114. FULL MOON AND SEARCHING

FULL MOON AND SEARCHING
(Asbury Park in Winter)
No more looking for gold or searching in
penny arcades - that's all over and the monkey-men
and the organ-grinders have all been fired. That
leaves nothing behind. Wherever there was an emblem
before is just now a blank spot on the wall.
-
No soporifics here. I merely do what I want.
My dalliance with the likes of you and Matilda too
is over : both of you were lovely but now I wish you well -
at the wishing well. And, at this wishing well, I just
want to tell you both that I did love you, each, once.
-
No more magic in the cornflakes.
No more lame jokes in line at the
outdoor gym - waiting pompously for
the big guys to pass. As if you had something
to prove to them (they could break you in two
like a stick). The sickly ocean is still roaring
behind our backs. The black dudes, with their knives,
are still trying to stare us down on the ramp to the
Howard Johnson's. The old Boardwalk now looks
like shit - prime real estate it ain't. Let's just say adieu.
-
That'll have to do.

113. THE HANDLERS

THE HANDLERS
Names fall like leaves from a tree -
people saying this or that.
'There's not a moment to lose, he was
so sad when last I saw him.'
Someone put the whisper in the suitcase,
the two mints in the backpack, and they
were off : 'we're packing shoes for Valparaiso,
new lineaments for Kenya, and even bottled water
for when we hit the Rhine.' Everything at that
point was so very simple. This girl, Anya, I'd
known since seventh grade. Her parents had
been refugees from Iceland or Belgrade,
somewhere having trouble holding
people in. Her traveling companion now,
some weary guy named Dieter, had entered
like a boxer from a storm : all brawn and sweat,
ready to fight again, intent on making his
presence felt. I really never knew what she
could see in him. He pulled out a picture
of a house and said 'this is where we're going
when we're done.' They'd be traveling for eight
months. 'Good for them' I thought to myself,
'nothing can keep them here.' We shook
hands, they smiled, and we were off;
two different directions, but
off nonetheless.

112. RUNNING THROUGH FRANCE IN THE RAIN

RUNNING THROUGH FRANCE IN THE RAIN
It was only a moment but it seemed like a year:
my hands in your pouch, your boots clicking the bricks.
The tiny raindrops were circling through the air,
dripping from the brim of your hat as we ran.
It was like love in a shower, yet it was, really,
only rain : rain in the moonlight, rain in the fog,
rain in the sun of early early morning.
-
I remember streetlamps and the trolley;
the train which seemed never to stop.
You said you needed to stop, coffee, a
restroom, a break. I said I could
'run like this forever'.
-
Something changed.
Life took on new meaning.
Running through France in the rain.

111. ALL THIS AND NOTHING MORE

ALL THIS AND NOTHING MORE
(I put to you my human son the
fact that you have nothing to fear.
These tracks are endless and they
do go on...and on, one after another -
until all points meet, and you are gone.
-
Yet, fear not. The ends sometimes
do justify the means, and other times
the means are themselves the ends.)

110. MY SKELETON HOUSE

MY SKELETON HOUSE
Just what was it that came forth from something else?
A wayward form of 'otherness', a tinkling of
the bones just before they were roused to
life? I've noticed that none of this is
written down, anywhere - and anywhere
it is is pure conjecture.
-
'We are air' the rudimentary doctor was
saying. 'We are water and grit, we are
rivals of God and angels to boot'; some other
guy was mouthing his own lyrics in like fashion.
I skipped out before I could skip a beat.
If I was anything, I was getting bored.
-
Just outside, overhead, there was a tramway which
took people to the airport or cadavers to the morgue;
I actually do forget which. Now listen, none of it
really mattered. I simply felt all this was portrayed
for our own amusement. What difference would it
make if I was flame and you were fire; or I was
glass and you were sand? Not a minute's worth, right?
-
This can all go on forever. We each differ.
We are what we say we are. You drive
cars, maybe, while I take trains.
My skeleton house, I've noticed, actually
does have two doors. One, for entry,
another, for exit. Quite different,
and both clearly marked.

109. THE BURMESE PUPPET THEATER

THE BURMESE PUPPET THEATER
The one with the fascinating fingers kept me
comfortable in an old tophat and a reclining
chair while 'Cabaret' played on the large-sized screen.
I felt like a royal flush on an archbishop's broad
and gilded throne. That didn't last for long.
-
In another instant I was capsized and adrift
on a nasty and broiling sea - wine-dark, just
like Homer said, I think it was, sparking great
debates amidst scholars for years to come - and
I knew for sure there'd be no rest for a while
and that nothing like this had happened before.

-
I took out a pen with which to write things down,
and realized I had nothing on which to write.
The paper was all wet and soggy, and tore away
at the tip of the pen - no matter how light the touch.

-
I had capsized one too many times;
riding the sea foam to nowhere, I was
no longer sure of the memory OR the map
I'd been keeping in my head. Had I done this
all before, or was it just a creepy feeling of a
scary deja vu? I had no friends to talk with and
nothing left to do. I tried to scamper down the ropes,
but realized, as well, that they'd been removed
a long time ago. Marionette? Puppet?

-
Just what was I, and
who was pulling the strings?

108. AWAKE AT DAWN

AWAKE AT DAWN
Purposefully watering his lawn -
charging a battery at the side of his house,
re-painting a stairway at the base of the alley,
re-snapping a trap set out for the mouse.
It's like that in Wonderland - this little man,
clad in blue, jodphurs it seems, and a riding hat
too, walking home from Eddie Doyle's at three after two.
It was like a dream; one of those situations where
you've entered something - a room or a place - from
which you can't get out and it's constantly growing
smaller around you. Some force-field holds you in,
and each time you near the exit to force yourself out
the G-forces distort your face, toss you about.
One minute you're miserable over it,
the next you're glad as well.
Can't get in, can't get out.
A simple situation,
much like Hell.

107. SOME KIND OF APRIL / SOME KIND OF MAY

SOME KIND OF APRIL,

SOME KIND OF MAY:

It was some kind of April, some kind of May,
and the flowers were growing on the lawn
and the trees had already brought forth
the leaves of Summer as the boys in the

charthouse band had taken the stage in

the little Victorian Park bullshit band shell the

town had erected for parties and parades,
and two guys I watched came out with a barrel

and fireworks and the brass band playing

Sousa marches was tuning up from what
sounded like Hell itself while the crippled mayor
and his pablum steeds spouted bromides and platitudes

blarney and greed - a good speech it is said

has them all mixed in one - but no one was listening
as some human cannonball was brought out in E-flat
and stuffed into the tube and they lit the fuse as a
loud crash ensued - the guy went flying while all in

flames and landed thirty yards away dead like a

brick and fired up too and they tried to revive him

but all the rescue guys were either drunk or in the

band - the ribbons came down and the last

I'd heard it was some Memorial Day for the

record-books : three dead fourteen burned

and one retarded kid suddenly brought back

to full and clear and precisely-perfect mental

health - which I guess wasn't saying

much for anyone else.

106. YOUR ROCK/YOUR ROLL

YOUR ROCK/YOUR ROLL
(to a culture gone bad in the teeth)
I could justify your jocularity with the rhythm of
some home-free time : like a wayward John Lennon,
or any one of those tortured rock and roll characters
who seem never to shut up. They really are all the same.
Bragging of their butchered balls, their merciful hearts,
and their laggard lunge to fame and fortune. Such shit,
all the time and everywhere. I can't wait for the repudiation
(which always comes). Like your David Bowie in a young man's
drag - searching the country for a bandmate to blow, trading in
old coins found under the floor, wading chest-deep through
girls and fans and screamers and gents. Dude, take that!
-
They genuflect along the river at night; gobs of babes in
chunky dresses dancing witch-dances to the Goddess of Night.
The Man In the Moon comes down for a fight, or to take
part, or just to stand by and then wane. Cheap astronomy
and all the rest put a good man's fortitude to the final test.
Before it all happens again give me a knife to jab at
your throat. I'm so sick of your vomit.

105. ISABELLE BAUMFREE

ISABELLA BAUMFREE

(Sojourner Truth)
The sidewalks were overflowing with people -
the kind of people poverty sends your way.
Tenement buskers, rakish little Irish kids
with swagger, runaway slaves and freed ones too,
who essentially lived where they wanted,
anywhere they chose, and did what they wanted too.
And then there was me. My name was changed -
to Sojourner Truth - by me.
It used to be Isabella Baumfree.
I chose to be.
I chose it all.
'The Spirit calls me, and I must go.'

104. MATADOR

MATADOR

I haven't yet met the Matador, nor the bull.

Both of them were pointed out to me, quickly,

behind the gated pen - one quite far off from

the other. They really should have 'nothing to do

with each other', I was told, 'until their very first

meeting in the ring'. Ole to that, I suppose.

-

I know it's been much like that with my own

life too. Waiting in the anterooms of work and

effort, just until something vibrant draws me out.

Where I then am the bloodied? Or the bloodier?

I don't really often know. And even if it makes a

difference, it would seem the same ratty crowd

starts its inane chanting. Either way, I'm lost.

-

I was watching a botanist go on about roses and orchids.

Every other word out of his mouth was 'splendor' or

'beauty', 'display' or 'charm'. He touched each blossom,

as a visual example, in his very precise way. I wished

I could have been him, just for a moment or two.

Charm, grace, or beauty. It all would work for me.

103. BROKE BEFORE I STARTED

BROKE BEFORE I STARTED
'I was there yesterday when they were
handing out pennies and sending out
leeches to cure the infirm. Yes, yes, I
really was. The black squirrel I saw was
hanging upside down on the big tree-trunk,
watching the scene from ten feet up. People
passed, thinking of course nothing of it :
one can't react to what one doesn't see.'
The man speaking had his head in a
device which was supposed to amplify his
expounded thoughts. All it did for me, it seemed,
was to garble his already intensely stupid words.
A motorcar passed on the left - the guy inside was
wearing a guardsman's hat and a short haircut,
the kind you see in military magazines. Nothing
made much sense. Girls passed, tall and big.
Nothing I'd work on, but girls nonetheless.
If I had a dime for every thought that led
me astray, I mused to myself, I'd be,
most certainly, broke before I started.

102. THE SWASTIKA WITH BRUISES

THE SWASTIKA WITH BRUISES
It wasn't as if anything new had transpired.
We'd already built the big cities and bombed them down
to smithereens - smoldering hulks of 'things that once were'.
The gendarmes and the frilly guys with lace and flowers
kept coming around seeking alms. Some weird
power-salute took place among men who were boys.
The female side of things - like a painting turned
the wrong way hanging on the wall - just kept
trying to come through.
From the Warsaw Ghetto through Stalag 17,
everywhere, they all were singing the same theme :
'tomorrow belongs to us'. Yes, well maybe.
Berlin was a time like Weimar was
an era. All those crazy doctor-types,
prancing around barefoot, in
army hats and tutus.

101. THE VILLAGE OF CLUES

THE VILLAGE OF CLUES
The voice was distant yet defined.
'I am Adam in Eden, supremely bored,' it said.
The distended words held themselves forward as a
plea to an executioner all set with the cleaver's edge.
'Help me please. Remove me from this torrid place.'
-
No bondage could be worse. He had spoken;
no situation more removed from joy and happiness.
The love of Paradise was the love of ease, which could
not be continued endlessly, forever. 'I remain Adam in
Eden, superbly bored, who takes his leave now to set forth
into the world I do not know, alone. Eve has kept the
serpent for replacement.' So said, he moved forth.
-
Like wind upon the water, form upon the void, the entire
sensate world was stretched before him. 'You must take
from this all that you can use,' a new voice said, 'for I
have given it here to you, alone. You, named Adam, have
been banished by request from what you deemed too much
a Paradise. Your hand now shall know the work of toil and all
of its constructions.' Such was the frame when vision entered.
-
Adam could see; unknown to him, the newer Paradise
had opened. He recreated Eve, in his image.
It was he now who moved upon the stillness.
His outstretched arm built form and time and space.
He had arrived.
-
'Eve, we will work. We will build on land these things
we need, for shelter, warmth, water and food. I shall
amend the world to my own sight, changing and replacing
the old with meanings fresh and new. We shall build
a land from which to wonder; we shall build a land
on which to wander.' She nodded an assent as they
then moved along the way.
-
Reminders riddled their sleeps.
Lines of reasoned draft and formulas unknown
bedeviled their new-formed brains. Angles and
declensions haunted them. They spoke a newer tongue,
and time passed. They found a need for grouping thoughts
and acts. Field and hollow, plain and valley filled
with them and theirs. Every act they did led them to
somewhere else - after the first broad move, with
their clues amassed and their worlds transformed,
they sought to harness place and power.
Concepts grew from this.
-
'Man gave names to all the animals.'
That merely scratches the surface,
that merely suggests the whole...

100. THE RELUCTANT EXHIBITIONIST

THE RELUCTANT EXHIBITIONIST
They told me to come see -
some guy with no legs was
running in place. Now that was
a sight for sore eyes. I looked over
my shoulder, and what did I see?
The newsman from the Daily Horn,
with his photographer, pushing to the
front of the line. 'We want to take a picture',
he said. 'What did you have in mind?',
I said back. 'Why nothing of the kind!'
he sternly spoke, 'we really just wish to
ed-u-cate the folk!' That's just the way
he said it too.
-
There's no sorrow like yesterday's sorrow,
even if it's tomorrow. I coughed up two dollars
and got a picture of the scene; nothing worth
nothing really, but I just had to have it.

99. A HOLIDAY OF TWO MEANS

A HOLIDAY OF TWO MEANS
I am taking a holiday until tomorrow, because I don't
know what else to do. Having run out of words (me!) and
intentions, I seek to step back, inhabit the distance, and
take the moment I've waited for. My lethal fragment
of effort and attempt is over. I will sit at the counter
forever, just to watch what I am watching.
-
The scribe is a nasty nurse.
He takes his paper and pen with him,
through all the ages. We have seen him
in every guise : Pound and Rilke, Dante and
Chaucer, Sartre and Gide. Whatever your combination,
it has already happened. You should arise early to
know so much. Mankind's workings are never lost.
-
There is, in the shadows, a dark kind of optimism
to all that we do. Post-pessimism, pre-Paradise;
perhaps it's all the same in the end.
To laugh, one must be willing to cry.
To die, one must first have lived.
-
'Bread baked on its own bottom is best' -
the old monk in the garrett told me that.

98. EVEN THE ORANGE WALL-FLOWERS HAVE WITHERED

EVEN THE ORANGE WALL-FLOWERS HAVE WITHERED
('the modern world is broken')

-
It is all the rage of serpents and snakes:
taking things out one by one, dismantling
them and parting them out for a penny or less.
Bankers going bankrupt, I'd bet, have more fun.
This is not to diminish the intention, for it may
have started out good. Now however, they bury
their lies with their product. 'By their fruits you
shall know them.' The last time I saw that written,
it was in ink, old and blurry, on a prisoner's back.
-
I haven't really got the time to instruct you all on
the ways of the world. Suffice it to say, maybe, the
last shall be first and all that 'turnabout is fair play'
rabble-rousing crap. Some guy was just telling me
yesterday that 'if Jesus was alive today, he'd be way
into computer repair.' What a stupid thing to say.
I would have thought, instead, he'd be a custom
bookbinder, or an artisan vintner of very fine wines.
-
Yet, who am I to know, or anyone else.
What difference does conjecture make?
At 10 in the morning, I've noticed, on the
outside wall, they line some prisoners up
and have them 'gently' shot. It's the new way
of doing things - no shots to the head or heart,
just more minor shots to the legs and arms.
'Everyone eventually dies' the warden said,
'this just makes it easier for those who remain.'

97. MADDIE

MADDIE
Someone named Maddie is ruining my life -
saying things about me, taking out my garbage,
replacing objects I may have lost, moving things
around to where I can no longer find them,
replacing treasured objects with junk, eating from
my plates, and uncovering things I've hidden.
-
I do not know who this individual is, God or Goddess,
chump or slob, nasty fool or someone thinking
they're helping, but I want it stopped. This thing
called Maddie is but an interference, where I
need it not. Leaving traces after itself, I see it
smokes, loses hair, had muddy feet, and is
partial to juices and sweets. Maddie separates
things from where they were last seen.
-
A bother and a nuisance I would call it.
Whatever it is, ruling and relegating,
marking my calendar, waiting for Easter,
trimming buds off flowers, I just wish it
cease this activity. I am, after all, old
enough to look after myself.
-
Someone named Maddie is ruling my life.

96. OF THE LATE CRO-MAGNON MAN

OF THE LATE CRO-MAGNON MAN
[Oh Gosh] HE is whistling Dixie.
Just yesterday I saw him drooling at
the soda-counter, flashing diamond-studded
earrings at the fast and willing crowd.
He turned and said to me : 'the waitress is serving

time' : and then he asked if I got his joke.

At that precise moment, his stomach rumbled,

his intestines swelled. He seemed very proud

of himself. 'I really have come far,' he smirked,

'a wife, two kids, and a brand new car.

The only thing I need to remember is to

brush these new teeth and use the bathroom

daily. All the rest comes easy.'
-
I wondered how much of that was true,
or if he was just making up rhymes
to charm his new found human crew.

95. THE WHOLE OX

THE WHOLE OX

The Chinese hills are rounded, with rocks obscuring cliffs,

where it would seem no one would dare go - except perhaps

the thin eccentric, painting with brush the delicate scene.

-

He sits, removed and solitary. To meditate upon the sky,

or stare down varied vistas, would seem to be his wisdom.

An occasional pithy comment utters forth.

-

'We are like the ever-present bumble-bee.

Our flight is in the air, while, on our

grounded feet, sweet nectar sticks us here.'

94. VACATIONING IN (OLD) UNION SQUARE

VACATIONING IN (OLD) UNION SQUARE
We are huddled in a doorway near a shop called
'Abe's Electric'. There isn't much here other than
debris. The old reviewing stand in Union Square Park
is deserted now, the papers and brown bags blowing around
seem the only crowd. The bend in the road right here seems
awesome to me. No one is speaking. All is quiet and dull.
-
Once there were labor crowds here cheering - in the old
'organizing' days of the movement. Rallies galore.
Once the cluttered noise of speeches and support ran
through the crowds like the electric lines overhead, pushing
forth the yellow arc lights by which we tried to read. The
voices were strange and singular, with bullhorns or cupped hands
amplified - and then only much later the powered megaphones
from atop ancient cars. It was a funny world back then.
-
So many so sure of their cause.
So often so ready to stand for so much.
Has the world changed greatly, or us?
-
It seems now that nothing but a vegetable mart grows here.
People mill about, huddled and rash, for squash or wine or
custom-made jams. The small farms from upstate have their very
own pies, fruits and meat. Has our ideology gone crazy?
Shunted aside from their DDT and pesticide scares, the tenuous
connection these people make between Freedom and its 'choice'
of foods is strange to me. What have we become? And how have
we reached the milestone of choosing to act, over food
and its styles or grapes and their taste? Dorothy Day no
longer walks among this crowd - to my knowledge she has
long been gone. Perhaps some other land has called her there,
wherein she bravely calls out for the hungry and their needs....
-
'I will feed you, give you warmth, and offer you a better
shelter than you will find huddled here, in Union Square.'

93. CYCLORAMA

CYCLORAMA
I do not want to get off this thing:
just want to go 'round and 'round in
spherical music into and out of some
beginning to an ending unknown.
Some say their lives are simple.
So be it. Mine's not.
-
I perplex the waters and the land.
All around me, atoms are bursting with
desire, inquiry, reason or understanding.
My search for knowledge never ends.
Nothing brings nothing to nothing.
Such is the sum of this smashing.
-
You do, perhaps, hear the sounds?
Atoms crash and screech like any other
object you may know - gnashing of teeth
as a metaphor, or the baying of wolves.
We humanize so many other things -
-
Why not wonder and doubt?
Why not boredom and awe?
-
Nothing brings nothing to nothing...

92. NEIGHBORING ARMIES

NEIGHBORING ARMIES
They went for the jugular
like crazed dogs off a leash.
It was said they had nothing to lose.

The grand medical men, the learned

scholars, the doctors of law, all took

an interest in this. 'War is a lethal time'

they said, 'it brings out behaviors in men

not seen before.' Animals gnawing on bone

would be more like it, thought I to myself.

-

As usual, I was standing on the sidelines watching.

Maybe just waiting for something to happen.

Two guys staggered by - one with his hand blown

off at the wrist, the other holding his guts.

'Just a mortar wound, nothing more. We'll be

back at it all soon.' I waved them goodbye

and said 'so long' to their spirits and souls too.

-

There was no answer.

They had been gone long ago.

91. RARITAN

RARITAN
Sunrise over the river;
little fingers of light
passing a torch to another day.

90. MAKE MINE RICH MOMENTS

MAKE MINE RICH MOMENTS
Abracadabra and all the rest.
I haven't been doing much lately;
seem to have lost my touch. The gloved hand,
in leather, smacks my face but once or twice -
and then I'm startled back to form. Urging forward
furiously again - streaming notes from a car-keys-fob
as a wailing siren declaims intent. Everything
is hazy - the crowd, the mob, the dungaree factions
of farmers and knaves, all those fools who listen.
-
Just like that, some sun bursts over the horizon.
Crisp cold morning where the cuckoo once sang.
Ice is on bare branches and someone's sliding car
drives all shiny by. The lazy garbage truck by the
circle tries one more time to make that turn.
-
It's all over before it's started.
Another wild day sneers.
(Now where am I gonn'a go after this?).

89. MY DILATION IN THE TIME-WARNER BUILDING

MY DILATION IN THE TIME-WARNER BUILDING
And then the cantilevered conversation that went nowhere
had brought me home to risk : again without a show,
a hammer OR a claw. I glanced upwards once, at
the mirrors lining the top moldings, and saw the
multi-colored stars of someone's idea of decoration.
Little kids were looking up with their mothers.
A sculpted fat-lady in bronze stood naked
on a pedestal of sandstone. A few
people were taking pictures.

88. THE SAD FISHERMAN

THE SAD FISHERMAN
Having made catch, the fisherman went home.
He'd lived by the lake for years : twelve as a young married,
and then - after his wife died young - another twelve as
a crotchety recluse involved with his work. There weren't many
who spoke with him, nor of him. Like a once-a-year
flower, blooming suddenly at night, he was watched
if not revered only for what he might do. Ever-sentinel,
people kept watching. They saw him chop wood in the
relentless cold; they'd watch him wilt at lakeside
in the brutal Summer heat. One day - apparently when
no one watched - he went to the tool shed, where he
kept some possessions, sat down in a chair,
and blew his brains out. Later, when they
found him, no one knew what to say.
There was a note found too, pinned
to his chest, stating:
'Whatever it is this may signify to
you all, to me it's merely one further
sign of my sad resignation
for the sorry state of
my overdue life.'

87. TREMOLO

TREMOLO
It was for the depth that the deep
was brought to bear : 'what did he
say, and how'd he say it?'
The sort of question only a detective asks.
They had manners like pygmies would,
if they had any - living amidst grime, in
a three story walk-up with no hot water.
Fruit flies on the table top and (for all I knew)
tse-tse flies in the sink. There were building
blocks strewn on the floor where one of the kids
had left them. Someone's old bathroom towel,
still ringing wet, was draped over the back of the
wooden chair, already changing the wood to white.
I wondered if they knew it went away after a while.

86. WASHDAY EVENING IN THE WORKADAY WORLD

WASHDAY EVENING IN
THE WORKADAY WORLD
Most of what they've hung out to dry
has dried very long ago. As shadows are an
absence of light, so too are these fragments of time:
left and bereft, dogged and stiff, clean yet bedraggled
in their own washed-out way. The sunlight above
us will linger no longer. Whatever it's done has
already been done. The neighborhood's awash
in wash this early evening day. A decent-enough
heat, with warming sunlight, made it pleasant
while it stayed. But now this workaday day's
work is done. Bring the wash in! There's
no longer any sun!

85. LIFE NONETHELESS

LIFE NONETHELESS
On this first measured evening of
an oncoming Winter, with the full moon
hung low in the sky, the leaves have all fallen
and the trees are all barren and there is
nothing to see but broad sky - a barren greyness,
but one worth every penny.
-
Seasons, like words, are measured out one by one.
We take what we see - what we are given - and we add,
ourselves, the coloration and tenor we wish.
Bare, barren, denuded trees still whisk in the
winds as they pass through the branches.
That skeletal bareness belies the barren - no matter
that everything is still filled with life :
dormant, slow to move, lazy even, but life nonetheless.
-
What charmers these little things are...
over there, the squirrel with one eye.
At the farther corner, that old green statue
in the square, John Witherspoon himself, in fact;
brazen and strong, high atop his concrete pedestal.
It apparently little matters to him now the where
and when of this time and this place.
At some point everything comes together as one.
Beyond time, and beyond memory too.
(Life nonetheless, it's been said).

84. WRITING AS A PLACE TO LIVE

WRITING IS A PLACE TO LIVE
The places I've loved no longer exist.
All that I dreamed of is gone.
-
The most decided of moments has affected
all things - our pictures have changed with
that moment. The ruined cities of America:
Calumet City, when it was a mob town with
very public vice or that small place in Cleveland,
with its whisky and ice.
-
Certain places were always a clue - when we
understood the name of our quarry : the
grand ballrooms full of nakedness and a band.
Chicago, Baltimore and New York. Packed up
places with plenty of power.
-
The places I've loved no longer exist,
and all that I dreamed of is gone.
-
Those cantilevered bridges, arching faint pose,
lightly, over those darkened rivers. That winsome
sound - of the train leaving town. The smell of
the coal-house and the tractors - somehow re-seeding
the surface of the land. Everything, all at once,
a'jumble and crazy and perverse and wild.
Now, all this is over.
The world has gone mild.
-
...the places I've loved are all gone :
and all that I dreamed of no longer exists...

*for Jack Gilbert, at 80

83. WOOD

WOOD
I wish that I could build with wood
what my heart and mind can see.
Thrust from the spirit and the ground,
a wonderful kingdom it would be;
at one and the same of Earth and of Heaven.
-

I wish that I could construct with my feelings
the durable fit of the world's own glove.
Tight with fingers and snug,
made comfortable by charm and illusion,
I would wear it as a golden cloth or a
richness of fabric never before seen or imagined.
Then, perhaps, we would all be our own perfection.
-
Sunlight. Brilliance. Unwavering affection.
A fluorescent love brought to the very battlements
of fear - then the world would be transformed.
Light, and light alone, would be life's meaning.

82. CARMA CARMALITA AND PURE CHANCE

CARMA CARMELITA AND PURE CHANCE
1. No one ever came forth admitting to the crime.
Bertolt Brecht said this in rhyme (couplets):
['Poets, painters, and musicians
seeking grub and good positions
-
Noble souls who now assure us
they were no friends of the Fuhrer's']
...
How purely cute and quaint I say -
it even works out for today.
2. Speaking for myself, I have this to say
(once more harking to today).
'Do not be fooled oh limerick lady
by the force of the newly captured coming in.
They are all the same, whether colored white or tan.
Standing on the White House steps,
they smile until demands are met :
you are nothing and have come with nothing
and will keep nothing less. All auguries point to
discontent; pray to God you pay the rent.'
3. There once was a little bluebird, who
landed on the roof. Never one to smile back,
the owner took another tack.
After two seasons at risk, the
bluebird was sanctioned no longer.
What else do you need? More proof?

81. THE TEN O'CLOCK SCHOLAR

THE TEN O'CLOCK SCHOLAR
Some new guy was holding a stick -
Bongo Billy or something he said -
crawling with tendentious efforts towards
a likeness of God. Departured enfrazzlement
with all Nature on board.
'It's not in the cards for us to think'.
A Reverend Ike lookalike just down from
Harlem's own shed was speaking from a
platform set up to rouse the dead.
'We are the lost tribes of Israel, the children of
Moses himself. Why should we not stand up
in our own defense?' The crowd cheered wildly.
Lustfully. With complete abandon. I wasn't sure
what had occurred, but they were all screaming
in tandem. 'Had I a dime for every man's false dollar,
I'd be one tenth the richer' - the ten o'clock scholar.

80. TRIPLETS AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

TRIPLETS AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

New Paintings on a very old wall;

not bad, not bad at all.

-

I've somehow a notion to call the police.

Nothing forward's been done; it was all kept discreet.

-

Some say the world will end in fire.

I say it won't. It'll just wallow in mire.

79. A DREAM IN A DREAM

A DREAM IN A DREAM
I wanted to make something with my hands...
no sex joke intended, but there you were.
It was like a drive in the country, in an old MG,
top down, exhaust howling. The three barns we passed
each had huge painted signs on their sides :
'Collier's Home-Made Elixir', 'Red Man Chew',
and - lastly - 'Harmon's Antiques Emporium'.
Sure was country-time to me.
Then, just like that, I awoke and realized
where I was - Jamaican Rum, malted-milk,
and a screeching bevy of kids on TV.
And then I REALLY awoke, and realized...
that too was a dream (in a dream).

78. DINING AT THE METROPOL

DINING AT THE METROPOLE
Oh raft of shiners, renegade factors,
how sincerely do you pout. While you sang
'The Swan' at Tuckman's Oasis, half the world
was burning away. So little did you notice, or care,
that one aperitif after another was downed for lack
of love to share. Heavens, how little so much matters!
-
'We must keep up our manners!'
That was a rallying cry as so many ships
went down. So the orchestras continued to play
as waiters brought trays and hors d'oeuvres, all
fresh for the choosing. 'There is really nothing
happening here to worry about.' So you idled in
the hallways, commenting on the carpets and the taste.
-
Everything was proper, as if placed discreetly,
perfectly, on some biology-lab table set to metastasize
the good and equalize the bad. Life as one sweet reason.
Life as one sweet season.
-
Let us dine again at The Metropole.

77. THE BISHOP'S SOLE MATTER

THE BISHOP'S SOLE MATTER

A jury's idea of waiting for something to convince
never made any sense to me. It's either
clear from the start or it's not.
All the rest is idle gossip.
Consider the lilies of the field -
they neither toil nor sleep.
They take out no one's trash and neither
do they rob nor pillage.
A washbasin filled with water would know that.
Early each morning, the guy at the piano
delivers my newspaper. He sneaks up on the
walkway, throws it down, and runs back to his
eighty-eight keys.
Why?, you would wonder, no?
-
I always wanted to read Elizabeth Bishop aloud.
The way James Merrill once did : with dramatic
flair - in 'Arrival at Santos' there's a part
where the deck-boy catches the old woman's skirt
with the boat hook, by accident.
'Please boy, do be more careful with that
boat hook! Watch out! Oh! It has caught
Miss Breen's skirt!'
-
It's really nothing but a bunch of stupid words.
('Life and the memory of it cramped, dim,
on a piece of Bristol board.')

76. CLEVER TOO FAR BY HALF

CLEVER TOO FAR BY HALF
(Abstract #2)
Maybe the cleaver was left in the shed.
It dangled there, from a leather strap, as if it
were meant to be there forever. So why wreck the
equation (1clvr + strp over nail X plc = view)?
Had you not asked, I wouldn't have known.
That Chevrolet you'd mentioned was still down at the pier -
parked at an angle, as if left in a hurry. She was running
when I last saw her - the girl, who'd left it there. Prada?
Manolo Blanik? I won't know the difference. She looked OK.
Now I hear - as the detective tells the story - she was on the lam
from fleecing her attorneys of thousands of billable hours.
THAT'S a no-no for sure. They are, after all, supposed to be
on your side, so why would you cross them?
-
Later on, after the story had run its course, I saw her
photo in the paper. She still looked good, though not great.
Prison khakis seem to never look nice : grey, blue, pink, whatever.
Something had been done, also, with her hair.

She no longer looked ready for adventure -

in fact she now looked rather tired and bedraggled.
I was sure they'd sedated her, even if just for the picture.
-
'What else was new?' I figured.
I could do the math in my head.

75. THIS MIRACULOUS DOCTOR WAS A MEDICINE MAN

THIS MIRACULOUS DOCTOR

WAS A MEDICINE MAN
Lest we sulk.
It breaks away.
The femur connected to something
joins that something to something else.
They work together.
We mobilize. We generate.
We move to the point through the friction
of the joint. As cows in a meadow, we swarm.
-
The guy in the old churchyard was lost
in an image of oldest Newark;
itself already gone 10 times over.
I could see it in his eyes as he talked to me.
-
There really wasn't anything left at all -
a mountain-pile of smashed red bricks
surrounded by temporary fencing.

74. MAJESTIC SKIES ARE LIBERAL THINGS

MAJESTIC SKIES ARE LIBERAL THINGS
(Halloween/Election Day)
The endless pageant rolls on - we seem tired,
forlorn, bereft of interest - yet the children still
parade. About their smothered faces,
clown make-up, starbursts painted,
temporary tattoos. Their high-pitched
voices, sing-song, labor to tell a tale.
How the dragon slew the night.
-
It must be teachers, grabbing hands and
shouting girlish instructions : 'Don't push!
Remain in place! Be quiet!'
How come some things never change?
The glimmer of interest and energy
will soon be drained from these kids.
'Do this; don't do that!'
How soon those
flowers wilt.
-
Majestic skies are liberal things;
the broadness of appeal, the openness of
any invitation. 'Come celebrate with us!
This is life we must endure! Be happy!
We are sure of everything!' Only time
can close the great wide-open.
How sadly the children
turn in upon
themselves.

73. THE ERROR OF ONE'S WAYS

THE ERROR OF ONE'S WAYS
I erased every mark of her from all my books -
not a smudge not a smidgen to be. There would be
instead clear blue skies, wide-open spaces,
and an end to all that cramped and crabbed
bad living done before. I swore this to myself
(you must believe) over and over again.
It wasn't just that living like that had no end,
but more that the lack of presence, after a while,
just wore me down. Beleaguered, tired, fitful and dark;
I'd grown into some monster I never wished to be.
If there was ever a sanctimonious moment, this would be it:
admitting to oneself the error of one's ways.
-
So no one wishes, any longer, to speak with me.
So no one communicates a word. I hear the
stupid 3rd Street choir singing from the roof
of a parking garage somewhere in downtown
Morristown, and I have to wonder why. Their
insidious, bastardized music - a really bad
form of religious rap - seeps through my brain like
zombie blood at an outdoor picnic. I'm vain enough,
I guess, to admit I'd wish to see them all dead -
if I had the chance to choose it.
-
No matter the age, everyone remains stupid as they grow.

72. SURVIVING

SURVIVING
What sideways step effaces doom?
This small kitten hidden in the alcove
of an arm - a mutant solace in a tray of kind
warmth. It wasn't always this way, mind you.
Living on....(take your pick, I say)....
the razor's edge, thin ice, a wing and a prayer.
It takes but a moment to disengage the potential :
whatever it can be, alas, will never be.

71. LEIPZIG TO LEYDEN

LEIPZIG TO LEYDEN

(rotten, doddering)
An amiable dialogue to be sure:
something like catching the oasis on the fly,
muttering obscenities into the mirror to be
sure someone hears them, or writing profuse
regrets for invitations which never arrived.
Amidst all this roddering noise, I managed to
both stay alert and understand every word I heard.
It became like a nightmare should be : all perverse
imagery and damning intent. I looked down from the
high clouds I was flying amidst - countries beneath me
with borders only resembling fences and bodies of blue
water as rigidly round as an ocean of sarcasm would be.
Germany into Poland into Russia and back: a real trip,
a real magnificent trip, taken on with nerves of steel
and a smile.

70. ABSTRACT, #1

ABSTRACT, #1
You've got the piping
the ground glass left -
the Dillinghast in the flavor
house, the country's best.
As you maneuver the Hoover
the big crowd applauds;
I see them moving - like
phaetons on a new-cut board.
This roadway - all mud and
corduroy now - runs boldly through
an old-hedged woods; dark forest inside
and trimmed for the good.

69. IRON JUNK

IRON JUNK
My line of iron junk secures you -
anchored as you are to a hillside along the river,
seeking shades of ample night and distant Indian fire
from the Delaware's needy bosom. Everything we celebrate
becomes our haunted heritage. Such are the rights of man.
You cannot undo me, as I cannot undo you -
two selfsame servants, we aim to serve each other.
Mankind's ancient clog dreams to break away,
everywhere, to burst the Spring and Summer forth.
You will see. You know.
Bees and hummingbirds, hawks and egrets,
frogs and eagles, turtles, and those awkward eels.
The princely heat of humid nights and sudden cracks
of thunder and lightning will arouse you, deep in slumber,
to that sudden realization that all of life goes on.
Please do not let the others fool you
into thinking false is real, or that accumulation
is the measure of the man. Iron junk collects, rainwater
runs to rust, wooden beams destroy themselves with
mildewed rot. Bugs and worms come home to haunt.
Love this life, but never let your eyes forget:
There is more than what we see to what we see.

68. RED ROVER, RED ROVER

RED ROVER RED ROVER
I've always been infatuated with the intense juices of
the times I pass through - how the icicles hang like
a melted glass over eaves and windows; bitter cold
after mid-winter thaws seem to stretch the water as
it ices harshly into strange and elongated shapes.
Glinting like a dangling earring, something like that
catches my mind. In the same way, water beading on trees
after even a Summer rain, by contrast, entices with the
same effect of warmth as does the wintry ice just mentioned.
In some respect, all things are the same. Even movement,
if broken into enough increments, is a stillness at rest with itself.
-
But, we can't just be satisfied with maudlin adventure.
It has to be more than that. The cat, slinking about like
a bendable pointer, tries to catch the corner even before
it turns itself inside out in getting to where it wants.

The dog finds barking at the moon a useless endeavor

and stops what it is doing to curl up again and fall asleep.

67. UNCLE

Uncle

Uncle Nestor said all you wanted was

water and ice and the world. He was probably

incorrect, since his hearing was bad. Perhaps what

you said was 'a daughter, a nice little girl.'

No one will ever know. But your

two sons loved you.

The lampshade that you brought home from

the Philippines was one of Nancy's prized

possessions. Before she died, she told me to give

it to the Brothers of Saint Charity. I think.

She may have said to give it to

'your brothers, next Saturday.'

I gave it to Fred.

66. EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE

EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE

(PARAGRAPH OF LIFE)
October's twenty-eighth day is ending.
My thoughts try to catch up to the day, and
the time, and the place. They cannot -
only because there is far too much of everything;
the movement, the spreading out of time and
circumstance, and the broad cloth of all the
history just passed. There is so much I want to do,
yet, realizing that, I cannot do it. That such is a
covert weakness, I cannot face. The hosts of
Heaven's time and place would not hold me back -
only if I had, once, the opportunity to go knocking,
to search, to find. The abacus has lost its beads.
The lyre is silent and without sound. I am hamstrung.
I should not be judged, therefore, by this loss and absence.
It is not for not trying that I am found wanting.
-
It is hard for me to talk.
The words do not flow as
they once did, and the meanings
of what I wish to say are less clear now
than ever before. The listeners too
are different. Have I lost my way?
-
I once had my own photo of a lake and its
darting layout - a finger of land sticking
straight out into the water. It stood by itself.
Cottages and boats, chimneys and some walls
along the water's edge - everything in its place
and all of wood. The grand houses and palaces
of the czars it may as well have been.
Now it is all over. Everywhere, everywhere.

65. LAMPLIT VASE SEEN AS STILL-LIFE

LAMPLIT VASE SEEN AS

STILL-LIFE
They were having (it appeared) none of it.
'Pick out that lamplight and shut the power off.'
The table seemed sad at the news.
The walls, in their own way, reflected such nocturnal
reckonings and dire views as no one ever knew...
before there was a beginning, there was this.
All that was happenstance seemed planned, while
all that was planned seemed merely to happen.
The purple vase with its so-dark flowers.
The red cloth across the table.
A velvet dark of powers and force beyond
the room's control. No one dared enter;
so neither did I.
By staying 'without', external to the scene,
I was not of it, nor part of its slow action.
This did bring a taut reckoning - what happens without?
What happens within? Like a Turkish still-life,
of petals and scent and misgivings grave,
I was sure and serene just by staying apart.
I was truly 'without' - an old man
moving well past his mark.
It was a sad thing but fortunate too -
seeing this lamp-lit vase from another view.

64. POSTAL RESPONSE IN RETURN

POSTAL RESPONSE IN RETURN
The same quandary as you.
In this field of endeavor we wonder.
Does the fire anneal the effort, or will we be,
once more, stranded at our own forges?
A few bushels of red apples.
The corks from a hundred bottles.
The wandering hiker; a motorist in distress.
I once sent a letter to someone, telling them
of the dawn I'd witnessed. They sent a postcard
back, from Albuquerque or Tulsa or somewhere,
stating simply 'I thought your confusion was
easy to sense. You should look for better clues.'
A few bushels emptied of apples.
A hundred bottles without corks.
The very same quandary as you.

63. THE PARIETAL EDGE

THE PARIETAL EDGE
A thud, and a bump.
Things hard and important and
seemingly introduced at will :
the random stroke of the slapping
woodpecker bounding from trunk to trunk,
the callow hammer of the cinderblock man,
breaking great stones with a smash.
Just as the flowers which eventually take root
in the rubble can manage to grow and to blossom,
so the mind - empty of matter it's said at the start -
can be filled with whatever it wants and make shape
and pattern and meaning. A form of the gloved-hand
looking for an owner with five fingers each. You'd think,
'nothing special' - but it takes a very particular search
to find just the right gloved fit.

62. TAXIS

TAXIS
This thicket is thickening and while I am away
it gets more dense still. Trees throb like monsters
of wicked gel, and all I see are figments and shadows.
There are winsome absences and things vacated now -
unseen generalities and specific anamolies.
I saw her again today - walking her dog - and those
with her were nodding. Someone piped up 'is that Bud?'
I turned to reply in negative, but couldn't find the
strength to speak. It was nearly evening. The taxi drivers
were just sitting around on their bench, smoking as they do.
I wondered about their composure, their calm, their elan.
Do they witness odd scenes every day and say nothing?

61. AN EVERDAY THIS, AN EVERYDAY THAT

AN EVERYDAY THIS, AN EVERYDAY THAT
And so for you, Hugo, I ask - have you
taken for granted the places where you are?
The cemetery grove where the two green parrots sing?
The broken down old pool, once used by the
municipal poor? The medical museum at the edge
of the parkland walkway? It is all ringed by railroads now,
a strange thought in that nowadays even old railways
are wickedly passe. Today they build surface lines -
trolley-like things on tracks, considered more 'user-friendly'.
A man was recently killed on one right nearby.
Stabbed 8 times in the head and the neck by
a crazed person wielding a huge knife.
Everyone screamed, and some tried to help.
But it was all over so quickly, and that crazy
guy still held the knife. What could anyone do?
Later, I'm told, the cops came and shut down
the line - sent a man in to mop up the blood
and clean up the place, so others could ride -
I guess. I imagine public workers today
figure stuff like that to just be part
of their job. An everyday this, an everyday that.
(Cleaning up the mess of an everyday slob).

60. THESE DAYS

THESE DAYS
The man in the checkerboard suit was wearing the
halter below his knees and as he carried forth the
furnace broth it all went flying as he bent to sneeze.
It always seems as if something goes awry.
The porch-light breaks, the gutters fall down,
and even the parking garage, I've noticed, these
days is seriously sagging to one side - all those heavy
big cars. In a crisp uniform, the wonderful girl who
cashes the tickets at the entry-gate, is smiling at
everyone who passes. I just want to eat her, myself.
She's been there now a few months.
I once saw her passionately kissing,
(I guessed) her boyfriend.
But - for all I know - it could have been
a fare-beater, so little the real world is with me
these days.

59. JUST LET IT GO AT THAT

JUST LET IT GO AT THAT
'There's something between my toes I can't figure out.'
The doctor laughed and said : 'Don't worry, it's nothing.
That's the space of time leaving coagulated little moments behind,
things you can hardly remember but recall nonetheless as
something that was; even though there's no clarity,
your mind and heart will someday do something
with it all. We don't have to bother over a thing.
If we made any move, we'd ruin the effect.
Just let it go at that.'

58. YESTERYEAR HAD THAT EFFECT

YESTERYEAR HAD THAT EFFECT
Just going there once meant nothing -
there was a fierce wind over the cliff
and it blew things down to the rocks far below.
That's where the river ran through - dark like
blue ink - winding its way past boulders and trees.
Just outside the horizon line a train crawled by
and the distant bridge could be seen.
Indian Head Rock, the Face, whatever they called
it never really stuck. It was just a place high atop
these Palisades. A June day revel in the wide-open
sunlight. A bright Fall morning with shadows
draping the landings. Stone pediments, old
foundations. Bricks and mortar from days long
gone. It was all over, in its own way, in a flash.
A distinctive piece of time, a spot on an
enigmatic calendar of old.

57. THE CANDLE WAS SPENT IN MOURNING

THE CANDLE WAS SPENT IN MOURNING
'There's a dime's difference between you and me,' he said,
turning the wheel of some old grinding stone 'that's the difference
between a mission and an admission, you understand?' I nodded.
'What it means is that we're pretty close to each other in
goals but entirely different in execution.' I really didn't
like the use of that word at all - since he was crazy and
had already done time for shooting someone a few
years back. He carried a small gun inside his bootleg.
He had a knife concealed at his belt. He liked to say
he was like Daniel Boone - 'always willing to talk
but always well-armed.' I didn't know a thing.
By that comparison I was water already under
his bridge, a berth without a boat. That was
years ago. I just found out he's dead: killed
in a biker brawl in East Hempstead, Long Island.
Just goes to show, there's no telling for taste.
No reason for what men do.
It all comes down to strength,
or some simple form of
a really personal
fortitude
used
well.

56. 'MAN KILLS WIFE AND DOG AND SELF'

'MAN KILLS WIFE AND DOG AND SELF'

The headline does not just cover the moment - it speaks

for something broader than that. I am walking the walkway

to nowhere, really. At my feet is a dead bird brushed off

to the side and forgotten. It is small and still lovely and brown.

I wonder at its death, and the why. Along the way, just as

sadly, I hear the wails of a squirrel, trapped it seems in a gutter.

In panic, in anguish, it is calling aloud, a noise of help and

desperation. A few people stop and talk; it is trapped deep in

the gutter, with no means of rescue. Perhaps only time itself

can silence this thing. More sadness abounds - high in the

sky, a soaring hawk. Around me, dead leaves fall.

I figure there must be sadness like this everywhere, and constant.

We attend to that which we can - or may - when we've a mind

to, so as to protect ourselves. The hurt, of course, is always

there. We just do not want it to be ours. That which we ignore,

if we can, we ignore at our peril but of our own will. After all,

there are no bombs falling from above. Our salvation at least

will be spared those types of deadly and fiery deaths of bombs

and furnace and flames and flares. Still, an ever-present sense

of dread and doom still loiters. We really can avoid, in fact, nothing.

Man kills wife, and self, and dog.

Another most pitiable and horrid tale.

Something gruesome like murder - for news,

for tabloid, for sensational shock.

A headline does not just cover the moment.

It must speak for something broader than that.

55. FERRY

FERRY
Do we, bereft of longing, yes, and waiting,
passively accede to crying winds and
lusty tempests? Who chides such a
shrill and angered night?
Some ferry, cutting waters both bound and
bursting, with milled candles ascends and
sways in oceanic time - whereon the doomed
ride and drink dry their coffee.
Out of rhyme? Out of time?
Dressed well, a reaper (Death) now o'er
the water comes - darkly with grim blade
and no smile at all - to scan the surface
of all which is before him spread.
The sick are walking the fevered plank,
hitting the water silently with but a splash
as their red eyes meet both their doom and dawn.
Tired the black waves lap the wood.
The bridge has been abandoned -
as the ship blends with the natural ocean's
slap and time, and the ragged bo'sun
howls. 'This is mine,' Death's voice
is heard to say 'no ferry's day in no
century of time can take any
of this away.'

54. GROUNDSMEN AND LANDSMEN

TOO EARLY FOR PRAYER

IN THE DAYBREAK AIR

(Groundsmen & Landsmen)

They are - seemingly - everywhere.

It is a pretty Princeton morning, once the

sun comes up - the rustle of leaves, the cold,

the squirrels, and some sort of new frost atop

everything. A fine white ash, perhaps? Something

post-apocalyptic? But no, it's not that at all.

It's the cold, and the chilly morning daybreak air.

In spite of that, and hovering over all things,

as if new and robust Kings of matter and form,

these crazy men in back packs, air-force screaming -

swarm. Their grizzled and earnest countenance belies

a form of new contentment too - not one of vacillation,

but rather, one of mission, force and a strong, determinate

substance. 'We will scour this land until it is clean, or bare,

or wiped of every trace of what has been.' Anyone else,

it would seem, had better hold on. These men are stalking,

with conclusions foregone. 'We shall not cease', it seems,

'until there is no longer, not one, a leaf!'

53. IN ON THE JOKE

IN ON THE JOKE
(Something About a Hat)
This - [this] - was a solid line,
an esplanade of wide-ranging features,
a broad steel pilaster set to slice,
an eventful prime moment well-remembered.
I remembered [somehow] leaving my
dark green hat behind. I recalled that the
nice girl nearby was calling her husband on
the telephone - in a sort-of panic - stating:
'I left my keys at work in my jacket. I left that
there too. I didn't realize it until just now.
Where can you pick me up, and when?'
It all went like that - smoothly progressive in
an opposite manner, unlike an old cartoon, say,
where a villain can be concealed by a tree.
They were always nearly completely obscured, except
for a tophat or some sort of long coat. It always gave
them away, usually without them even knowing.
Whoever watched [along with YOU the viewer], the hero
or the lawman or the comic foil coyote, was always
in on the joke; and expected as well you were with him.

52. ASSIGNMENT

ASSIGNMENT
I'm not startled
I'm not aghast:
As things return, I
remember they've passed.
I'm not obscure,
I'm not obtuse -
most anything will do,
when I need an excuse.
I've been told of snow
that never stops falling -
higher than windows,
doors and railings.
It's all the same,
as I look about -
amidst my failings,
amidst my doubt;
I want to know
what's left to do.
Once you tell me,
I'll leave it to you.

51. ON THE NOMENCLATURE OF THE FROG

ON THE NOMENCLATURE OF THE FROG

It's a simple thing really - words defining image,

concept caught up in words. That, and all the rest

of the tightly-woven and dramatic stuff a community

of scientists alone would know, brings us to the

next point...how sure are we of what we claim to know?

Bestial rotation? Unencumbered directional impulse?

Nerve endings aligned with vision and sense? A

rounded perception of depth and distance? How do

we presume to know all these things by only a simple name?

It is, after all, (is it not?) but the conjecture of gaggles of

men which has indecisively decided upon our world.

Interpretative Dream? Interpretive Dance?

Is there really any difference out there at all?

...Or are we to proud to say no?...

50. CLASPING WHAT WENT BY US

CLASPING WHAT WENT BY US
I may have meant to come by silent things beforehand -
things such as this, which went away. Confusing is it?
Only because you, looking for meanings, became so
intent on shape and content that you forgot what
went before : that moment in the sky, our hands
in the levelled water, waiting for fish, or frogs.
Anything like that at all.
We may have meant to come by silent things beforehand -
but, like Pinocchio without a nose, the most obvious things
were gone already - the leaves dropping like soiled
paper from trees, the precious sound of the songbird,
running off, and - lastly and most decisively - that
rustle of the cool, crisp wind as it passed between
our twice-pressed palms.

49. TINSELTOWN AND HORNBY

TINSELTOWN AND HORNBY

'You know I ceded that territory a long time ago.
It's about habitat and there's really none left.
People talk. The hours - all the same - sometimes
seem longer and at other times short.
There's nothing anyone can do anymore except rage.'
And then the guy with the chiropractor thighs
steps up and says 'I wasn't born yesterday and I
can see it in the stars - there's nothing going on more
important than the element of awareness making
itself felt now everywhere. I noticed - for pity's sake -
people now are recycling their recycling and filling
their plastic water bottles with water. And you say
the world's not wacko?' It went on like this for
a long time : two morons, it seemed to me, dancing on
the head of a pin which had been set afire with some
flammable gel and thus kept them moving about very
quickly. Their logic was flawless...if you like shit for
your breakfast.

48. LAST WINTER PLUS ONE

LAST WINTER PLUS ONE
Everything's a part of my deal - the fingers, the feet, the chin,
the gut. You can't get away with less than that. I
harbor no fools gladly and tolerate nothing less than
a breach in the wall - someplace you can sneak through,
or slip away, like fearful water in a quiet flood.
I built my house without a hammer, using hands for
a mallet and blood for a glue. Every picture which
hangs covers some flaw in the wall.
There's a mysterious ornament hanging on the porch -
something like a curse on the side of the doorway,
a place where no one comes anyway. A fusillade
of racketeers, voicing opinions only for
each other, a tribal matron pleading prayers
for something hidden. Perhaps both these things,
in their way, equal ancient nomadic tribes of old
today claiming some God as their special protector.
It won't matter. Blood's in the ale we peddle.
Selling it for a dollar-to-donuts, ten cents on the pint,
five dollars a day in a pesky way, this stuff
will run out by nightfall for sure.

47. THE GARLAND AT PINE MANOR

THE GARLAND AT PINE MANOR
'Pristine the property's not - there are tire tracks
and mud holes all over it. But once there was a
house here, and a barn and shed over there.
It all looked very different.'
I tried imagining what he said : looking for
ways to reconvene the past. Glass like a glimmer
on some inland lake, a flat body of water moving
nothing, a clutch of woods and broad greenery
along the edge of some marshy swamp. It did seem
plentiful, all that water and land.
It's so vivid now, how we've changed in
this modern day everything old and past
to bare memories in some tired attic of time.
No one cares what's gone, or missing.
Only money matters.
Only money talks.
And no one knows how quickly
that cheap currency
passes
away.

46. A REQUEST FOR THOMAS

A REQUEST FOR THOMAS
Show me that man who can whistle the wind -
the one with the stallions and steeds;
that guy, high on the hill, looking down
from a lofty place and seeing movement
and motion, that wind in the reeds.
Make it simple and true : magnanimous and grand.
After I have seen him, perhaps then I'll cede the point:
I've been wrong forever, on so many things;
wrong forever in all of my deeds.
I'll need more than a declarative sentence -
music and a lilting tune, a melody; some kind
of song wherein I can remember the words.
Bring me that message. Let it be heard.

45. FOR OH SO LONG

FOR OH SO LONG
How I managed to have it both ways is beyond me:
the cadaver in the bushes certainly must have
distrusted the future, but not as much as I did.
Like anyone else, I'd grown dead tired of the razor's edge.
The blue water - which had turned a putrid green -
was just as dead upon arrival. We'd carved the meadow,
by degrees, into foolish little houses made of rags and sash.
There wasn't really anything left, nor anywhere

left to put it. I could have shaken hands with the

Devil AND that dead guy together at that point.

I drank for free at the party the family threw.

His sister was there, dancing with

anyone who cared to dance.
Amazing it was - a psychedelic chisel

striking hard onto a steel-cast brain.

44. THE LAST PARACHUTE AT AMLOR

THE LAST PARACHUTE AT AMLOR
I scanned skyward the eyes I wore
and watched above me something soar -
without being sure of what I saw
I sensed it was of broad abandon.
A man it was floating down towards me:
like something from the sky - skillfully erratic,
crazily imbued, and crashing softly at some
right-angle to the ground, to suddenly roll like a
bale of hay. Unshaken by advice, I did what
anyone would do - dart the open field to see
what had fallen. And there it was, bruised maybe
but sound and not bloodied. A young man of
about 35, with a skillful hand and anxious eyes,

who stated 'that was weird! I don't think
I'll do that again.' I said I hadn't seen his plane and was
thereby doubly surprised to see him falling.

'No more surprised than was I' he said, 'no more

surprised than me.' At that, I helped him gather his

billowed cloth, pack his snaps and suspenders away.

He bent to remove his boots, and from a backpack

took sneakers out and put them on.
He turned, said 'thanks for the help!' waved, and
set off down the field. I watched him until he was but
a diminishing and a distant dot.

43. ENMITY : THE VERDICT

ENMITY : THE VERDICT
'They do not become full-fledged partners or brothers
until first their heads are off : we look at their track records
and then cut them to bits - any ribbons left we then claim as ours,
IF they can still stand up.' With that, I pretty much figured it
was as over as it could be. The guy speaking turned and left the
room, leaving some fearsome animus behind him.
I never knew it could be like this, with people getting so
chopped up over money and position - defamation of character
had, certainly, nothing on this sort of interpersonal assassination.
It wasn't anything I wanted a tattoo about, on my neck or
anywhere else. The summation to the jury went something like this:
'It is your responsibility to turn the impetus of this evil, if
you too so deem it, from the vulgar necks of our fellow men.
Before we are all finished, all dead. For there has to be
a higher reckoning to which we turn, first, before such
foul emotions as these men show is exercised upon us.
Men have died for less. And, second, before this rude
exception becomes the rule. Your work is before you.
Do it, and we can go.'

42. THINGS I CAN NEVER FIGURE OUT

THINGS I CAN NEVER FIGURE OUT

('to ruination')
I am in a room with very little light,
someplace I can never properly illumine.
Unable to find things, I stumble on -
occasionally hitting this or that object
in some painful way. A lesson to be learned
therein? Perhaps, but not. I shudder to think
of all that I've misplaced.
There are those saying (always) 'change the light,
put in a brighter bulb' and all the rest.
It wouldn't really matter, but they don't know.
My philosophy is a feeble candle, a barely illumined
yellow which paints walls dark and brown - it's
never a question of 'candle-power' or of
a wattage lost or found.
For I am HERE and here I'm bound:
shackled like a hardened criminal to some
wall, pierced like some St. Stephen by those
willful arrows - or even, in this brutal half-life of
illogic and reason, hung upside down to die or burst.
Either way, I lose. Which is worse? I'll never
really know. For (incredibly) I'm not so bad off
in this dire situation - I'll take what comes,
my place, my station. 'You only live once.'
Here's to ruination.

41. ISLANDER

ISLANDER

He made his way out of this world,

hear this, watching May subside

and wither; but he shall last forever.

(Death has no appointment here, is but

a substance there, and fading).

April was his only foe - a nemesis to

be avoided. Spring sometimes sweeps

its swallow-wings aside to fly and flee,

and April passes on. His shadow too lies

buried now - beneath a damp and darkened

mound of mossy green earth, beneath a mourning

light, beneath too a sunrise of strengthening sun,

beneath the old, arriving one who motions to our

lives too to pass (depart) for Death.

Beneath that shadow ever black and dark,

renew us, Spirit, Vigor, May; relate us there

to soon recall our days as spent (in anger, hate,

or rage) - as passed, as vain contentment.

Come anew, and enter.

(He made his way out

of this world).

40. EUGENICS

EUGENICS
The guy said 'I got a hankering for 'Chun King',
which I took to mean he was hungry for Chinese food -
to which he said 'yes'. 'That's so simply American' I replied
back to his mouth 'it's the kind of thing my parents used to say.'
I wasn't giving a compliment, but he was too dumb to know.
'You see' I went on 'first-off, that stuff's not even 'Chinese'
really, it's more like crap-in-a-can claiming to be what it's not -
so why would you want that here, in the middle of New York City?
There's good Chinese grub around.' I was trying to sound cool,
maybe even aloof - not wishing to offend him or show him up.
He could'a broke me in two if I pissed him off. Can't just call
someone stupid, or an ass, sometimes - even if they are.
But - he'd been living like a bum for years now, so little
of it mattered to him. 'If it fills my stomach good, I'll call
it whatever I want.' Hmmm, yes, well okay to that.
Seems sometimes like there's one born every minute.
Idiot fractures of time, twisted manifestations of genes
gone wrong or wasted - people with just nowhere to go.
Funny how they manage to linger on - just staying put in
place with all their tired rank deficiencies.
Oh well...can't advance the race if we can't kill
a bunch first. I think that was called 'Eugenics',
back a long time ago.

39. IT WASN'T BUT FOR SEEMING

IT WASN'T BUT FOR SEEMING

It wasn't but for seeming that I was alone;

it was also for other things - like no one to

talk back to, or no one to ask for clues. It appeared

as if everything was empty and silent around me.

The tormented guy with the tophat, standing on

the train platform waiting - stretching his neck

like an idiot to see if the train was coming.

Down the track, up the track, what could it matter?

He missed the last one, and he'd miss this one too,

for sure - unless of course I pushed him in front

of it. Faint possibility, vague, meandering thought.

The rustle of some frank newspaper caught me short:

winsome notes on some stupid sports story, or a new

look in some Dictator's eye, piecemeal enticements

by political hacks, a fashion shoot shot in the nude.

It was all the same : no shame, no game.

I took a pencil from a box on the shelf where they

keep the timetables and ticket stubs. No one noticed.

With it I began writing on the wall - in text too small to see -

'I am not this person who was just now here;

I am not this man you see.' It did take quite a

long time, but I eventually covered the wall.

38. THE GLORY THAT IS SALLY HAMILTON

THE GLORY THAT 
IS SALLY HAMILTON

I love a girl with a sense of humor;

Sally Hamilton was that and more.

I was sitting by her in the Metro Cafe.

She was at a table of four.

Lovely blond face and hair, and

eyes a twinkly blue. The older guy

asked her for forks; she came back with

two. He quickly berated her there,

in a foolish sort of way; said 'what are

you thinking about, we'd need at least

four, I say!' She got back up from her chair,

and went to the wall, picked up the metal

bucket of forks and dumped them on

him.....all.

I love a girl with a sense of humor.

37. OF THE FRAMEWORK OF TIME

OF THE FRAMEWORK OF TIME

The framework of time, like an elegy,

runs to its edges and darkness - sidling

past the luminescence around us and diving

deep into the innards of those dark, black hearts.

The kind of conscience a murderer has,

the kind which never sees parole nor even

the light of day. Dark recesses where the

power-bombs reside. Words brushed off like dirt.

Remorse bears its gloom like a curtain -

a wave where the wind blows through it,

a shadow perfected by contrast, a dark -

embittered like the ancient night sky.

Five red cards were on the table,

each one bearing a different face.

On the back of each, though blurry

and faint, was a different legend to

match each number - 3 for death,

5 for the maiden, and a 7 for (merely)

'good luck'. It was all that and

nothing more. I'd grown tired of

playing and heaved them all to the floor.

36. THAT MISERABLE MANUFACTURE

THAT MISERABLE MANUFACTURE

(Hart Crane, 1932)

That miserable manufacture, I knew it

wouldn't last. The way the hands on

that clock started drooping on rock - like

a Picasso still life on acid; and the way

the carolers walked thru the door without

stopping to sing. This life's a funny thing.

I remembered bowling once, with Hart Crane,

over at Bridge Lanes, somewhere in SW Brooklyn.

His stupid father has just blown in from

that candy-factory in Ohio. His mother, in turn,

leaving a note, had fled quickly. It was just us

three left, gay Hart, Harry Crosby and me.

All that Brooklyn Bridge reverence, I found out

later, was crap. All he really wanted to do, this

pigeon-poet sensitive character Hart, was cruise

for guys all along the piers. But, no matter to me;

he'd always written nice stiff - 'the apples, Bill, the

apples!' - probably my favorite line of his. Anyway,

as it was, I knew confused characters never last;

they're manufactured incorrectly, their jets finally

give out like some sick motorcycle carburetor of old.

Hart's solution was to jump from the back of a ship.

Some sailors had finally rebuffed his sexual entreaties.

Poetry had left him flat, his father had called him an ass.

It was all just bad manufacture - nice bridge or not.

They never even found his southernmost body in those

warm-climate waters into which he'd jumped.

35. THE SMALL-BORE HAMMERLOCK

THE SMALL-BORE HAMMERLOCK

A wistful look in the window

brought back to me all Ramona

and all of Gail - neither one matching

the expectations of whichever page

they were on. And as that Hot-Dog King,

Max, with his expensive and sleek

Mercedes Roadster, said about it -

'that's a lot of hot dogs and relish my

friend, and I relish a lot about that hot

dog'. Face it, that crazy man was in love

with his - car.

Maybe there's something to be said for

shit like that - in a sort of time-perspective

relativity we never see, metal never loses its

sheen, paint never fades and fenders don't

rust. Eternal verities, like newness and flash,

just last and last. Yeah, right. Tell that to

the warden, the ferryman, the gravedigger.

It's like some silly priest story about your

eternal life. Destined to live forever, and

bribed - first by a promise, then by a kiss,

and then by the fantasy of eternal bliss.