4179. SHANKER, NY

SHANKER, NY

Many are the offspring of such delight and aim :

the differing stars align, the old hills are groaning.

I walk along this drifted stream, watching train cars

and a bulldozer snack in the trees; an old fence sags,

graffiti'd with words of no sense 'Lackadaisical songs

sound O long DYR.' Across from all this, in the old

house now a gallery, a group of little kids are held

in a party; birthday streamers and balloons out

the front door while the mothers watch

and others arrive. The train rolls away.

-

Dispatched like gravy from a ladle, the people

who have come off the train walk their way

across pavement; oblivious to all else

around them, they enter the small

town as one, knowing little of

what they see or where

they are.

4178. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

I've haunted every landlubber like a tribesman

on the hunt - vowing to murder each intruder

I find. This enormous place was once alone my

land, now they've put crap at each corner. My

ancient Chinese Library has taken a dive, the

crumpets at the Taoist Center are stale, and

every English bastard I've ever known keeps

drumming on a barrel in a sweat to save the

Queen. What do I care for that? I am a totally

sorry soul, and a very peaceful man. Any

act beyond my real intention can only

be an aberration.

4177. MY COUNTRY WIFE

MY COUNTRY WIFE

My country wife serves me daggers

and is a braggart  -  all those eggs on

an insensate sea. We are like a deck of

cards  -  my joker to her queen. Listing

all the sanctions, I see the country doctor

cut the deck  -  to make the country wife

smile, he sutures the gashes shut.

4176. GONNA' FINALLY FOLLOW

GONNA' FINALLY FOLLOW

That one to his death : holding hands

with someone I love. That crazy girl

with the black Mercedes who wants

to be a boy, the lady on the lake, the

girl in the far Canadian wilds. I'm

dreaming I made a mistake. Sometimes

everything happens at once; other times

nothing at all. My heart I place in the

hands of one who feels. I am strangely

lost in the space of my time. Miraculous

board games? No, not that. Alexandrian

quatrains; OK then. There beats no better

place than hands that have touched the

abstract to the core. My art is an act of

love, and vice-versa too. Gonna' finally

follow, no matter what else I do.

4175. NO TIME LIKE NOW

NO TIME LIKE NOW

(so few stars in the nighttime sky)

There they come again, those crazy spit-shine feelings;

passion and madness on the horizon of sand. Running

down, over some strange end, as if a desert supple of all

Life and Time were unending. The orange cat slinks over

the car  -  some shitty old Ford not worth a damn. It

should have been named the 'Ford Feline' - forget

Fairlane. How funny we get over names. The cat

knows what the mice doesn't, I suppose. Why?

-

Here there is shadow and light. Do you think, as

well, there is a darkness  -  between things, between

people. When I was young, in the long slope of my

backyard, high above above were ten thousand

stars. Now, if there are fifty I'm bragging.

It's all gone and the odd thing is, as the

 light's taken over the darkness is worse.

There are so few stars in the

nighttime sky.

-

Send me the papers and the pleasure, the meaning and

the new markings. Let me learn a language I cannot

recognize  -  I'll see you, a'fire and blazing, on

the next horizon I find. I'll be looking.

There are so few stars in the

nighttime sky.

4174. RIBBENTROP VALLEY

RIBBENTROP VALLEY

What do you want to know, what should I tell you?

The pigeon I saw today was hanging onto the side

of a limb, almost pasted to the side of a building.

I'd never seen anything like it before, and just watched.

I love stuff like that : the junk that comes out of a tube,

the spill of the landed-thrown trash. I have no words

for the real matter of living : those people who dress

to the nines (whatever that means?), the eyelash paint,

the little-girl glitter, the men in those well-trafficked suits.

All to impress, and all things are sex? I just don't know

but I'd like to find out. I always wished to be one of those

Graham brothers, the ones who corner the market in

silver or gold, those who can shutter whole towns in

a pass with their money; buying and selling like goons.

The well-oiled mess of a cum-fest forever. Doctors and

lawyers and bakers and thieves, making off with both

money and glory. They sit on their own private beaches,

watching their lovers with camel-toe suits parading my

in big hats. The most lustful moment of any man's life?

I've been told already it's Death. Doesn't make me wish

 for it though; at least not here in Ribbentrop Valley.

4173. OH WELL, HERE WE ALL ARE

OH WELL, HERE WE ALL ARE

You can't bother the bargain man, and really, nothing

gets through. You can't undo the bad endings either;

they're there for all to see. You can't bother the

botherman, and he won't listen anyway. Boys, this

is a weird globe spinning, and all we chase is chimera

and idea. For myself, I'd trade the whole mess for

a pile of girls, or maybe some lethargic heartthrob

known as Mary. Just a name anyway, don't take

offense. Look here, I myself painted this window

with premature paint. It faded, but the scene came

alive : five thousand years ago, that was me, on

the landscape chasing my prey. These nomadic

groups, we all had to eat. I clobbered and smashed,

cut and tore. The fire never went out; we had to

make sure. My God, nothing was easy then. I

only learned copulation myself by watching.

The little tribe grew. Oh well, here we all are.

4172. THE RUBBER OCEAN

THE RUBBER OCEAN

And oh I am diametrically opposed

to everything : I just found out.

When it comes to stealing your

heart, I punt it like a soccer ball.

My five hands, they tremble these

two fingers. There's a tattoo on

my forehead which reads : 'Have

fun Harvey, along the rubber ocean;

have fun Harvey again and again.'

4171. NOTHING HAPPENS

NOTHING HAPPENS

Sparks fly, and the message is dirty,

the lingo is hip, the massive is monkey,

the stars are aligned. The Greta Garbo

girl in her silk negligee takes a seat by

my hand, and won't go away. Beats my

ass what she's doing, and I'm not asking

a thing. Sparks fly, the message is empty,

and nothing happens at all. The freak train

stops at Station B, five people get off, not

one of them me. The blue guy in the box-cut

fedora steps up, 'is this seat free?' I looked

him down and say 'no it's five bucks prepaid

and 10 more later.' He laughs a snide smile

and buys for an hour. His nose is running

blood, and I see he's a goner. Two red ducks

fly by, looking east to see what's west. I

remembered an old Beatles movie, somehow

lingering - all those crazy, stupid traincoach

antics, and those silly girls laughing;

all those silly girls, laughing.

4170. IT CAN'T BE SAID

IT CAN'T BE SAID

It can't be said bones have marrow,

it can't be noted at all - the internal

stuff is all unseen, and anyway it's

just what we call it; I'm not sure we'd

agree. This entire 'doctor' thing is too

flimsy : medical doctors at one end

are no more than flamboyant

medicine men from days of old :

the little fat ones peddling elixirs

and the fiery old ones, on some

savannah somewhere, yelling at

the midnight sky and hurling oaths

to the heavens above them while

shrieking like men possessed

4169. THE REST OF LOVE

THE REST OF LOVE

The rest of love is just a spoonful away, a

big, fat dollop of licking and touch. If that's

all that happens I'll be happy enough. The

most happy fellow, that's me. Look, look

high, the farthest sky is throwing clouds,

clouds and rain to rain on me : clouds

of glory and majesty. The rest of love

rides the spendthrift wind, from you

to me and back again, in reciprocity.

-

The rest of love stays around, lingers,

refuse to be but a memory. Its ashes,

oh man, how they stay hot. I hold out

my arms (and take in a lot). I hold

 out my arms and gather you up.

4168. ALWAYS TRAVEL

ALWAYS TRAVEL

There they sit  -  friezes and breezes,

sphinxes and cats  -  all those old Egyptian

things. Like the history books tell it, all

pull and labor and danger and strife. And

now those durable mummies : would that I

like that I wouldn't have to talk nor even nod.

My own endymion moment runs to other things -

William Tell or Piper Pitt. How would I know

the difference, and anyway, where would I sit?

But there they are  -  friezes and breezes,

sphinxes and cats. (I'm going outside, to

Cleopatra's Needle again).

4167. RETURNING THE STATUETTE

RETURNING THE STATUETTE

The more I learn the less I believe, in

anything at all. There is nothing but a hollow

vapor in this man's shoe. Life is not real, the

ending is unclear, and nothing more to come

returns home, always to endear, for those

nearby, the most recent moment to them.

_

Not worth spit. Our Lady of the Sorrows Church,

I pass it every day : good passage, leaving with

grief. Some people make the cross, old men

doff their hat, women straddle the banister

and 'Jesus this' or 'Jesus that'. I want to run.

-

The man from Mathematicsville, yes, he comes

by with all his sluggo wisdom, holding points

and compass ends and swearing his equations.

Beelzebub to Pi, no difference see I. Everything

must stand for something, you simple symbol man.

-

Cartloads of crap, decision of the judges and the

royal erasers of the King's own schools. Rat's ass

for nothing, box of peppers, loose-limbed lion. It's

all Life, my fine fellow, everything about you lives.

And pretty much, that's all there is.

4166. THE FAMOUS ARTIST TALKS

THE FAMOUS

ARTIST TALKS

I jack-paneled all the arts into one big

dripping bundle. Just like that, everything

took off. Famous, man, like pearls in an

oyster or soup in a silver spoon. My heart

wept and my eyes were beating -

everything was out of control.

-

Those bleating lambs tethered in isolation,

that was art man, an installation. The purists

clapped like mad, and the ones just learning -

eyeglasses on string, heels and pumps starting

their tilt at the door, they smiled as if they'd

known me before. (It wasn't them but I'd

had their daughters galore).

-

Everyone knew my name - even the guy

with the white truck I'd painted; we called

it 'politicart' and parked it out front.

'Tibet' was all it read.

4165. BLIND MAN, BEGGAR MAN

BLIND MAN, BEGGAR MAN

(Laramie)

Hold the force open, keep the gate ready, those

horses are soon to come tumbling out. They run

like the wild steeds they are, and we can only

watch and wonder, gaping at their speeds. Theirs

is such a natural power in just being wild.

-

'I don't see a thing,' the small guy said. Not that

he was blind, but he may as well have been; all those

jagged cowboys blocking his view. 'Climb up on

the fence, then, you dumb pussy; don't be so

afraid.' Another guy told him that, with a sneer

and a complete disdain for whoever he was.

-

Nothing special about this : men at play, now

watching horses. If the saloon was still open,

they'd be watching the barmaids instead. All

the same, how far is it that a blind man can

see? How much crap does a beggar bring in?

4164. MEDITATION Pt. 3 (Connectedness)

KINDLING, Pt. 3

(Connectedness)

The connectedness of all your tissue makes you

live and keeps you running  -  though one thing

is not a thought, the many are. I may serve the slide,

but always  -  out on my horizon  -  the slide's end

awaits. Sensitive hands and a feral heart, that's

always been me. How then, and why, alive? I would

not tell even if I knew, but I sincerely don't. The bread

is rising and it bakes in the oven. The bricklayer is

placing his bricks, and the structure rises.

-

In the evening, boys are parking their cars like

payloads at a launch - things that go, things to travel;

music and a lunchbox, cards and a cue. I may want

to enter on the landing, but I have neither reason nor

ride. We somehow share a place and a planet, and

really that is all. A life like this was no choice of mine.

-

I have taken a wife and run off to someone's wedding;

now isn't that confusing as well? We wait at the village

stream, while some idle woman talks on with her hands,

gesturing here and there in a perfect, sleeveless dress. There

are noises and voices all around; in a place like this

the sun never sets. The red wine is flowing in fountains.

-

The connectedness of all this tissue makes us human  -

we talk, and we too gesture, back and forth. We move

messages and wishes that scatter like the crumbs of a

cake. One thing is not a thought, though the many are -

we mutter 'I love you' and we leave in a car. Mobility

has always been Mankind's dream. Like society with

all its connections unhinged, the major flattery just

goes on : 'How are you?' Or is it better I should ask,

'Who are you?' Either way, the question sticks.

-

Now listen loved one, gleamed pillar of flesh and

desire: all that ever was can be, and is. You have it

all within you. That twitching subject, wounded in the

street, within a pool of blood? I was certain that was me.

Now I am not sure at all. Am I not, instead, the man

becalmed, who will stand where he has ever stood?

4163. KINDLING, Pt. 2 (Meditation)

KINDLING, Pt 2

(Meditation)

And you shall have, you shall touch. Mankind yet

walks the water's edge  -  cooking all his flesh and

fowl and eating now his nuts and berries too. All is

new : it can be the entrance to a new and different

world, and shall be. Look now! The rain is shrieking

down upon the ancient metal, and the old world, it

passes away. And only now  -  as I see the past

stretch far behind me  -  a paraphrasing Ezra Pound

I am  -  I realize that such business, the business of

an artist here, is to make humanity aware of itself.

-

Ah! The truest Hell is to stand alone, and be alone,

and live alone, and die alone; (others say the opposite,

and I hear them grown in their lottery crowdings). The

masses, all huddled, are cramping the walkway. Instead,

yes, such a camaraderie may be a Hell as well. So little,

really does it matter now to me. I am dead of the world.

-

I smell a smoke in the air  -  but do not know from

where. And the drips of rain, I hear them chatter upon

the metal roofplate over this outdoor porch  -  a sixth

grade memory of yesteryear now branching out to

take me in. I want to inhabit that yearning, but no

I will not. My mission, instead, is in writing, and

speaking not. There are so many harbingers of

final things to come : the crooked timber of

self-interest, it is cut, and dies away.

I live in a horror of Death to come.

-

All the isolation, all the loneliness, of a desert

place. Look again, the rain is shrieking upon

ancient metal, and the old world passes away.

-

More like a schooner that heads out to sea,

more like a sun, a nothing that really is  -  I

abide you and await commingling : 'I've never

prayed much, and can't just start now.' The man

on the blanket at the corner of Grove keeps

repeating that over and over in the 100 degree

heat. I throw him a dollar and say 'repeat.'

-

My doggerel is your doctrine, though that has

happened I do not know. My own chest heaves,

even though I become tired of breathing. The sky

plays light with air; some ancient childhood game

played out on fields of love and valor.

4162. KINDLING, PT.1 (Meditation)

KINDLING Pt. 1

(Meditation)

The fire has now consumed the wood and we

have no words awaiting the flame. The last

house along the border, it is gone - owned,

I think, by one General Ed Shea, late of the

last war and still waiting for more. (He was

not at home, nor his kin. Having gone to New

Orleans, it was his home I was sleeping in).

-

I have my own trestled variance with the world -

and within it too, I guess. As Paul of Tarsus put

it: 'in the world but not of it.' I am one step out

of focus, alive. But why listen to a traveling

Jewboy thrown from his ride? Why not listen

to me? I have seven times the stretch, and

basketball hands to reach the stars and all

the filtered planets. I didn't see them coming,

but those things have run me down.

-

So, as I said, why then not listen to me? A

hanky in your season, I want to be your swab.

And having shouldered so many burdens, the

flanks of my loins now wither : this I grant -

but I am taking steps for a huge and grateful

comeback. To say once : I want to count your

cadence and walk to your squad, be your vaginal

inspector, check the peas within your pod. To wit,

once again become your God! So simple, really.

-

I was once a motivated prisoner of all my own

creations. I am not now, nor shall again ever be.

I have sought a true perfection, and that is how

I see. Once again, listen to me. There is a new

and yellow light upon all the trees. It touches all

things, illumines and enlightens, and moves

graciously along. And this light is warm; the

human murderer shall not touch it.

4161. TERESIAS

 TERESIAS

Once you charm the pants off a pantless man

you need to realize you're headed nowhere  - 

all that's left is heart and soul and sight and

sound, all that crazy shit from a life well-found.

There may have been a fudged moment or two,

but the sailboats never faltered in the breeze and

none of those Titanic boilers ever blew. Now you

should see it, now you don't; blindness befits a

wizard well, just as Teresias told, and those

are pearls that were his eyes.

4160. IF TWO TOKENS

IF TWO TOKENS

If then the past is the master of matter,

and if then the idea of time is fickle, I

stand aside to let these things run by me.

I have no interest in this race : the horseman

says photo-finish, the dog-racer says nose.

There is a small girl by my mirror looking

back at me. I think I remember her name.

-

Time, I'm told, has a way of finding the most

efficient means of ending things neatly. That

seems the opposite of all I've ever known, though

that is what the great men teach in those

universities made of stone.

-

For now, I will linger, tired and mellow with age :

all those puking youngsters in their twenties,

the know-nothing know-it-alls with their fingers

up their asses and their shit music in their ears,

the ones in love, the mellow ones seeking family

and children and love, again, I will let them pass.

They are really so tiresome and lame.

-

Wise men come and go  -  some drag their fire

along the ground, others carry scabbards and

swords. They all speak of wisdom in a very loud

voice : the thunder from on high, I hear it too. I'm

learning to listen in a very new way, though still

wondering what it is I must do.

4159. ENTHRALLED

ENTHRALLED

The Ferris Wheel is turning, somewhere high

above  -  its nighttime lights seem strange to

see; twirling dervish reverie. Below it and out

across, the black of the late night water throws

its ripple noise along the colored reflections.

Enough to scare a child, I even imagine a

scream. I am of two worlds : do I stay to watch

this to an end, or turn and go, to leave behind

a world on the precipice of a gulf it doesn't itself

know? Not sure of either sanction I pray some

lord of sanitation to clear for me this open way.

Since I was nine, everything has been a lie and

everyone has lied to me and every thing was false

and rotten at the core. This is not a world of

meaningful things and not a one among us is ever

free. We are sick and prideful souls, roaming like

lions for our own personal lamb to slay. The Ferris

Wheel, still turning high above, twirls its magnificent

and awkward way in silence - except again for

all those midnight sceams I hear.

4158. FLAXEN JAWLIKE MOMENT

FLAXEN JAWLIKE MOMENT
( a mystery tale)
At the old Fisk house, I was hidden like a
dagger in a houndstooth jacket. No one saw a
thing; every ghost and wisp which passed left
not a trace behind. I'd escaped, I thought, with
what I had. But then that moment quickly ended:
my forthright perambulated blown-glass amulet
began tugging at my neck, burning my skin. What
had I done, and where had I been? I... noted, briefly,
a toreador in the corridor, swinging a broad-knit
cape. I knew from nothing but Amanda, and had
given all I had to take. From this point on it was
me for myself and myself alone. And then I laughed
to myself and said, 'isn't that what a full-blown artist
always says? Take the moment and run like hell, but
leave a tale and let no one tell.' I decided, instead, just
to exit, and ambled slowly down the old brown stairs.

4157. CORRIDOR

CORRIDOR

Sounds like a WWII battle  - no, no that was

Corregidor  -  idiot fool jabberwocky can't get

things straight. Like this hallway is straight :

corridor, walkway, alley to the Gods. I've walked

this a million times and gotten nowhere. This is

I'm also told, the long, slow corridor to Hell.

(I would have thought by now it was motorized

so one could just take a ride and get there instead).

4156. A TOTAL NO

A TOTAL NO

They mean what I mean the apples

are falling from the autumn trees and the

lamplight throws its brushless strokes

over an evening meadow. Now is all the

time to wander. Beacon to Pound Ridge

to some God-forsaken Iowa farm, it seems

I've been so insulated from bad living. The

kid from Duddly Corner, they say, came

by one night to ask the farmer for his

daughter; 'you mean to ask for my

daughter's hand?' he said. 'No sir,'

said the kid, 'I want her whole and

entire, you understand?'

4155. IF IT MEANS WATER

IF IT MEANS WATER

The sky is the end of day, and the light

is its illumination : two gargoyle men are

smoking cigarettes on the edge of a table.

One spits, hard and fierce, to the ground,

with a loud noise. The other turns away

and looks backwards. Behind them, inside

an Italian restaurant, a short, swarthy waitress

attends to a table by the window. The people

look out, both ignoring her and tending to her,

at the same time. This instant sounds like a

toil, but it all goes easily by, and I watch.

-

I am the one with broken hand, the tangled web

into which my feet are caught, the neck that is

still wrapped by the noose of that rope. I try to

move away, but it only brings more pain. Above

and around me, this second-rate city tries to

prosper or learn to breath, or both together in

2013. It's all too late for anything, it's certainly

too late for that. I hide my hurt with a

coat, and I think nobody notices.

4154. TOPLESS GIRLS HAVE ALL THE FUN

TOPLESS GIRLS

HAVE ALL THE FUN

'Topless girls have all the fun. Sleeping like

a Gruenmaster in old LeHavre, I awoke to

scratching my head in wonder  -  topless girls

have nothing above their necks, but all

the fun down under.'

4153. DECIDEDLY

DECIDEDLY

Decidedly I can't speak for you, won't,

shouldn't, wouldn't  -  but I still think

you're sitting too close to that heater.

Watch the flames as they bite at your ass.

-

The dumb-ass Pope was Jonesing again

over his St. Peter's Square  -  and then he

took off and left while his sick, stupid

faithful all swooned and hollered. Decrepit,

twisted old Italian nuns waving white

flags in submission. Such shits.

-

While that may be, decidedly I cannot

speak for you, and won't. I have salved

the legerdemain of your medicine tree and

like it that way : I ask you all, faithless faithful,

how many words are there for the things I say?

Nine thousand a week would never do.

-

I am sick of listening to people talk about

their medicine and pills  -  how their blood

came in, their test results and dizzy spells

and upset stomachs and flu's  -  may they

all fall down and rot. It is God's hand that

stays all things, and nothing more.

-

Decidedly, I cannot speak for you, and

won't  -  my art is on the walls everywhere

I go, and if you do not understand the language,

you will understand nothing at all. And now,

I'm going back to Philadelphia again.

4152. CARNATION

CARNATION

It's turning to be Spring once more, all the

signs are saying : those same birds are

singing, those same squirrels are baying.

We have animals here who make a lot of

Springtime noise  -  you'd really be surprised.

I suppose, using imagination, I can live with

all that again  -  going out of my way for a

bloom or a flower is not really a bad thing at all.