4135. WILLY WHITE HAPPY

WILLY WHITE HAPPY
And here it is - the shovel and the register, all
the things I've ever been. Sound, like a chalice,
is filled with treasure, and all these houses, in
a row, house nothing but dreams : everyman's
glowing with promise. The elm trees soar.
-
My back is against a wall; I look out over a
fair landscape, a horizon - somehow - of
moneyed bliss where men have fought and
died for position like this.
-
My own life, another story, tries brimming
with promise. My smile is fourteen feet
wide, and I am, truly, in another place.

4134. THE LIGHT OF INJUSTICE

THE LIGHT OF INJUSTICE
The room here is broad, and intense, and
broken, letting out light through holes at
its seams. All things must matter - the
expanding light which just goes on, continuing,
draws me in and keeps me here as well, at bay
and waiting to grow : I too would expand and
inhabit. At the moment of taking, I only wish
to give. Your Babel time, by contrast, is
stunning; let us listen to the noise.
-
If one is pure, if one has reached a perfection
of sorts, consider then this : You will speak the
Wisdom that only the God-inspired teach; the
utterances that come from the heart and the
law that is within it. They will be the
only texts of truth.

4133. NOT HERE TO CIRCUMVENT THE TIME

NOT HERE TO 

CIRCUMVENT 

THE TIME

Pippin and Pit were naming things;

others had names given to them. Between

the two, there was no difference at all. The

great wind blew  -  slapping the doorway

open and shut, banging things ungraciously.

I stood by the produce bags : burlap

sacks of beans and peas.

-

Dockside infusions of imports and grime  -

men speaking funny tongues, women talking

in rhyme. A vestibule of Hell's own 

something; that's what it felt like to me.

-

Water was in bottles from Perth, at least

that's what it said. I wanted to believe nothing,

I wanted to run or be dead. You know how

it sometimes is with nightmares : things 

swallow you up just as you start

getting out, and then they

swallow you up again.

4132. WHERE'S MY BIG BEAT SWEATER?

WHERE'S MY

BIG BEAT SWEATER?

I'm trouncing this monopoly of time and things

and place. I'm making disappearances and voids.

I stayed too long at something better; now

where is my Big Beat sweater?

4131. WORDS RUNNING ON

WORDS RUNNING ON

(for Delmore Schwartz)

There are words getting ahead of themselves, 

right now, somewhere. I hear them. In such

ways do wars begin, and worlds end.

-

I visited 91 Bedford today, just to look at 

the door where someone else had lived.

I knew, before I got there, what I'd see :

marks of prominence and declension, 

such things of royalty. Poetry is like that.

-

Not Poetry, just words themselves : what we

weave, a gossamer oasis, a cloud, a web,

all that of myriad matter. Take nothing for

granted, my fine young steed, all can be

changed by what you read.

4130. THIS COUNTRY IS STOLEN RIVER GRIME

THIS COUNTRY IS

STOLEN RIVER GRIME

'Debase the country that I live in, this ain't

no native land - from the Wabash to the

Colorado nothing deserves to stand. The

rumbling of the waters, the mighty and horrid

east coast, resounds with nothing special

but the inklings of a ghost - everything's been

raped and stolen, put down and killed at most.

Those criminals in coats of power, the solemn

halls of men and women too, they're all alike

by color and form, no difference 'tween the

two - like sharpshooters they kill and steal,

maim and run for cover 'neath their laws of

ermine lies and rulings, the breath of death

does hover. Everything's abstraction, their

follies kill us all, the megadeath they wish

to score shall soon come home to call.'

4129. YOU'VE GOT TO MAKE THE CONNECTIONS

YOU'VE GOT TO MAKE

THE CONNECTIONS

Strange acolyte who runs humming, finds

light where darkness dwells, come home with

me. There are strummings in this oasis - all

those harmonic chords you may once remember

hearing. And these are marvelous things.

-

All momentary, the long and tedious days

drag on - that river running by us seems to

know its way, on its own, lone and sedate,

and not without another curious nature.

-

Could I but find that clue which would lead

me homeward bound, I'd file that note in the

letter bag you carry. As it is, we each need

make our own connection - come with me,

tarry not. I note the postman passing.

4128. THE PAST

THE PAST

(first, do no harm)

If the past is what's behind us, then

what's that coming up ahead again?

I see the wolverine and the fox, both

sneering back behind themselves, and

I think they both know what it is that's

coming back. Retrograde analysis,

and rotational dead ends.

-

No ones senses the fever that takes over

their brain; like some hallucinatory brake,

it tries to stop the fire but fails  -  and we

live on, crossed and fired by crazy dreams.

-

The hands of lovers entwine, but even that

is so momentary it makes me cry. The

doctors, with their note pads and levers,

are killing people with kindness as long

as they're paid, yet nothing outside

the source will bring the soul back.

The Hippocratic oath is just that.

-

On the old stone wall, the small plaque

says that this is where Thomas Mann

lived his years in Princeton. Another

spot says Fitzgerald as well. I shrug,

and note the markings  - if only I could

be enthused about something anew.

Everything new is old again.

4127. TRAVERTINE

TRAVERTINE

In the hills I am hearing music - the sounds

of some large movement trudging along

the quarried slopes. All the caves of men

and the hands of yet a thousand more can

never cover the moment. The grotto of a

St. Xavier Pilene of the Mountain seems to

sit nearby  -  idle and barren, a place where

no crutches hang. I ask the monk who lives

nearby, 'what brought people here?' He replies,

'broken hands and limbs, mostly, those seeking

the remedy for getting limber again. Others there

were, yes, the amputees or the quarrymen who

severed an arm at the wrist or who'd lost an

arm or a leg. For them there never was any hope,

I knew that; though they all prayed to be made

whole again. Yes, this crazy religion business is

like that. They'd leave their money behind.'

-

A sidelong light enters the grotto  - smokey and

dense, it floats along low to the ground, lit as it

is by the filtered light, diffused through the stained

glass of the windows. Candles still flutter, while

others are out, I sit a moment to sort things out.

What is it that men believe? How does it happen,

this way we both grieve and live, together? And

what is it we are afraid of at all? I do not bother

to answer myself  -  after all, it would be so foolish,

-

The stickle-hammer guards the cadenced lobby

wherein two Swiss-Guardsmen are standing. I

do not know why, nor what possible could be

on their minds, nor what they could

possibly be thinking of.

4126. THESE THINGS SHOULD NOT MEAN, JUST BE

THESE THINGS SHOULD 
NOT MEAN, JUST BE

That lantern, which the farmer has left

upon the fencepost  -  as he walks away

from it is it still his? Is it still there? Or

what is the presence of presence or the

being of being?

-

'The prison of the body holds me, and I

appear destined for eternal punishment' :

run, run, do not rock, just flee; flee, flee,

do not stop, just flee - for all the lights of

Mankind and all the forms of Being are

passing and are not long to be.

-

Under signs I stand by a dim straight fading -

one foot in the universe of spinning moment,

and the other in the distant firmament, from

which these things coalesce and fade :

they should not mean, just be. 

4125. THIS MAN IS A CULPRIT

THIS MAN IS A CULPRIT

What noise that comes down to us from

these fruits? In the morning it is lighter

now as seasons begin their change already;

escaping lightly, trolling heavily - but

moving with ease nonetheless. Here it

is, only, and I am a camera. A few

people  -  it always seems  -  are looking

for shooting stars and heavenly objects

and busy at work doing so. But there

are none : No, man's question to man

should be, instead, are you consigned

to being dense and obtuse, or are

you ready to be accessible to me?

4124. BOULDERS AND IMMOVABLE OBJECTS

BOULDERS AND

IMMOVABLE OBJECTS

Let me talk. Let me whistle back then :

ontology jelly wrapper spit-shine Glenn Miller

blues. Thou are so stable, great God of the stable.

-

And anyway, it's all your mess and what

shall I call thee? Ialdabaoth will have to do.

You've turned out to be another city guy.

-

This morning at dawn, it was in Elsa's

broad garden, I saw a rabbit running stop

running stop. The winter grass was wet

in a thaw - what it was, he was looking for.

Running stop running stop.

4123. MORNING NEWS

MORNING NEWS
I stuck my feet into Heaven and they went right
through - landing me back where I'd started with
a message coming through : disengage the follies
and notice as you do - the whole entire world will
fade, long before you do. Sackcloth and ashes,
sackcloth and ashes, sackcloth and ashes,
over and over again. We are as miserable
as the rhyme we reason to.

4122. OVERHEAD SIGNS

OVERHEAD SIGNS

Do not be the one man aboard

who is knocked down by these -

sway, sway with the sea but stay

upright and watch the swirling world

abound. And, good Christ, do not be

the boring one. It's not a fight, it's not

a battle; no, just stay. And anyway,

escape itself is far too easy.

4121. CAMERON THE YARD DOG

CAMERON THE YARD DOG
(never to leave again)
The papyrus has a moving war that is never
put off by spite : regimented hands and fingers,
dolorous tales of warriors and sailors and saints.
Why divulge anything more? It is the hallmark of
fame to just stay in place. I bow down to no one,
but will offer respect. The flag that is carried flies
high; papal eagle, lance of the land, French fleurs
de lis, everything of that sort. And all those men,
generations of Portuguese fishermen, hauling their
catches with no effort at all. (Watch, watch this:
the faint blue of the ringing sky, high mountains
over top, a ridge of rock, the coastline hugging
the land, as if never wishing to leave again).
-
The phone can reach Gibralter, and sure enough
someone is calling there - that quickly, voices
overtake the line, and all that peace is gone.
Military men stand in line, guarding that now-so-
awkward rock. No man has a country, but this
country claims men; as if wishing,
never to leave again.
 

 

4120. 1863

1863

(as found unfinished)

'In the sputtering mass of that moment, Mama,

they took me down. I had shot in my leg and it

was making blood run. The pain it was steely,

Mother, as it ran down my calf. I remembered,

or tried to, Decauter's directions, yet only could

remember having just entered Virginia. This hard

life was becoming a dream; like, as I screamed

with my newly-found verve.

-

The man who'd shot me was aimless and without

face  -  there was a flank of riflemen along the ridge

as we ran, and they were shooting as we were running.

It seemed no cannon, or nothing big  -  just the swift

form-rustle-snap of rifle-shot and gauge. Oh it hurt,

and I went down.

-

As I did come to, Mother, in this wall of pain, I

saw I was still alive, had all my limbs and could

still sense my moment. A man was coming slowly

towards me  -  in another uniform hat and clothing,

though as dishevelled as me. A warbler something

warbled, and it seemed a mean horse whinnied.

-

Mama, though now I will probably die, I grabbed

my gun and shot him in the throat  -  he went down

before me, and I watched his gurgling blood ebb

and finish. And oh, so soon after, I found this stub

to pencil and finish this note to you. Mother Lynette

Farnes Fitzgerald, Canterfield Georgia and Roxthan's F'

-----

4119. HOUR OF PERIL

HOUR OF PERIL
Painting the hammock and marking
the fenceline won't get you home.
Creepy, how the diminishing returns of
still another project keep so many men at
bay. It is written in catcalls that we are all Divine :
creatures of sentience and light, but nothing
to show for it at all. I am watching the darkening
of another man's face - he stares out at the harbor,
asleep, from a fourth floor ledge. Overlooking somehow
Brooklyn, from this east side berth, he really sees so
little, for sure, and his hour of peril is at hand. Creepy it
is, how one finds only Salvation to be had, or nothing
else to be given at all. Thusly, this pale life confuses.

4118. THIS POCKET PLACE

THIS POCKET PLACE

I am wandering again  -  sullen

and alone in a disparate morning

light made of winter sparrows and

the scat-song of icy water. My head

is down, but only to see the light I

imagine instead of the light I see.

A fencepost ties the land to where

I am  -  this is Foggy Lane, this is

Carnal Village. Now  -  so all at once  - 

there are so many things around; every

new move becomes a sudden description.

4117. HEARTS OF MATTER

HEARTS OF MATTER

It is a vista of sure gold : we are

looking at the mountains, westward  -

what they call them, anyway. An eastern

man's mountain amounts to not much by

a western man's standards - yet who really

cares? California and all those other meanings

pale by smoke and magic, and nothing is

ever called to account for itself.

-

Here, in a tiny Princeton villa, I am

overlooking subservience and the ritual

manner of fools with money. They pounce.

They retell their trips, they argue with the news

and they retell their doctor's views. Man makes

money based on the line he hews. Yes then, too,

oh my eyes bleed for their incessant shit.

-

I am so lost and alone  -  and only and only

someone like you can suffice : to hold my leaky

cup and saucer, to thank this world for being, to

harbor as well such Pound and Chaucer  -  or, as

Delmore said  -  to 'swallow his toad and study

his vomit.' Ah, poets too make me sick.

4116. FIRST THOUGHT IN THREE WORLDS

FIRST THOUGHT IN

THREE WORLDS

The urge that made the world considers

nothing amiss outside of primal horror. Yes,

it contains an apple  -  shine and roundness,

surface and circumferance. Holding hands

like Annas 'round a globe, defining what

it feels, what it has fashioned, extracted

from the accursed wood.

4115. HERR KAPITAN OF HAPPENSTANCE

HERR KAPITAN

OF HAPPENSTANCE

 I would be the posse to retrive you, taking

back the florid world from Jesus and all his

gospel gossip. I can hold you up when you fall -

though of course that paradox arises : I cannot

even lift myself up. I cannot lift up myself.

-

('He lies in the coffin of his character').

4114. LIZZIE PARDON

LIZZIE PARDON

I went to the Kentucky Derby

wearing your hat. I came back home

wearing nothing but my clothes.

4113. 20 AVENUE A

20 AVENUE A
I went to my London cabbie saying 'why you here
and how?' - he smiled, saying nothing much back.
It's always like that in this dream: regiments of the
plain and bad, with qualifications to qualify nothing.
'How can I make you pay,' he said, 'when there's
really no ride at all?' I smiled back in my best and most
nonchalant way, 'I hear you, yes, but the words are
unclear - and whatever it is I will pay.' On his window
was etched a map of the world - all going nowhere,
all circular and overlapping, with a hole in the middle,
for Time and what roads it brings.

4112. HOW I FEEL GRATITUDE

HOW I FEEL GRATITUDE
I feel gratitude for nothing at all :
starry mind of the moon and
the Heavens, deep-dish daughter
of Neptune's swans. Nothing.
I hold dear to myself, that's all.
-
I'm stumbling my broken gait through
the paradise at Chumley's alley; all
what once was, and is now gone.
It is 1924 again, and I wear that same
old worsted jacket that goes with the
pants. No other gin-soaked alibi will do.
-
Lighter things have happened in these
days of old. The Parcheesi guy who just
kept coming around, and - oddly so -
even my own grandmother was only 24.
-
The little man, swilling English beer and
holding onto his Pomeranian dear. The
two made such a couple - fireplace
heart, open-door meeting, kissing like
guzzling mavens - a regular pirate, he.
-
I spent enough time at Chumley's to die
there - and money enough to buy the
selfsame moon and stars; and money
enough to buy the moon and stars.

4111. HOTEL GRIGIO

HOTEL GRIGIO
I am wearing that hat again, the one with
the Polish grain and the broken eagle, an
inside patch now soiled and gloomed from
oil and sweat. It was never to matter, I always
knew, because no one sees inside me.
-
Stumbling, and with these shaky hands, I find
a fat cigarette in French-coat pockets. I am of
such International Man fervor that this all comes
very easily now. I light the scratchy match and
smoke like a bum - leaning on a wall, this
old building has a grime of red brick that I
carry away - clothing, like life, just fades.
-
The intensity of a moment never carries well into
the next - moment, not world. Even here, as I
leave the Hotel Grigio, I feel as if, having fallen
somehow from the 17th century, I've lost all
those meanings which make modern time
sensible. Something to understand, where
there's nothing left at all to see.
-
Ma mere used to say I was 'qu'ell characteur' -
she wrote it down one day for me, in her peasant's
handwriting and mis-spelled way. She also mouthed
'oeuvre la porte' once too often, and died alone in
her Chantierre bed. With her, everything was wrong.
-
Now my marbles have slithered down, rolled their
cantankerous way along gutters and drains and ended
only where there was no more space to roll. If even
I knew how to say it - in my mother's broken French,
'dead end Harry' would have to come to mind. I am
of such the broken spirit that it would probably fit.
-
I think that I shall buy a new hat,
and then begin to wear it.

4110. TO HAVE BEEN DUMPED BY CASSANDRA

TO HAVE BEEN DUMPED
BY CASSANDRA
To have been dumped by Cassandra would have
been a happy moment. We would have flown to
the farthest cogs of the western hills, seeking
something like a solace brought by a burro, or
a rapacious, unruly mount unwilling to settle for
instruction. There could have been a holiday of
emotion, right then, as we basked together in
finding a means to parlay one hunch into two
heads - opinions disgorged to the hilltops,
pebbles in the mouth, screaming as we ran.
'This is how we practice oration,' they said on
the coast of Greece, or deep in the tropical
woods. Now, for ourselves, we are once again
producing the nineteenth century - without
knowing why or how. We pass the rounded
hillside, with its errant road around the trees
and river, and see before us the old and
whitewashed barn set out, still with its
fences and turrets, windvane and gates.
The silo almost leans; it is of such an
extraction as to groan now with age. Bales
of hay, silage, manure, all these things are
spread around the yard; amongst the cows
and cattle the heaving heap of muck and
slop produces throngs of flies and bugs. The
very air is abuzz with the activity of Life and
Liberty, seen from a very small perspective.
Alas, we should not worry. We are here for
the duration, keeping a cobble-book of notes
by which to refer to the daily urge of mark
and number, strain and desire. It is not for
nothing that seven thousand years of living
have brought Mankind to this very edge of
agriculture - bigger than ever before, yet
seemingly small on the face of this Earth.
Life becomes a quandary thereby, the paradox
by which we breath. The very same dead we
bury in these earths become the source for
soils and fuels. How is that, that it cannot be
understood? A relative scale so obscure that
only others would see it? We allege to love
the Earth. We allege to revere this very world.
-
To have been dumped by Cassandra would
have been a most happy joy instead.

4109. ANYBODY WISHING

ANYBODY WISHING
Anybody wishing to know can just ask : hell, send
a note, whatever. Minton's Playhouse, even that -
if you've got to look it up, go ahead. All that largess
comes spitting back - like backwash from a
trumpet's mouthpiece. I said 'trumpet', fool, not
'strumpet' - though if you've got to know I can
find you that too. Since I am (must you ask),
Kingpin of this entire neighborhood, let me tell
you the following things : watch your kneecaps,
always look behind you, don't bend down, don't
give out too much information and - most
importantly - if Bettie Jane McArty comes
your way - by all means leave her alone.
I've had to bury too many men to make
that memory pleasant at all. It just
cannot ever be. Go ahead,
just ask.

4108. NEGLECT

NEGLECT

So I inhabit worlds that exist and those

that do not. So my sock-feet are here

ennobled by visions : I am the winsome

stealth-cat, moving between lanes and

staying quiet over fire-escapes of ladder

and hoist. Yes, though it may be this is

the building I live in, so too is it where I

am not. Like Science's capricious foe, I

am that which cannot be measured.

-

I lived beneath a bridge, right where I

was born. Now, in the Wintry light that

pecks at my face, I manage only to

stare out, look glumly, try to recall,

about this world I've never seen, or

may have, or - yes - seen not at all.

-

I grow the grand flower 'Paradox';

it weathers every doom and crisis

and grows richer with neglect.

4107. GESTATION

GESTATION

('it's all about world domination')

There are poetry ladies of a dripping pen,

doing their time in cubicles of love and hatred;

they weep and lunge over flowers and clouds.

With so little to say, they manage so much :

a hatred of praxis, a government-fund swoon,

a 28-day period, a mood and a scream. I watch

them claw and wiggle, and I know what they mean.

'This life is a tired homage, a lonely whole; and I

mean that sincerely, like a child's love, or the beating

of a kitten's heart, or the fire of love that God passes.'

'What do you mean,' I said, 'what do you mean to say?'

4106. DERRIERE NEW ENGLAND

DERRIERE NEW ENGLAND

They washed down their cats at some halftime show,

a sporting event of delicious intent : all those naked

ladies come running through the snow. High above,

three starboard fighter jets did maneuvers, dipping

the sky in a lunge and a weave made for ice cream

and candy together. The massive crowd swelled and

pulsed, screaming and moaning, spitting out its liquid

powers while dribbling down the drool. This was one

spectacular moment : Patrick Henry forget it.

-

I sat with Hawthorne while he cried. The big oaf

could not get over the cheerleading girls, and the

magic carpet ride he'd always imagined.' Everything',

he said, 'has gotten so mixed up - my gables are

now all Clarks and the name Scarlett has taken over

my hue. O'Hara and Johannsen to name but a few.'

-

Last I knew he'd flown with the sky curtain just as

it opened up. A raging cloud had descended and

a fierce music played. 'Where are you going, Nate?',

I asked. 'I can't answer now', he said, 'I'm too dismayed.'

4105. BAEDEKER

BAEDEKER

Miraculous Mirabelle : she waits in the

confines of room 4e, on the right floor

of the solid-caste walk-up we now

inhabit. I love her, and her gaze,

and her grasp as well. Like this,

I shall nod for always and only

in her direction. We've captured

Prague, and Allentown, and

Buffalo too. I read about these

things with a map of her world

in my lap  -  Baedeker of love

and lust, guidebook to outlandish

destinations, a tourist guide to

places of the distant heart.

4104. COMMINGLE

 COMMINGLE

And oh so many times the varied hurtings cast their

plights; the arrows and the wounds. I move on, perplexed.

I alone do not understand  -  apparently  -  what it is that

drives other people. This jacket I wear bears my shrug.

As if I was in pantomime, a mime, a jagged sock puppet

drained and wilting. Nothing I get, though I've gotten it.

-

Now the storm drain pours its awful matter outward -

perhaps a wrong direction but running nonetheless.

-

Others may ask the commingling notes of fence and

barrier and distance; that awful medley of melody

sounding  -  the clash and cymbal of every noise.

In my brain, amplified by a brutish snort, I paw

and rut like a bull in pursuit of a fine-class mate.

4103. THOR HAMMER

THOR HAMMER

For just this inexpressable moment

let me be you; let me be me, let

me be all Mankind : blubber floats

home, brashly foaming, lining on

shores. The North Sea sings of

something, though I can never

quite catch that tune. I want to

just walk  -  this climate is good.

-

Two taxis float along : Madison

and Lexington, the art-gallery of

streets and fashions. Everything 

here hangs out to dry  -  even those

late-life matrons trying so hard again.

I really do love their smiles, and they'd

be shocked to know I'm older then

they are, by far. An old man, just here,

blubbering himself of the sea in an

ancient, strange tongue.

4102. SCOUTING REPORT

SCOUTING REPORT

I am at bay  -  as here I tend this

mannered place. Oasis. The report

read 'watch out for Scout; he'll get

you in the end.' I'm tired of listening.

People talk, rankly; all their

bread-wrappers and all their

stupid candies and nuts, and

stockings and banks and habits.

-

This unpredictable suit wears

me well; Poetry is both here

the manner and the fit.   

That's what gets you,

in the end. 

4101. I AM A HOPPER PAINTING

I AM A HOPPER PAINTING

Doudloom, I arch the domed

cornice, all windows and light,

and I am that fleshy, naked

being who occupies the open

floor : I unwind, thinking of the

night creeping in 'round that

darkened arch of trees or

those rendered, simple souls

hunched over their dark and

lonely streetscapes  -  where 

the city-street unevenly 

stretches, reaching its hand 

against corners unseen.

4100. SIDEWAYS TO MANKIND

SIDEWAYS TO MANKIND
I am just like that : oblique, the wrong way,
turned and twisted about. I only see my reflection
upended and backwards to everything else. I
do not fit. Look at this cosy place - even the
doorknobs here keep pace with any internal
monologue which may be going. I scribe my
only fearsome figure on a penciled draft of
nothing in a notebook of no account.
-
A mailman is walking by - oblivious to me
and lost within his task, I only for a moment
wish I could be him, doing what he does and
staying right to focus. My world is, by contrast,
a rainbow of churlish colors and speed : no grace
to last the moments, no outside voice to heed.
-
It is entering late afternoon. My God, I am
lost to myself. A few cars, instead of staying
still are moving by. Someone makes them go -
not I. My post, in here is here. I am present.
I am fully accounted for.

4099. DIOGENES

DIOGENES
Take these battlements' arches and walk them off.
Carry all the philosophies you know and bring them
here inside. We are sitting doing nothing : the pallid
moon endears itself to the vase. Purple reflections
shimmer back an uncertainty I'd forgotten all about.
Before you start the bonfire, make sure the world
itself is not your kindling; and then just walk away.

4098. COUNTRY LOVE (a place in rural time)

COUNTRY LOVE

(a place in rural time)

Let us roam the periphery

once more  -  see that rambling

brook as it roars the rushes, note

the grimy window on the barn  -

each of these are pleasant things

we live with; and, even here, the

winnowed sky stays blue.

-

I have no match for this heaven,

though I bid you in : your marsh-like

heart can be our lantern, or mine, at

least. Poorly lighting ways to move

and amble, instead  -  and together  - 

we can cut those daring straight

lines like a hawk.

-

And only now have I suggested rest  -

rest and disclosure anyway together.

I close my magazine hat gladly over

your lids, and maneuver with admittance

this intention to steal your love away.

4097. HOMO HABILIS

HOMO HABILIS

Man the Maker, that's the guy;

from Frederick Durenmatt to Uwe

Johnson, I've walked that sky. Look, look

at how all those awesome coffee cups, now

reflect this kitchen counter's light. Every

word has carried some form of force, and

we've talked for idling hours of the world

and all its course. This playwright's returns

are diminishing now, and   -  for sure  -

1949 only happens once in a lifetime.

I remember when Brecht died, where

I was and what I was doing. Very

simple, this odd shadow-theater

of stately feelings and minds.

I held it all together, once,

but now it is lost.

4096. INTIMATIONS

INTIMATIONS

I hung the bicycle from the wall-hooks.

Everything in this loft was ship-shape

order. The news was not good : the

television blared both death and war,

and the doctor I'd just spoken with

had said one of those at least.

Errol was doomed.

-

What mattered in my mind was what

mattered least : what to do and how?

The knowledge of approaching death

is somehow not the same as Death itself;

one you can touch and caress, while the

other you run from and hide. Which was

this? I couldn't decide

4095. DOLEFUL ENIGMATIC MATTER

DOLEFUL ENIGMATIC MATTER

Uncle, father, daughter, son - each

of these things matters to one. Yet, to

see past all that is to really reach a

fulfillment. We are selves, and selves

alone each we remain. Like the wind

here, cutting my face, objects pillaged

of shape and design are flying past.

No connection to be made, I nonetheless

try telling myself that I recogninze these

things : powers, shapes, and pointed

settings by which we recognize the

mold of time. Imprinted like fools, we

continue striving. I walk this wandered

waterfront, sure and sorry of my own

being. In time, I too shall be replaced.

4094. I WANT YOU TO KNOW

I WANT YOU TO KNOW

I rekindle the fires within; those matters

you may have forgotten, they still live and I

can see them. Halfway up that hill, where

the little pine tree grows, that was once

my campsite - Cowaw, where we sat.

Cowaw, where we stayed. I sat bemused

by every rustle in the grass. All those

views towards westward skies, we watched

and saw them grow : the pale, long mask of

the Appalachian rim, high tops of rocks and

eddies of golden stammer; water steaming

in a new pool of stone. As I stayed there, so

I lived - a warrior honed and ready. I walked

three hundred miles, over time, to go forth and

to return to these loose-limbed lands that

were my home. I did a million things in my

natural time; at one with the Earth around me.

4093. SAGAMORE

SAGAMORE

They are shooting maples down where I live;

shagging trees and cutting limbs, making the

oasis that here once lived now but a paradise

for ghouls. I am, understandably, wild and upset.

Shall I chain myself to a tree, or just stand here

with a gun in hand? I don't know and wouldn't care,

either way, for them and all their doings.

I am the worthy one, not them.

-

So long it's been like this, and I am very tired.

My royal venom is running on. We once killed

men for poaching the King's trees - or deer, for

that matter. Everyone agreed and no one said

a word - everything of might was kept within

the royal precinct, and there was no other way.

-

I liked it better then : I was a man with a royal

aplomb, I carried my armaments gaily. I shouldered

my shares, marksman that I was, and killed my

few as well, as needed, and finely. So much of that

world is now so gone away. I stand alone, at

this empty, bare corner, silently wishing

I was back there once more.