see his reaction. 'My single
noun to your active verb' was all he said.
-
There is no purpose in lighting the light
where no shadows go. Everything is
plainly seen, and no things
are obscured.

3269. JAMES BOGARDUS

JAMES BOGARDUS

Cooked his goose, ate the
failure, flayed the savage
item, spoiled the mare.
-
His wife Lucinda, drove
the forces home, swept
the backways freely, and
with all intentions to riot,
clowned around for all
to see.
-
James Bogardus, building
lithesome tales, renting
business tuxedos, building
bridges, lining the streets,
shook his jacket clean and
slowly began to walk
towards home.

3268. THIS HAGGARD MIND

THIS HAGGARD MIND

I just about send my post before it
so soon comes back to me : the recipient,
long gone, left nothing behind. No matter.
There are now so many voids where others
used to be that I can no longer stand. It
seems, as well, that I am last and alone.
If I were six foot four I'd have something
to crow about; as it is, midget-mitres this
side of small take my measure. Laughing.
God, I awake and realize once again -
I really do hate myself; this mawkish
body, this swiney soul, decrepit face,
haggard mind. I've shouldered so
many losing burdens that my
mind now races to its end.
Disengage this mediocre
world from me, and cut,
please, this tethered
noose and
let it fly.

3267. THIS ISN'T MY HORN

THIS ISN'T MY HORN

Things are slow in tempest town.
Though I blow the clarion call, this is
not my horn - trumpet, coronet,
alto sax, whatever it is you wish, they
all can be heard in varied increments
trebling your dive and filling your wants.
Tuba or tremelo, basso and brass. I
never really know to tell. The marks
the strange drummer has made on
the skins of his suit seem enough to
drive along this bastard rhythm.
-
Mayhem seems a dog-faced catcher
hereabouts. The landsman sits at
attention, never even varying his
shades - and the shape of his eyes,
those little, sickening slits, can
everyday make me cringe.
-
Jazz times jazz, the nickel man
declaims : 'break that meter, brother,
break it; make that rhythm soar anew!'

3266. TRANSLATION

TRANSLATION
We've left the fort together,
Hiram - you with your bells,
and me with my hammers.
The Russian tongue has a
word for such confusion :
'marushki'. We translate
it here as 'little ants'.

3265. THOUGHTS

THOUGHTS
I am being sized up by things I
do not know - the midnight Sadducees
are writing things down. Dragging
slow feet across my dangerous lane,
I try to leave no marks. But the
children, the children, are dancing
in all the streets. I look at this
tree as it splits in two - like
a thought with two sides,
railing this way and that.

3264. FOUND PAJAMAS

FOUND PAJAMAS

Jesus found pajamas.
Jesus died for those
sins of others - in
a form of spiteful
retribution, the
tale says, he
came, and
he accepted,
and, then,
he died.

3263. LONG GREEN LEGGINGS

LONG GREEN LEGGINGS

You know how you lose something, you
know how you feel? I feel that. I have lost
everything in one place : the yellow ideas
of desert and sun, the wash of the open sea,
rolling back in. Right here, I have nothing left.
Characteristically, I am shamed to say; I turn
about, wistfully regretting the time already spent.
Behind my back, the MacReady Vapors already
exhale - mist and fog down low, hanging from
Bentley Creek to Waverly Glen. Unlike the mist,
I'm all of a mind to disappear, and take
the vast world with me.
-
A new version of a Halloween stoops, drops
down before me, as a ghost in whitened leggings.
I recognize the form, yes, but cannot place the face.
Ghouls and foul curmudgeons, ghosts and spirits
rank, each of them rue me with their noises;
a crescendo of instruments now playing
from Hell, from a place where I am
baffled still and found without a
knowledge, knowing nothing.
-
Before me rises a tall green house; old and
dilapidated, said haunted, running on
nothing but fury and stealth. It has its
own darkness, room to room and
light to light. And that is where
I dwell. Third floor up, at the
top, where that blackening
light now tries to shine.

3262. 1974

1974

And now I have left you I have led you I have
left you I have led you : again and again as a
marksman hits his target once after another
and more. The chickens are dead in the yard.
The old, fevered burro you left me has finally
now expired - his last strange noise still
echoing in my frightened ears. I only wonder
to myself why you first led me here and then
left. Led me left me. Oh I am so confused.
-
I have a nickel magnet I intended for you to
have; now I'll keep it for myself. It holds the
metal in my ears, keeps the singing tribes
from leaving, lets me recall those Bond Street
days when, yes, we, the two, stayed close and
together as a whip does with its snap.
-
I am empty now. I can't recall an earthly thing,
only that stuff of other natures we once together
lived. The domino castle at the top of the fjord,
the lancer who kept his famed redoubt a secret,
the woman I knew from McIver's other farm.
-
I'm watching the fire land onto the lake.
Nothing moves. I will sleep; thinking of
your picture - you, on the curb, with
no shoes, only laughter and mirth.

3261. ELECTRIC MAGNET WAYS

ELECTRIC MAGNET WAYS

No solace in sundry words ten thousand smaller
things than that - miniature cars fallen into
the lake, vintage speeders hanging from trees.
The jackal-man who kills babies is wandering
aimless afoot. He sings of a Madonna with
her harmless Jesus, deflated by time.
-
It isn't only in the majesty of myth that
so many things get colored. The stories
tend to twist and turn, end up short,
revolve back upon themselves. We
look for Gods and guidance in the stars,
and, though there really are none, we
claim those stars and planets as the
guidelines to our crazy cosmic life.
-
Where once the past beseeched us,
now it only leads us on. No solace
in sundry words.

3260. AMULET

AMULET

The river ran its way along a
ridge of sunken rock; cold petals
and frigid air. A willow, bent like a
savage intent on ravage, dropped
its weeping sorrow into a glowing
surface of what appeared to be glass.

3259. THE SONG OF ALFRED MINER

THE SONG OF ALFRED MINER

In my ways of desperate means I have tried

so many things : filled cartfuls of despair
with outlaw angel wings. To both sides of
me, in little ways, others have tried their

infusions, theirs aids. No avail. I have stood,
both steadfast and alone. Those strangled
doors of perception have long ago faded,
a laughable crew, an ample petard. Now,
what passes for my soap is but a cleansing
skull. I leave little behind. I move, crablike,
sideways past rubble and trash; letters
left hanging, dreams that have crashed.
My tent is pitched in graveyards,
all I see is past.

3258. BEDLAM

BEDLAM
(Mr. Windemar please tell me more)
Amidst this crazy cavalcade, I landed in
Bedlam; seeking a satisfaction never there,
like a cigarette lamp burning both ends,
like a stoplight rose already wilted,
the kind the beggars sell. I punched
the clock, I beat the cop, I incarcerated
five million, Khmer Rouge, Pol Pot.
Everything gone nuts, crazy on the
edge, shallow on the waterfall, trimming
on the hedge. Those five girls I saw,
they wallowed in the mire swallowing
for hire. And, in so many other ways,
everything I once imagined I saw in
the flesh, and for real. (Sit me down
a this table, Mr. Windemar,
please tell me more).

3257. 5TH PART OF THE MOON

5TH PART OF THE MOON
(don't discount the Newman Gate)
Throw nothing my way : all things
proving to be broken lie asunder.
The 5th part of the moon I am
watching - with most interest
now settled on the light. I sense
my skin might bubble, might
bulge, food for insects and
worms - in whatever varying
degree, even that I would accept.
-
I know that I have been here before,
and am right now, yet today's seeming
aplomb being broken, nothing now
really seems to matter. Would that
my flesh would melt and I would
fly away, both artless and free.
-
There is nothing here of solace,
neither a smoothed nor a forced
to be had. Already what one has,
one possesses - we are in a creative
mode, always, making what we will
as thought and image flee. Look around.
Before things depart, they first will stay,
(don't discount the Newman Gate), and
they will be. Your false time (itself) is a
nervous tannery, absorbing - for now -
all things. Your greater mind
knows, patterns repeat.

3256. DISINCLINATION TO WORRY

DISINCLINATION TO WORRY
Let's see what we've got with this one last
admission : creamsicle iceberg wandering forth.
I never sensed the admonition true;
I only came here for the weather, and
now even that is gone. Beggarly myopic,
rehashing all tradition, I went to sleep
at the microphone stand. The sense of
endings brings forth the life (yes, yes),
and all things become the adventure.
-
The red line enters my new life, as
the blue sky stretches and I am witness
to a hundred new things. The hawk soars
as the hawk flies - carrying with it the end
of the blue, the expanse of sky, the internal
logic to every exterior motive gone into the
making of all this world and all this
(teeming, so) consciousness now.
-
(All things have become the adventure).
I have a disinclination to worry.

3255. ENAMEL SHELLAC

ENAMEL SHELLAC

Or I don't know; the difference, the shine,
the sheen, the finish. Some vegetable matter,
some chemical sludge. Whatever is mirrored
becomes the sign of the shine - and all that
finish then goes for naught. I never knew
what any of it mattered, and don't now,
for sure. I go and just look away.
-
Jim McCracken told me once that 'the beauty
of the glimmer comes from a well-rubbed
finish, and the better it's rubbed the more
it glows. That's what people most react
to.' Like he knows? Like me? I went,
and just looked away.
-
All that work, and no opinion, really.
It never matters to me; just can't
worked up like the others all do.
Beauty and shine. Quality too -
the only thing it adds up to is
price. Higher by a few,
more expensive too,
and then all those
wanting people
just want
more.

3254. DON'T THINK OF YOURSELF AS PART OF THE COWLING

DON'T THINK OF YOURSELF
AS PART OF THE COWLING
(such a little place indeed)
Adagio this, adagio that -
it seems ten things at once
demand their certain forms
of modest attraction. How many
need you select? I can stand at
attention for nothing, you understand,
(and your head was on your hat,
now how backwards was that)?
-
If lethargy had a song, you would
be it. Instead, it swoons. I hear the
cropper come undone, the long bird's
sobriquet on such a cylindrical theme
as this. I find myself repeating and
misspelling, both single things double
at the very same time. Perhaps only
the morning will save me. Hold my
hand one more time, be a
companion, dear, for life.
-
I do awake as the sky comes open;
I read my mind in the stars. All
this! All this! And such a
little place indeed.

3253. MAKER OF ROADS

MAKER OF ROADS
And things I've forgotten : lost lamps
in the dark and crossed paths after
midnight. He who covets less, covets
most. The man who breaks the plow
builds the roads, gets to see around
the bends, to peer over the tops of
hills, gets farther along, to see the
end of things : father-preacher,
lost-land maniac, blind Teresias
himself extending hands to calm
the sea, crossing the horizon with
intensity. Long lost bags of kroners
and gold; everything alike should be
such a mess, in such a dark'ling
moment as this.
-
I was born where no one should have
been - seawall, Kill Van Kull, tugs and
tankers, splashing ripples salt-wall froth.
As a small, new fly, just out of its break,
I strolled, ambled, and learned to fly -
straight enough, I guess, to hold me.
Behind my back, the squat four-story
housing projects before my face. The
waterfront amusement park,
Staten Island's grimy face.
-
My own taste...Bayonne's funny-fraught
trace, the solid bridge above my head,
aslant my manner, black with cars,
and all going nowhere in a skid - one
steel, silver moment slivered in
successful time. A promise, for some,
that the 'rock of the world
was founded securely
on a faery's wing' -
as Jay Gatz once
had said.

3252. OF ALL THINGS THAT DO NOT EXIST

OF ALL THINGS
THAT DO NOT EXIST
I only know this world the best; that on/off
fluctuation I take part in, the alternating
vague certainty you see. On/off, only/alone,
all one thing to be. I am so sure that matter
projects and through it all projecting we make
other worlds, just as we use them and they
use us. All things conjoin, all myths converge.
We are them, and they are us : owl-light,
candle-flicker, open heart ablaze - the
mirth and factor of a thousand open worlds,
each wide, all agape, and taking as they give.
On/off, and taken, as well, to give. We are
all in some sense kin, pealing back and peeling -
an 'I know you as you know me he she' sensation.
One place of many minds in an all-adjacent Time.
Yes then go. Assume the categories projected.
Round globe and definition : line chart angle heart,
the fractured songstress, the mathematics of a
Sun agreed to - solar wind and micro marsh,
all we say, what we say, and - lastly - as we last.
Enough! Nothing exists at all! One and a thousand
midnights live in such expansive darkness. The
harbor holds its boats and they depart, as too the
mind creates its mental thoughts - all probable
worlds comporting. They too take form and turn
and mire, and then depart. All that is, until
Oneness takes it away.

3251. AT READING PEAK

AT READING PEAK

I may have overstayed the waiting, slicing my back too far

down the marble slab I slept upon : awaiting a deliverance,

seeking a new sky, watching those midnight heavens for the

sight of your shooting star. Had it come, oh, oh, how I would

have known. As it was, in a form of still and desperate silence,

nothing occurred at all; and I waited still, and waited more.

-

I had known the vigil, had known the wake. I'd attended

these things, and even stayed - late, past prime, far deeper

into the night than I should have. For my being, it was all

Experience, that one, with the capital E. I singed my face

looking too deeply in. I scuttled and scoured too many

things - Rumi to Tagore and back again. No, no yes. No.

-

My marvelous reaction to things : Negation, with its

capital N. The tower on Reading's hill, some soulful

minaret, a pagoda, a temple, something narrow past

working. The old gravel road, a test grounds for

Duryea cars, a quarry from a time, long, long ago.

Now, little matters, and there is no rhyme.

These are ugly years, very weathered,

and, I sense, not mine.

3250. CINDER

 CINDER

How well-known all I've wanted, how little-known

all I've got. The charred-scared cinder I kick down

the street knows more about burning than I about

heat. And, next to that, how 'powerless I' walks about

still is a wonder. Blue sky, red and setting sun. I

looked homeward angel, but to realize there is none.

3249. SPELL MY DOOM MADAME SOON

SPELL MY DOOM
MADAME SOON
This much I can say : the moon was
in its lesser orbit and was gone from
swain. I had just dropped down the
letter and put down that book, some
older marvel, Mark Twain, Tom Paine;
neither of them makes much of a
difference now. A new thin light from
a shallow horizon tries breaking through
its memory as I am seen moving from
my home town. I majored, once, in
domestication,and my face was
a frown and the laughing sky
dangled itself before me.
-
This much I can see : the gun matter
mattered as I looked into that deer's
eyes, imagining. I saw the grace and
living passion passing, and I never
could harm a flea, a living thing,
another me. For what difference
did any of it make, 'Nothing'
stood there looking
back at me.

3248. TAKES THE POETRY CURLS

TAKES THE
POETRY CURLS
As much without thinking, he takes
the poetry curls; runs his hand through
his hair, a conflux of confusion, his conflict
his conceit, his conscience no concern at all.
-
'Just seems like a penchant for
dreaming.' Someone else was
heard to utter, 'No specific means
of domination on that one; a walk
in the park, I think.' He takes the
poetry curls, runs his hands
without thinking.

3247. TOO MUCH OF A PRIDEFUL COMMENT

TOO MUCH OF A
PRIDEFUL COMMENT

I wasn't nothing didn't want to be not sure of
anything like that anyway and then the man
from the scrapple house comes by asking his
directions to another version of his own certain
Hell ! well instead I sat back and watched the
weathering traffic roll by all skunked and
scattered as it were around its own pole of
moment : red car and blue car and the
ding-a-ling derby of long trucks filled with
junk just like that this everything went
rolling by. You can be sure of so many
things just by asking someone about
them and whatever it is going on, but
you'll never come back from oblivion
and you'll never wish you had gone.

3246. DIASPORA

DIASPORA
Two pipe-smoking men, collecting
stamps, were sitting at their table,
hunched over something. They quietly
chatted at will, handling this while
touching on that. Alas, they were
but illusion, one from a distant
past - they were not truly
present there at all, just
glowing shadows from
another fine beyond.

3245. REALLY

REALLY
I have been formed in the middle
only so that I can work my way back -
past the start, through the ending
and back again. It is, really, a very
simple matter. A very simple
matter it very really is.

3244. HIDING

HIDING
(Her Yellow Car Door)

Needle-tip Wilbur Point Tommy

Makem blues - I got them all in
force, I got them by ones and twos.
Some idle girl, I watched her, slamming
shut the yellow car door. Intense attack,
prodigious movement, and energy too.
Her every move was massive.
Her movement rippled
out into the air.

-
How we misplace all we do -

so often things we think
of seeing turn out to be not at all
what we sought. A turning leaf,
a decided thought, so much distance,
so much place. And then all that which

is, taking life of its own, meanders on
with what memory it may.
We stand idly by.
-
The misshapen barque of fools : a tidy
craft, riding rising seas, sullen and
swank. All those hands, waving,
and the white linen kerchiefs, I
see, now flying through the air.
So much turns out to be not
what we sought. I went to hide
(so as as not to be caught).

3243. SPACE/TIME

SPACE/TIME
Space is greater than time
in its availability; time is
greater than space in
its effectiveness.

3242. META-MORE

META-MORE
The shadow that disappeared
left no trace, not even a marking
on the wall. As if it had been smoke,
I remember something, but
already nothing at all.

3241. TREAT IT WELL

TREAT IT WELL

Well, Brother Mike, it's mainly because I've gone crazy;
they've taken the shovel away from me, all the notes,
the camera, the money, the film and the documents too.
It makes everyone much better feeling when they can
realize I've got nothing left at all. They've made
me a midget, yet I try to stand tall.
-
Well, Sister Mary, they've put me in a cell, and now
I'm clanking metal chains everywhere I go. There's
really no magic left. Even the food is now pale gruel.
Slid in on trays, the courses I get are nothing at all
and even the few bugs who visit pass by. Like blind
men seeking water, whatever comes my way is dry
and crashing into walls. I have no way out and there
is nothing left. Please tell the clerk to cancel me.
-
Well, Mom and Dad, now sorry to say it's over
and done, or soon to be anyway. I've arranged for
the medicine to come in a case, a dose way too big
for my innards. I'll take it and sleep, (ah, that long
forever), while what I leave to chance is left
behind so that you can have it. Treat it well.

3240. I SAVAGE MY HEARTBEAT

I SAVAGE MY HEARTBEAT

By desperation, by stealth, by intention,
I savage my heartbeat to live : yes, yes,
I stay on, staggering and wild, listening
to each thump beating through me. I
savage my heart to live. In one place,
where I stand, the water runs down.
-
On the face of the growing elm, where
sap leaks and gathers, some strange,
awesome moth cleaves and stays -
in one place, seemingly stuck, savage
as well drawing something from that
wound and its sap. Wings are closed,
to paper, and then opened, full width,
to some prodigious orange glory. I
watch to stay, and wish to watch.
-
My life, limitless in its own way,
lives on, propels and forces me.
I remain in place. Witness to the
playful rants of stories and tales,
all those human things we tarry
with - telling stories to ourselves,
writing lines, and designing, here
at last, civilizations of our very own.

3239. SETTLEMENT

SETTLEMENT
I was reading Gerontian with my head
in a noose. At any moment, I knew, the
chair could be pulled from under me.
Feeling boxed in, encaved, enclosed
yet unprotected, my shivering premise
mixed fear and doom. Oh dear.
-
I was reading Gerontian with my
hands on the block - as if some
weird Arabic punishment, some
intrepid Muslim debauch, would
leave me limbless and lame. Better
then to just move on - please keep
the hands for the writing, if nothing
else (and, even though I hadn't, I
will never touch your daughter again).
-
I was reading Gerontian while choking
on slime - things being forced down
my gullet by a shrieking torture-master
named Tumo. Never having met before,
I hardly knew the man's purpose or
patter or poise. Oh, all for naught, all
that tendentious and social drivel.
-
Have I told you enough about what
I was doing? I had (really) no clue,
other than these evidences given,
where I was headed or what this
life was about - indeed if it is
about, really, anything at all.

3238. THE OWL-PEN

THE OWL-PEN
I brought to the fort a few
cherished items : thoughts in
a wreath, like memory hanging
beribboned and joyful. Everyone
took their turn singing - even the
impish busker, having just landed
there for a spell. I imagined water,
and a lake along some shoreline so
magically becalmed. As darkness
neared, I saw the owl stir - a doubtful
movement in a darkening air. Rustle,
head-turn, and an odd bird-noise so
unlike any other. This was the distant
bric-a-brac of some other land, a faraway
place now guarded by this fort and these
people within. I sensed a new place
one to which I had not been before.

3237. MARE

MARE
Having held my form to myself -
too long, too long - I now seek a
wandering expression, stallion-like,
bursting a range and leaping a fence.
The lightning bolt, scratching forth
the sky, reminds me then of something
else : I am not now, nor ever have I been,
really, something other than what I want
to be. Moonlight. Clouds. Fire. Something
desolate, out with fire, solitary, alone.

3236. THE TRELLISED ROSE

THE TRELLISED ROSE
The trellised rose knows nothing
but its growth - its clutching,
fevered madness to flower and
bloom. And then it dies. And
then, again, it knows
nothing at all.

3235. LETTERFIELD

LETTERFIELD
In walking past Zelda's nuthouse,
there were things I had to do :
park this unvalued car, slide past
the No Entry signs, enter the
downing hallway, the steps past
which she'd glide. I felt for sure
as if I'd been here before, watching
the cabinet where the old ghost
apparition haunched. She is there,
so wide awake and teeming. I nod
my head, and she tickles my froth
by laughing. Back, back, and on
again. I cannot even truly remember
the year, for there often are none
really, and anyway it's all a blur.
Her white gauze dress, the way
the light clambers back and
around her, that old, cold smell
of clammy meat cooking. And that
is all. As such is my report, human,
as such is my report now back to you.

3234. ALSITAIN ( El Citain)

ALSITAIN (El Citain)
No certainty like the citation of
Time : listen up, oh squandered
Moon. The night wanes, and all
those outdoor smells are in the
air; like the odor of creosote
dripping from the eagle's eye.
Midnight's mansion, mourning
movement, oasis waits. Having
been waiting as well, I too have
marveled - clouds on high, even
in the darkness, passing.

3233. TWO BLACK CARDS TO GO

TWO BLACK CARDS TO GO
(Kingdom of Food)
Running backwards with a Julia Child
logic : to speak, then : pinch, sprinkle,
douse, spread - regale morfosto forester
poise. The grace of flour, the skill of
skillet. The sizzle and wash of
both sound and food.
-
As luck would have it, the fluke
of a latter logic had soaked up
all the sauces. We stood around
disentangled and yet disparaged
by one and by all.
-
No one has since come calling.
The garlic still roasts, as cloven-hoof
Harry himself boasts of his bastings.
Bring more vinegars and oils. And,
then - 'midst all this oveny heat -
the lights, and only the lights at all,
go out in our new Kingdom of Food.

3232. YOUR RAPIER-LIKE ENTRENCHMENT

YOUR RAPIER-LIKE
ENTRENCHMENT

(H)as kept me stranded in place. Unmovable,
like an object of marble, abject and alone. Each
chiseled marking on my face bears its meaning.
They now come by just to read my expressions.
-
I parlay this monstrous allusion into so
many other things : a fearsome loyalty, a
coarse allegiance, a slowly and triangular
reference to my Godless self. I am that
which has come before, and (yes) yes it
was Marcus Aurelius who said : 'Live life
as if already dead.' How many shades
of darkness, then, are there?
-
Live on, oh heedless one : carrier of
death-rays, slinger of spears, chaser
of carrion and plier of Death. Step
lightly over those piles of the
doomed before you. They will
see you, they will hear, but they
shall never answer back.

3231. THE ROARING OF YELLOW CAMP

THE ROARING OF
YELLOW CAMP

As the rocks of Santo Bello were piled at
the ridge, the high stations of some very
bizarre cross and story, so the water
trickled down. Turning swiftly into a
roar, just as soon as the dark sky opened.
We ran for a shelter, found leeward to the wind.
-
A few old women, I noticed, in their bedraggled
dresses, still insisted on crossing themselves.
Holy sites are forever, in staggered little minds
at least. Why bother? Ask them anything at all,
and they'll blame in some Divine alteration.
-
Alongside the muddied path, two girls were selling
flowers from a tray, and nearby, in a hut, a old
man offered ices and water for a price. For
the grand goodness of this one holy God,
perhaps the only one left indecisive, we
must cater to crowds and bring profit
and glory (of whatever sort) to God.
-
Subconscious motives make nothing
at all in the roaring of yellow camp.

3230. ARRIVISTE (Lese Majeste)

ARRIVISTE
(lese majeste)
The wind came by water, as the water

came by wind. The Pilgrims came by
boat, everything they smote. The
schemers came by air, the fires came
by oil, the oil came as fires, everything
despoiled.
I ran for my rifle, and shot
at the river - feeble plinks
in a calm facade of surface
water all too deep for me
to fathom.

3229. CLEAN-UP DAY

CLEAN-UP DAY

Throw disarray.
Throw disarray.
Throw disarray.
Throw disarray.
Stop. Save this.

3228. THE CROSSWORD GULCH GAME (Conditional)

THE CROSSWORD
GULCH GAME
(Conditional)
In the nineties - as such it
is said - we made our fortune
(Amerika, that is) exporting
computers and Viagra :
software and hardware, it
would be termed : before
the crash of time and
pillage and effort cancelled
all of that out, so to speak.

3227. 'MAGINATION

'MAGINATION
Three flights, dog-down steps, broken paddle-arches,
all the rest. Loquacious to a fault, slinking like a dream,
running not to hide, drinking global tea with a spoon.
Whatever for are these whatevers for? Watch the
BBC too soon and more : Strawberry burning fields cars
Forever Penny altercation Lane seems everywhere now
like one big driftwood Paki boom with each intensive
neighborhood now on-line now singing to the rest.
In his pocket, keeps a picture of the Queen.
Fireman rushes in.

3226. FALLING ASLEEP ON THE STEPS

FALLING ASLEEP
ON THE STEPS
I have a nasty habit of moving along,
inscribing certain nomenclatures on
walls of brick and stone. I cannot
claim these things I do not own.
-
The body moves (moves, tries to,
matters), while staying in place.
I am all that I venture to leave,
(thereby, as well, just as much).
-
In the same way, the 'Logos' -
I am taught - guides a human
soul to the realm of the Divine.
-
I do not know. I do not mind.

3225. AT DOMENYI PARISH

AT DOMENYI PARISH
It wasn't a church, you fool, but a county,
called 'parish' somehow in those parts -
and pronounced, in that tongue, I found
out as well, as 'Domenyi', with a 'y'.
Can't figure out, don't try. It
just goes on in that manner.
-
Along the luxuriant lakefront,
vines and growth and the trees
hung close; drooping over the
rich shore like some green
southern money sent from
Heaven above. We've all
got places like that,
I suppose.
-
Like Ma Rainey's plaint in
Southern Blues - I heard
it from 1923 - 'House catch
on fire, ain't no water 'round,
if your house catch fire and ain't
no water 'round, throw your trunk
out the window, building burn on down.'
-
I guess any precaution is a good precaution.

3224. THE COLOR OF LEAD

THE COLOR OF LEAD
Well then, let us lead off with something :
a list of the ancient Kings, a geography of
ancient cities, something to remember
us by. Yes, Us; that varied race of stalwart
little animals, smudging our lands
and places with human grime.
-
As we are, so we ever were : no worse
than groundhogs, moles, weasels, ants.
-
There are no specific words to mark
this alleged and swampy dump. The
rusted cars of other days, yes, they do
still sag and rot on weakened springs,
with rusty water and broken glass, in
place - sagging to metal death in certain
junkyards of our minds. We do not mind.
-
Having to run, like this, leave quickly,
go and come, these are harsher burdens.
The color of lead? Perhaps a very
meaningless gray, like the shade
of so much of our own time.

3223. NATIVE MUENSTER

NATIVE MUENSTER
Down from my native Muenster
the Millicent Fenwick engage; that
pipe-smoking curl of a ravaged face,
wrinkled and wet and raw, and the
lemonade server near where the dog
sits. Native grounds? Oh I say, no
coffee today. It's, by contrast, a
wonderful window bears watching;
(from Regensburg to Wittenberg,
seems all the Gods are throwing bolts).
-
I awoke without a start, so slowly and
lazily too that it was all I could do not
to think of you. Once, a long, long time
ago, we'd somehow left the light on, and
your clothes were everywhere. Now?
Never mind the matter like a banknote -
dollars or coins or metal. I tried hard
to listen to nothing at all, but - outside
the window - that Spanish guy with his
forthright tongue, again, was laughing,
again. I hate that happy tone.

3222. ARAMINGO PARK

ARAMINGO PARK

Eating an apple by the old wooden swings,
watching the birds swoop by, I stretched out
my arms to measure the sky, and realized -
just like that - that it was all too big for me.
Biting down hard, I thought of the fruit and
the seeds I was eating, what grew into pulp,
what remained for future growth. Behind me,
almost in a ragged stealth, that same old river
as always rolled by. Some kids were drinking
beer. Over at their blanket, on the grass, their
noise was loud and raucous. Two girls were
dancing to what seemed laughter and glee.
-
Off to the right, wasteland, surplus grounds,
the ruins of an old brick mill and - of course -
some monstrous and rusted oil tanks stuck onto
the ground. Gigantic round pillars, fizzed with
old paint and oxidation - rust-colored blue,
old pipes and nozzles, a guardhouse where no
one has been for years. The fence keeps out
what it can't let in. The old condoms on the
grass however, I'd bet, attest to something
else. Love grows where my Rosemary goes,
and all that old musical stuff. Everywhere, a
new glimmer of life and expectation. High,
high up, the white plume of some passing
jet, and, across the field, those girls just
dancing their time away.

3221. AND CHRISTOPHER DURANG

AND CHRISTOPHER DURANG

1. And the Knesset. For no other reason.
Wives are in Jerusalem sunning.
The leading of the pipes runs the
water down to the drainage lake.
It's always somehow Summer
where here this once God lived.
I never met anyone I knew.
Christopher Durang, Mel Torme,
Winthrop Regmanster, the old
old Duke of New Burnham. Nor,
now, this left-handed, fickle God
dealing so badly with its
own hand-me-downs.
-
2. And the man in the yellow shirt, with his
fingers around the coffee cup, shaking almost
violently. 'I got the shakes, bad. For a couple
years now. Doctor says onset, Parkinson's.'
I want to tell him about my friend, who
died years ago from the progressive onset
of that very disease. Herb Rosen that was.
It was sad; his body, at the end, was like a
constant motor running. I hadn't
thought of him for years, or that.
-
3. And I am an abstract person, a lens with no
focus, a point with no point. I saddle my feet
in leather shoes. I've never worn 'sneakers'
in my adult life. These are things, this leisure
stuff and all its ease, that I find I just would
never do. Like Nixon, walking on a beach
in his suit and leather shoes. Why?
-
4. And over there, there's a man dressed as a nun,
still wailing about something never undone. All
that catholic crap : it's so over. Long Tall Sally,
and those fucked up rosary beads, skimming
old prayers to newer and newer high heavens.
While, within myself, beneath the bridge, at the
old diving rocks by the Columbia football field -
where - by the way Jack Kerouac (Railroad Jack)
long time back broke forth his leg, and I'm watching
the Metro North go slicing by and - in this most
unCatholic feeling - I too just want to die (but we'll
cross that bridge, no matter how high,
when we get up to it).

3220. PHILOCTETES DISARMED

PHILOCTETES DISARMED
Snakebit effusive charmer wild-eyed
archer seeker in the stars recalled once
more to Troy - I know all that ancient
story, written harsh in these desultory
bones, bringing up memories each
time I feel lost and far away.
-
'It isn't anything I can feel' - such
was my answer to the madd'ning
doctor who was crouched before
me. 'Instead it's as if I was eating
berries and then shitting fire,
spouting stones, spitting mire -
a general, not at all complaisant
malaise.' Not knowing at all what
I was talking about, he laughed.
-
'Oh, Philoctetes, you'll be okay.
You're just missing your home;
but forget about it, they'll never
have you back.' I never felt more
destitute or sad, as if chiseled
pebbles, like glass, rolled
around in my mouth.

3219. ALREADY A CLOSE CALL

ALREADY A CLOSE CALL
Before the morning ended, it had been,
already, a close call. That radio you had
playing in the basement; some dumb, old
Ray Charles tune I could never figure out.
It seemed to run forever when most
unwanted. Like a needle beneath the skin.
Feet up, and just looking out, I watched
you make some coffee. Down below, nothing,
while outside, the clamor of 17th had already
begun. A furniture truck, an antique supply-
house 'supplying' antiques. Go figure on that
one, I thought to myself. Too close to call,
all those craft-art people scouring old barns
for mission-antique country furniture. All
a lie, and I knew it now. The shiny metal
globe they were bringing in, on its valued
silver pedestal. That old gilt-framed portrait,
I bet, was of great-Grandad Cyrus Hardenberg
himself, straight back from the Civil War.
Too close to call, that close call already.