1073. CARAMEL DOWN

CARAMEL DOWN
'Don't forget the edges and the corners,
be sure to coat it all.' A few flies buzzing like
tramps around a feeder, a cat on the sill, watching
what happens. Nothing like fire in the deep of the
night to make a man feel primitive again.
-
Over the near horizon, a waning moon dips its
waning song - pale light, half-eaten away, and
only a lunar memory of the primitive tribal within.
'I carry nothing out, because I carried nothing in.'
-
These are all my quotes, and you can look them up.
You who imitate the others, you who copy copies
endlessly - 'before rigor mortis sets in the rigor
will win. You'll be taken out in a box.' No, no,
I never said that last one. Now leave me be.

1072. THE ELEVEN YEAR OLD MARIONETTE AT THE HOUSE OF MY AUNT

THE ELEVEN YEAR OLD
MARIONETTE AT THE
HOUSE OF MY AUNT
He came with an Italian goatee. It was
1958. This Aldo. He was then told to
shave it off and - in the American way -
was given twenty-five dollars by the
men to do so. He complied. My uncles
and some others I did not know, they
where seemingly threatened by whiskers,
though not by the show. They'd had a good
time with this. An understandable oasis
in that late 1950's Amerika of shadow and
play. Aldo was from Italy, made bereft by
something, and visiting. Just in time. The
America he wanted. Beatnik guy glory
swaying and suave in those great leather
shoes so loved by all. He wanted - I heard
him say but didn't understand - he wanted
'to one day maybe return to Italy exhausted
by sensuality.' Everyone laughed and would
not leave him alone. 'Oh Aldo, how Aldo so
much wants a girl he can call his own!'

1071. OM DADDY NUPRIN

OM DADDY NUPRIN
Who would ever call themselves that?
Too hip for me, or not hip at all.
I am viewing art as sacrosanct.
That goes for it all - words, paint,
music maybe and magic too. I read
whatever I may into the big white clouds.
-
Om Daddy is sitting here with me, reading
his book. He's from Bratislava a long-time
back - and now he nods assent to, well, almost
anything American. Coffee in that cup and
that muffin in his hand. Oh well, too. I
watch, but I am not amused.
-
I want to ask instead : where is Cezanne?
Has Pollock or Rothko been here yet? Those
guys from the Cedar, can we meet them later?
deKooning, perhaps, both Elaine and Willem too?
Otherwise, I won't know what to do!
-
Who would ever call themselves that?
Those crazy 50's guys, those all-freaked-out
smokers with their tomes : hip fat-guy lumberjack
flannel laughter, fucking women wherever they are.
Coitus Intermingulus prophylactus nihilissimus bang!
Smack! Wallop! Om Daddy Nuprin ain't been there yet!
-
I'm just now realizing all these things, and
it's way too late for me. Harvey Keitel and
Dennis Hopper as well are just as soon here
to see as any other hep dead cat would be.
Om Daddy Nuprin. Best minds of my
generation, lost in that conflagration,
and - really - he don't know a thing.

1070. SELF DECEPTION

SELF DECEPTION
Self deception is like the copying
of a status given by one's shadow -
oblivious to a fault, one stands
tall nonetheless. Wee matters
to matter not much.
-
I am watching the man water
his garden. He stands back from
the flow from the hose he holds.
How ingeniously odd. Distance
covers (thus) so many spaces.

1069. HUMORESQUE

HUMORESQUE
I'll put a poetry trace where the pastries should be.
I'll slather your face with cream. I'll dance on the
head of that angelic pin - for you, I suppose. The
one filled with the faces of angels, the one the pedantic
mystics argued about all through those middle ages.
Pneumatic idiots. How's that for my Greek?

1068. ORNAMENT

ORNAMENT
Brother, brother, watch the many-faceted
world unfurl - apples and grasses and fruits.
Watch the water collect itself; the dew from many
mornings, the rain from distant sources. We are
right to circumvent the globe, to lunge through
nearby spaces, to leave on moon and mountain
our fading, trifling traces. Without all that anyway,
we are only what we ourselves proclaim to be.
Figments of imagination, raindrops on a tree.

1067. SHE LIVES UPSTAIRS

SHE LIVES UPSTAIRS
Yes, and the boa harp, the stern arm, the rigid
fist - one and all of these things, reminiscent
of what might have been, now are but symbols
on some sick coat-of-arms. Framed by nothing,
but mounted kingly on a broad-room wall, even
the lowest servant must bend a knee.
-
I am talking to Nancy Ransom on the shore of
the Hudson River. Across the way, the other shore,
the massive ramparts of West Point are to be seen.
'The United States Military Academy' she says,
gesturing. 'How'd you like to be me, having to wake
up to that each morning?' I shrug and say it will
never change - 'at least you're sure of continuity?'
-
I phrase it as a question to see what she will say.
'Don't be so sure of that, my friend, the way
things are changing these days.' She runs
a small antique and art store in her little
town across the river from the fort.
Her windows front the river; she
lives upstairs.
-
Accidental prayer? No such thing.
Momentary lapse? Happens often enough.
We both watched the flags flapping over
the river, and wondered at the emergence of
wind. Bannerman's Island? 'Yes', she said,
'it was up there somewhere, out at Cold Spring.
All ruins itself, ever see it?' I had to answer, 'no'.

1066. THIS COURTSHIP FALLS FLAT

THIS COURTSHIP
FALLS FLAT
Samantha Jackman feeling boxed in.
Twenty penny-whistles and an old tin
of Honduran cigars. I knew these guys
from a long time ago. Trouble was
brewing, but it all meant nothing at all.
The kid with the crayons had come down
the stairs; he was about ten and tried to
be happy. His father had prospered with
some bad union work, and now he wanted
a mate. The marriage of Heaven and Hell,
Mr. Blake, couldn't get worse than this.
Coffee was brought in, by the Turk, but
what these assholes wanted was beer.
'I haven't got any,' I said with a smirk.
('Samantha was just leaving, you jerk').

1065. WRINKLES

WRINKLES
The old man and the broken heart,
I could see them both. He was leaning
over the iron fence, looking down at
the passers-by below. Probably a lifetime
from mine, but not that far away. Distant
nonetheless, but not that far away.
-
How sad does one need to be anyway
to continue on? One without hearing,
but not deaf? The entire crowd with
the pots and pans banging? The big
black truck just idling by?
-
He stayed there, watching it all.
Distant nonetheless, but
not that far away.

1064. MANDALAY

MANDALAY
Pipes freeze overwhelm stature
riverbed catboat gambling-man
capture. The high-linked sky
falling down over Mandalay.

1063. LEAVING THE LUNGFISH AT BAY

LEAVING THE
LUNGFISH AT BAY
Leaving the lungfish at bay, the
ocean angler kept walking away -
down from the dock and the fresh
water shed, I saw him puking down
into the water. By the ship. My God,
he really looked sick. And then -
just like that - he got up and ran, a
long running start, and dove into
the dockside waters. Beneath and
between the boats. After that point,
I never saw him again. I moved on
to other things. But that dive, I'd
give it a ten.

1062. LIKE LOST CONFETTI

LIKE LOST CONFETTI

(all they have to say)

The youthful marvel concedes time's only way -

passages and markings, small items falling in

one breath from windows and sills, while down

below those oily, minion'd masses cheer and swirl.

The spinning top and the bright-faced lark,

all together, go on. Life's drama knows

only too well the stage.

-

Watching even Shakespeare on a screen is nothing

more, really, than light - moving, cinescope images

beaten and lame. Then the laugh line, then the girl.

Then the worm, then, of course, the corpse. It's

all and everywhere the same.

-

To those who have never lost anything, it

is said, 'take this back, you mutilated savage.

You seem too insincere for all this good fortune.'

Mere badinage, all that is - a broken line once

more, from a drunken Shakespearean play.

-

The secretaries are lined up at the window.

Six or seven floors up I see them bending over

the ledge - all those guys and girls so happy

and choice, throwing papers from windows

in one huge voice - 'we are limber, and we

are sound, and all this life is joy! Yay, perhaps...

but that's all we've found.'

-

And then I realize, in a moment of my own,

one too tortured to enjoy, this is (all well)

all they have to say.

1061. IN WHAT I REMEMBER OF ANITA O'DAY

IN WHAT I REMEMBER

OF ANITA O'DAY

All it is I remember of Anita O'Day

is some smiling ghoul of a face - one

smothered and colored as a postage

stamp would be. I think she sang,

though she never sang for me.

-

What is it we want from our wallets?

Talent and wealth in abeyance alone?

Nay; I think it's more a memory we want -

something tender enough to go home with

after the lights of the club have gone out,

after the party is over and the following

morning arrives. She is a genie in scanty

clothing, but one that I can't describe.

-

All I remember of Anita O'Day is a musical

phrase on a black and white screen; some

late night variety show, with a band - but

I'm not sure of that at all. My both hands,

much mellower now, seek something before

I die : something to smother, to fondle, to

touch or to grab. My personal and essential

wind blows through the gap both out and in.

Nothing substantial, mind you, but the

foggy air of thinking back.

1060. CONFESSON (crazy man glue)

CONFESSION
(crazy man glue)
'Yes, I killed the concierge. He was
straddling two worlds anyway, and
wasn't worth a damn. Two Pakistani
wives, as it was explained to me; one
here and one back there. That on got
to see him, over there, every half a
year or so. The rest of the time, for
her, I don't know. What do Pakistanis
do? Do they have dildos too?'

1059. TO STAY BECALMED

TO STAY BECALMED
There is a moment, a fissure, like a
thin feather caught on invisible current,
turning around in the invisible air.
When we surmise that the time has arrived,
we are beckoned once, and in that quickened
moment must answer or fall. Of this message,
you get one call.
-
The sun rose orange today, and,
in that coloring light, I took a long walk.
See the treetops! How even those firs
are illumined in the orangey glow of both
yellow and red. High up, where everything
seems all right to my little eyes.

1058. THIS AIN'T PARIS

THIS AIN'T PARIS
Or at least not anymore since the
benches are smaller and the tables
are gone. Things are crimped now
like Delmore Schwartz. Sitting back
like this, two books in each hand,
I still try to settle your wandering
corpse. Delmore. Del More.
Delmore Schwartz.
-
What was it your friends called you?
Del? Those you had who stayed anyway;
the rest went straight to Hell. No, well,
maybe. This ain't Paris, but neither yet Hell.

1057. IN NAME ONLY

IN NAME ONLY
The Holy Land was burned and torched,
since it never existed at all. The stars of
any Mecca's mosque were found to be but
glimmering 40-watt yellow bulbs. That fine
fat fellow getting sick inside the synagogue,
he turned out to be right after all. It's like that
everywhere. Catholic puzzles with the hair of
a rat woven in, Presbyterian elders cavorting with
black Baptist whores. 'I ain't been anywhere, but I
want some more.' The man with the calliope toupee
said that, while I watched him decay in the back.
Jesus' newest cross is made out of playdough and
plastic. Lighter, and made more for travel. Fantastic.
-
Ribbons of starving bombastic monks, Tibetans and
Hellacions too, are bent over the water-hole feeding
a yak. Someone said the prayer-wheel was in its ass.
They figure, even with digging, they'll never get it back,
but attachment to all Earthly things must pass.
Hare Krishna to that.

1056. JUNTO BROTHER BABY FRIEND MARKSMAN TO THE STARS

JUNTO BROTHER

BABY FRIEND
MARKSMAN TO

THE STARS
Nothing's been settled nor ever even finished
and the ever-gaping sky stays open for any
possibility. Like petals from on high, spacecraft
come down to play music upon human ears.
Hearing nothing, they scuttle away; small
creatures on a jarring planet.
-
Lending a hand to self-sufficiency, the great
engine God steps in just every so often to
twist a this or that. Divide the oasis, dissect
the feud. Mankind and matter, which is more rude?
Entire books and their chapters have been written
on this - and blood too flows to show it.
-
Myself, on the other hand, sitting back here
in the garden, holding cards and reading
the messages : hangman, water-bearer,
raptor and all the rest. I see nothing
amiss really; only mis-placed
vanity and unsound logic.
-
I am satisfied by that,
and settle in to
watch.

1055. CARLISLE THE QUOTIENT MASTER

CARLISLE THE
QUOTIENT MASTER
With five hands he's all over you in an
instant. He wants as much as it gets him;
no matter the reverie or any of that. He'll
take his time to stop when it's over and done.
The cathedral down the street, its bells are ringing.
Loudly traipsing like carrion home to the fray,
small people are walking their way to church.
-
'But why, Dr. Denley, would anyone do that?
I can't fathom the reason for want. And what's
with the cops stopping traffic to let these feeble
ants cross on their way to their church?' The
doctor, a black soul-teacher in a starched white
shirt, said nothing really back, just hummed.
-
I'd heard him sing before - in his own Baptist
church on the hill, about a mile away - 'Shiloh
Heavenly Means Church', or something like that.
Those black-guy churches always have funny names.
-
Call me when it's over - or at least that's how I felt.
I remember a Reverend Wallace McKnight much
like this too - a little man with enormous hands.
Made me wince just to see. Simpleton that he was,
he always said they 'gave him a better grasp on
the rungs of the ladder right up to Heaven.'

1054. TRUTH AND WAKING

TRUTH AND WAKING
With such a tendentious wakefulness I
smother the night with my watching : moonlight
starbright, this can't be Earth. The silent white
scratch of meteor and comet makes me wince
while watching time unfold.
-
Ersatz rude awakenings too keep me alert
to the ever-changing tides of myth and memory.
Neither can this be where I've ever been, this
rock I'm sitting on, this spinning Earth.
-
Like tired poodles at the end of a leash,
we sit around in the darkness, candles and
late-night coffee holding our way. Barred
or open, every door - like every word
spoken - makes me think of you.

1053. AUDACIOUS TACT

AUDACIOUS TACT
The pleasure's on the hot side,
the din is in the vale. The
Brookside Literal Mansion is
open for business today.
Ten people I haven't seen in
two decades are already waiting
outside. What key shall I turn to enter?
-
Kyrie Eleison is what the soundtrack
plays; we enter one by one at or against
our will. Either way, we're in.
-
The carpets are made of memory,
the wall hangings, more than flat,
can be entered at will - a new dimensional
plane through which can flow the present.
Giving the idea of 'come and go'
an entirely new force.
-
The child is the father
of the man?

1052. BIRD LANTERN LANE

BIRD LANTERN LANE
(Battle of Dulce, 1460)
Rilke had a fetish - things to be gentle,
certain to make comfort, nothing harsh
at all. The opposite of all which bodes for
progress and advancement. Like medieval
warriors cracking heads with sticks, eggs
gathered in a basket, loose and leaky, the
only thing recalled is the violence and the
gore. Stupid lanky men and their insipid,
facile Kings. Storybook adventures with
storybook endings. And here, on Bird
Lantern Lane, it is said, they once buried
over 600 British soldiers after one battle
of this or that. In a private aside, the
local guide told me of the horror never
mentioned - how the bodies were cut
and mangled : 'mind you', he said,
'that's really 600 heads, 1200 arms
and 1200 legs. Can you fathom
what I'm saying?'

1051. PETITFOUR BIFOCALS

PETITFOUR BIFOCALS
(at the wake for a friend, at the Baltimore Central
Hotel, at the clinic for cerebral hematomas)
You must know that I can't see you
even as I squint, Divine One. Blower of
clouds and winds and all that surges.
Liner of hearts and minds. Taker
of all which was given. Beyond a
shadow of a doubt, this much
ascertained is certain to be.
You are the life, and
the life is we.

1050. THROUGHOUT THIS LIFE

THROUGHOUT THIS LIFE
Taking accolades is only half the battle -
candlelight, harbor and stove. Bowing
to lanterns and skeleton heads takes
more exertion than our world allows.
One would think, like the witches:
'Toil, toil, witches' broil on old
Nantucket's oily soil.'
-
But, no; I've never seen more sunlight
than this. Watching the waves drawing out
from the land after they've pounded the surf
makes me quiet and keeps me still. A
waterway's own surge, a meaning
all its own.
-
I've learned to breathe in this time machine :
so now let me take you with me. Let me
take you home. At least let me take you in.
Brown house. Green house. Shed house.
Shanty with rain on the roof.
Pitter. Patter. What's the matter?
-
(Throughout this life I've heard a
million things, from every corner
of every mouth. The snide, the
supple, the happy, the sad. Yet
now, an absolute nothing does
cover the land. We are bowing
to lanterns and skeleton heads,
even though it's more exertion
than our world allows. Taking
accolades is only half the battle).
　

1049. RUGGED AND TRUE

RUGGED AND TRUE
Though I may not be the one to err,
you may be the one to find me.
Day-lilies and Shakespeare folios,
long-drawn curtains and a bull-frog
at dawn. These may be the things
that matter - only these
and nothing more.

1048. PLATO'S BIGHT CAVE

PLATO'S BRIGHT CAVE
My great cantilevered architecture has suddenly fallen,
taken a dive, tipped over, crumbled to the ground.
All that glass and molding; matter to be dusted
now for nothing else but clues. I heard the creak
and the groan, right before it fell. As they say
that dogs and birds can sense impending
disaster, so too I myself felt something
wrong right before the moment
came to be. A few bricks first
fell - things I'd thought
so solid before.
-
No remorse, no looking back, it's over.
Memory like a movie, some now
flickering light on a moving
image screen. The motion
is jumpy, like something
old; there are, I note,
huge blobs too
on the image.
-
Early movies within the mind?
Plato's cave again? All
that what we sense to be,
can it really be? I'm
sitting back, to
watch what
I see.

1047. TRULY I FORGET

TRULY I FORGET
Those brutal waves of wash between the
walls of Hebron and the sea, they make
me think of something faraway. Paracelsus
and all that ancient science, perhaps but not.
The fenceline, single like a dog, wires its
funny way along the ridge and soil. It
knows to twist and turn, but that's alone
the hand that placed its doing, and does it
keep things in or out? Truly I forget.

1046. DIXIE

DIXIE
The Inland Brothers Wrecking Yard
was already retrieving the scrap. Scouring
like horses, they'd worked hard enough and
already had filled two bins. Nowhere to
go but down. The ladies in the jelly hats
were passing out drinks - something cold -
to anyone who wanted one. All takers all.
On one side, by the corner, were stacked only
the wood re-usable, good enough for future
reconstruction. All the rest of the charred
remains were dumpster-bound. Harlen Hikes,
one of the previous owners, had stopped by.
He'd said: 'A long time ago, I can remember
when my Granddaddy and my daddy built this
place, must'a been 'bout 1947. Previous to that,
of course, and of course too, this IS after all
Dixie, this site had been a Nigra whipping ground,
where all the Hikes' children was taken too to watch
any malfeasant (as we had t'call them then) get his
punishment. I can remember hearing the stories,
though, truth b'told, I never myself had to witness.
It was all over then by my days. The new house, this,
was built over the sores of all the old. And we alls
just carried on like it'd never happened at all. But
ain't it funny how so things can change. The up
now was once the down, and vice versa too.'
Old Harry stood firm, drinking slightly as he
talked - that crazy old, light lilt in his voice
reminded me always of the past. And
before I knew, it was over and gone.
What once was a house there, was
now going to be a pond. Up to
down and, down to up again,
I'd guess to say anyway.

1045. ENTERING THAT EXIT

ENTERING THAT EXIT
Having tried the past and found it wanting, every
fiber of my being formed another stance within
itself, genetics be damned. There wouldn't
be anything to show in this mirror. I would
be an angular man. Wearing the suit of the
sun and the armor of the day. Tapping new
rhythms along dusky paths of paper and chalk.
Not even children would hear my tales.
-
Such plans for tomorrow took me far : steadfast
along the ancient river. Filled with words. Running
high current along the shoals of indifference and
tearing up the land. Bridges needed rethinking
after I passed, and the cold, clear logic of the
old engineering went for nothing across
my entered fields.
-
Look! I have built houses of mud and
sentry-sheds of solid gold. My paths
and roadways, somehow, have no turns
but are not straight - yet they always
bring one back, after time, right to
the point of one's departure.

1044. NOW WHILE I HAVE THE TIME

NOW WHILE I HAVE THE TIME
(glory staccato)
Does anyone know how I smell? Does anyone
sense the cleanliness or not of my clothing and
hair, the cut of my nails, the wavy sheen of
my dire skin? I would hope there's no one
around for any of that. The new girl, in 12B,
she drives me crazy - beautiful in her ways,
carrying herself like something I'd love.
I don't have a notion of what to say to
her, so that we never meet - since I
make no effort to seek her out.
-
Her brother, some creep like a carrion,
is a blue-shirted cop in this city of love.
He comes around now and then to check
on her - and I'm certain if he ever knew
about me he'd have something to say.
-
Like - 'What's that smell? Who's that guy
across the hall?' I make sure we never meet.
It's really boring to live like this. If I had, in
this manner, a rock to crawl under I'd
probably be better off. Not for her,
but for myself. Living like this
can sure bring on a headache
and cramp. I really want to
amount to something, let
her see me that way,
move along to the
good. But it'll
never happen.
I know.

1043. 'PLAGIARIST SENDS A MAN TO HELL'

'PLAGIARIST SENDS A

MAN TO HELL'
'What the Hell went wrong with you; what's the
matter now? You're telling me you couldn't
disguise what you were doing? People had to know?
They should have never been even able to find out.
You asshole.' It went on like this at length.
Philadelphia's Walnut Street, by Rittenhouse

Square, people sitting around. The little
Orange Bank Coffee Shop, serving
Peet's, where people sit around pretending
not to care, or at least to not being envious.
This guy next to me, some kind of writer or
something, was being berated by another guy,
a coffee companion at least, a big, fat guy all
worked up and sweaty about the face, over
a piece of writing he'd turned in that actually
was found out to be someone else's work,
barely disguised. The fat guy, for sure, was
acting like it was a capital crime, a Mafia hit,
for Christ's sake. I mean, I could understand
the deal, but what the hell, who really cared?
Next thing I knew, the fat guy's on the floor,
gagging and blue, on the way to dead.
no one knew what to do; the plagiarist guy
bent over, said 'See, I told you not to get
so worked up, now this!' He wasn't
excited, but turned to look up - 'Can
anyone please get some help. This man
is dying!' 911 and all that; the EMT's
arrived, picked him up, plopped him on a
gurney after doing all sorts of their work on
him. They declared, 'I'm sorry, but sure
this man is dead.'

1042. CAPTIONS

CAPTIONS
Before long I was feeling nothing:
the astronauts had fallen back into the sea,
their flaming spaceship like some antique
basket tumbling from afar. Cameramen with
big nerve nosed right up to the window.
'Tell us how you feel, what you saw, what
it was really like.' They all seemed to talk
at once. Then I envisioned what I saw as well:
the capsule door opened and, amidst pale
orange flames, a tall man stepped out, in
his clumsy suit, and began quite simply
walking away on the water.
-
('Bird's-eye sing-song caterwaul chap,
who's the man in the pink feathered cap?')...
Telegrams were falling from the doorway
slot stop white envelopes lined in blue
stop will return stop later perhaps
stop yours forever stop garland.
-
The city awoke from its very grave sleep:
two more dead men, three more shootings,
four babies somehow thrown from roofs,
five rapes, six homicides, and seven minutes
away from the doorways (plural) to Hell.

1041. PRACTICE GOING TO BED

PRACTICE GOING
TO BED
You'll want to be useful doing something.
There are thousands of choices, I'm sure
you'll understand. The magpie dips at the
break of dawn, the river flow suddenly slows.
Each of these things are, in their way, almost
humanly possible and sure to convince.
Contradictions? Yes, I am sure. 'Sentenced
to life' is, for all intents and purposes, the
same as 'sentenced to death.' We live,
we breath, we die. One side of the wall,
or the other. Wouldn't
you say?

1040. MAGELLAN'S MAPMAKER

MAGELLAN'S MAPMAKER
('sights and visions')
'The only way to know where anything
is is to put it there yourself. In that way,
understand the whole entire world - or
what you claim for it to be.' I thought I
could understand that - easily, like music
on a barge-trip, or those scat-singers
I'd heard in that old Cleveland church.
As he spoke them to me, I realized he
was gnawing on a leg of lamb. By
contrast to his words, that seemed
more strange to me. But then, I'd
already forgotten where we were.

1039. CURBSIDE TREE INVOLVED IN A HOAX

CURBSIDE TREES
INVOLVED IN A HOAX
Aroma enforcing enticement inducing
world globe spinning on. Cars trucks
buses spew food counters open-air
dining the wash and wish of a million
mouths. Line by line the hordes are
noontime passing deadly silent and
voiciferous together - lounging laughs
of stupid nothings fervid talk and
words of love and observation all in
one union with the mastered mix.
Contentment. Oasis. Curbside trees
involved in a hoax. Keep us happy,
running on. Lies and truths
and fears and hopes.

1038. MY EPISODE 29

MY EPISODE 29
The man was talking like he had all the time in the world
at his disposal : 'parallel dichotomies, you see, are handled
quite easily. They are things appearing as opposites
yet actually quite the same - like war and peace, or
joy and sorrow. Love. Hate.' I threw my gloves down,
and left, having heard all this before, to weariness. The
window to my right, hanging open to the night, was
propped with a simple board - 'no dumber than a
bad argument' I muttered to myself, almost wishing
to jump. Four stories down, to end with a thump.
Loft city, to nowhere at all. Instead, I began to
marvel at the things I saw - light and glimmer,
all those weird, late night reflections, and
so much more. Entering some second
twilight of my subdued mind, I
simply sat and stayed in place.
To think was not the worst.
Episode 29.

1037. FORECAST LIVING

FORECAST LIVING
Curls of smoke along the sanctified ridge,
a carnal infestation of desire, a piercing
fault straight to the heart - those were
the horse-bits my saddle was riding.
All around me, blue sky blasted
the world with heat. Infernal,
like waves of a fire,
astride a brutalized
world.

1036. ALARIC

ALARIC
I love everything equally : loving nothing less.
The squandered geometry of the open sky;
light, spacious, wide and growing. Nothing
less than that will hold me anyway, so it might
all as well be real. Long doze and the wintry,
dark night. Deep black sky, moon and stars.
At once, and all together, this time ties its
knot. String theory, indeed!

1035. FOR MARIAN REVERE

FOR MARIAN REVERE
Oh listen now to me. I never snookered
your non-conformist blueblood vein into
an unwilling situation. I took you by force
but once. And as I recall you smiled for hours.
Picking up your clothes, your ran off like a
She-Goddess prancing to light. Anyway, the
report I had said your mother had millions, and
it was all coming to you. I ventured to bid on that
stupid ashtray you wanted from Sotheby's big
auction room. For you, not me. Once owned by
Emilia Carthwright Forbes, whomever. Seventeen
thousand three hundred dollars later, it was in your
hands. On that fireplace mantle it stayed for a year.
Millicent finally made you move it somewhere safe.
No, no, I never said a word. I gathered nothing;
neither moss nor notches in my gun barrel, though
I could have counted whenever I wanted. That
little 2-seater Morgan you drove around in,
a pile of nothing, I always thought. But oh what
a showing you made. Horse shows, trade fairs,
polo roundelays. Many were the days I'd have
rather walked straight out into the ocean than
go through another strenuous afternoon.
With you. But I was brave. Like a work
animal, I slathered and slaved. All
for toil, and none forgave.
Oh listen now to me.

1034. I OBEY

I OBEY
Lenders of last resort:
the tall men who grovel, the
ones who plead and cry. Mercy.
Belle Dame sans Merci.
Do you remember that?
-
Carving fenestrated bones high up
in the Alpine attic. Then jumping from
the rooftop to the snowy field below.
Carving defenestrated bones back into
non-broken shapes. 'Twas that the
Ohio doctor's goal?
-
Music like this was never magic.
Yet, I noticed, the man who was
saying that was deaf. Hmmm.

1033. THE GRACIOUS INTERMEZZO

THE GRACIOUS INTERMEZZO
Here, faulted as a golden shaft, stands
the better of the two : 'We are between
worlds, my friend, and it's us alone.'
Sour mash and conflagration, like a
July Fourth nightmare in an over-crowded
harbor. Agitated and riled, the crowd sways.
River water runs. Clouds skim low. Out on
that bay, the boats and the sails at play.
We never skipped the retribution, or
the paying of our dues. Whatever
came down, we accepted.
It was the least that
we could do.

1032. CLEMENTINE

CLEMENTINE
When they told me you were coming it
was too late, you'd already come and gone.
It's always been that way with me.
The breakaway glass bottle on the
side of my head in that bar room scene
in the western we filmed : wrong glass,
wrong bottle. The knot, remember, that
was supposed to slip open under pressure
when put around my neck for the drop
at the hanging scene.

1031. HEREAFTER

HEREAFTER
The right man came to the wrong place
leaving nothing trailing behind
but laughter,
and all they could talk about
was how different it all was
from all that had gone before.
Someone nodded and the lights went out.
One broad melee ensued.
-
The right man in the wrong place.

1030. DEBUSSY AND PILLAGE

DEBUSSY AND PILLAGE

-a dream-

La Mer, la mer.

The crusaders have returned

from Lyons. I see them, hugging

their wives, on the trails along

the jumbled waterfront.

It’s like they never left.

Marauding as savages for three

years and more, anything they violated

they violated for God himself,

while the old humdrum wives waited,

planting tubers in the dull dead earth

or singing songs of ecstasy

in a very different note.

1029. THE FRIEZE OF THE MONOCLE MAN

THE FRIEZE OF THE
MONOCLE MAN
Under the streets of Paris - there's a pretty old tale.
Laced with skulduggery and the corpses of
faceless thousands, the only sounds left are the
ancient peals of revolution's bells when they
were new. Sounds like that linger. They
never depart, nor are they forgotten.
-
Now, what's left, up above, reflects nothing.
Not so much as even a map of old would
show. Rubble and paste - things where
streets used to be, tarmac where the
ancient forest wandered. Only the
ghosts would know, and I am one.
-
Gentility makes a mockery of class.
All things that are useless, you see,
must now be put away - for only
new science, in its test, can rule
what's left existent. While once
all that was given over to kings
and nobles, now the sly Devil,
in whatever proportion, is
given sway to take whatever
He so chooses to take.
As for the rest, we
put it all away.

1028. CONTINENTAL AVENUE

CONTINENTAL AVENUE
Now they have their way.
The little men can say -
'How ferocious is it that we
are living in such modern times!'
You know, kind sir, everyone says
that about the times they live, it's really
nothing new and not unique to you.
Dope the jelly, wrap the wound.
-
These 12 acres, if you've not noticed,
have been paved and lined for cars.
You wish to call that 'modern times?'
I shan't stop you, go ahead,
but I shall hide away instead.

1027. HOW THE HAPPY HEART DROPS OFF THE DRUMBEAT

HOW THE HAPPY HEART
DROPS OFF THE DRUMBEAT
'There's no answer. Remember Oh Henry - the
comic strip not the writer - he ladled his
soup with paste and gruel and the spoon
eventually fell off. Such a useless tool.
-
This was the dominant barricade, when
the Alamo fell. But now? Why oh why oh am I
writing this on the 65th anniversary of the
atomic bomb on Hiroshima?
-
I'll tell you why - because the 'horror-imagination' -
as the Japanese call it - still keeps kids up at night
thinking of their place in the world - vaporized and gassed,
just blown away. Burned like Momma was burned.
Fried like Dadda was fried. That's what I'm

telling you. Everyone else has lied.'

1026. SIGNS & PORTENTS

SIGNS & PORTENTS
I've grown wild. I've become tired
of my own elixir. Weeds and seedpods
of my own imagining have grown
up around me until I too have
become my own Mother Earth.
-
Watching the saddle of the rising sun -
up, up, over thou the east - I see a
single leaf fall. A gold of the fading
maple, so early it tumbles down,
flopping over and over upon itself
in new light. Illumined by a morning
sun, it soon gives up its earnest fight
and tumbles down to earth.
-
To live! Is not that all we want?
To stay in place and make sense
out of what is present. All we
see resounds: time, and
place, and energy.

1025. MAKING SENSE NOW

MAKING SENSE NOW
(Hopewell, NJ)
I may have signalled something by the
hat or torched instead that little pile of mud.
Nothing making sense. Unknown messages
and unheard things mistranslated at will.
Who will hold me responsible for that?
If some God is a figment of intention,
mine was to go straight to somewhere else,
not necessarily the name of 'Heaven' I knew.
Skin is soft. Coats could be made from hide.
The Lindbergh baby, for instance, had a tale
to tell, but not one making much sense at all.

1024. THE QUOTABLE GESTURE

THE QUOTABLE GESTURE

I am reading Walter Benjamin as a lark.
You can't do that. I know. He's much
too serious for that. And dour. Every
sentence seems like an...hour.
-
Baudelaire found the physiognomic (!)
type bred by this new kind of life -
a prostitute scrutinizing the passers-by
while at the same time on guard (with
those same eyes) against the police - to
be delineated nicely in Constantin Guy's
numerous drawings of prostitutes :
'Her eyes, like those of a wild animal,
are fixed on the distant horizon; they
have the restlessness of a wild animal...
but sometimes also the animal's sudden
tense vigilance.' I, one the other hand,
now get fixated by the duality of all I see.
-
There is but one way in and one way out?
I am confused in the sense of not knowing
any longer the place I am in? Simply put,
now that is the problem. Tense heart beating.
Suspicious eyes wandering. That girl, with the
lipstick, has quite a city smirk. 'Dullness' also
says Baudelaire, 'is frequently an ornament
of beauty.' Yes, yes! Dullness is truly an
ornament of Beauty!

1023. ROCK STONE DOG

ROCK STONE DOG

You can't find a promise in the

seeking. Surmise the instant, and

take it away - for you are but my

memory of things as they were and

I have no kindred souls any longer.

Just look how want has blistered the

ages! The common folk are grown

wanton and bestial. Their foolish

waters run now crooked and then dry.

They try their cloak of vengeance,

wearing it as it is too big and does not

fit - so they simply grow into it.

-

The stars are far ahead of thinking.

Selfsame finger-darters, men who nod,

and galaxies out spinning in the air,

or the non-air, of nothing at all. The

cosmic nod comes from the Heavens.

It is, however, deep within us where

these matters befall. We can't simply

look away and expect to go on.

-

The still objects are solid, and this new

morning light graces my eyes. I am

like a monk without judgment, fallow

and soft, watching all this life unfold.

Do not talk to me, I cannot hear you.

I am not from here. Rock stone dog

before me, this life is all depth and

depth's own perception : hedgerow,

tree, lamp, table, hedgerow again,

green glass, light, mortar, brick,

rock, stone, dog. Slate on old soil,

now painted in something new

from Heaven.

1022. GRATING MAN JOHN

GRATING MAN JOHN

That smile came out of nowhere -

and was as unearthly matched as

a delight for damage could be.

Acorns, tree limbs full, and a

squirrel with no tail. Amble precariously,

now, oh little one. I am with the kingdom

of all ages and each thing shall live forever,

decreed. Time - transparent as the skin

on an onion - can both exist and not be.

So I thus see it twice - once as it was and

once as it was not. The roaring hide of the

mastodon was just a story to be told;

something once created by fragment

and as still concomitant in the telling

by its non-being...by the fact that it

and its time and its story did not

really exist at all.

1021. (I CAN'T ERASE THE MOMENT)

(I CAN'T ERASE THE MOMENT)

Reading the entrails while drinking

the blood - a true double-feature

like nothing ever seen before. This

campfire, I could tell, meant business.

The lady with her daughter (spare

carcass, I suppose) sat around laughing.

'Who could ever mix things up? Confuse

the one with the other? The living with

the dead? Oh, hardly a difference between

them.' In my own way, right then, I

had to find happiness eating the root.

-

'Power me from this day!' I took the

elevator down and it only took a

moment. All those people hunched

and bunched; the cackle, the chortle.

Telephones to ears and little screens

to hands. Whatever happened - I

wondered - to briefcases and bags?

But Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, 1938

was a long time ago.

1020. CAN'T BRING MYSELF (Bartleby)

CAN'T BRING MYSELF
(Bartleby)
Can't bring myself to cross,
to pass the exit, to waver to
a stop. I just go on, do I?
There, where the big, round
tree once stood, now merely
the stump. There, where the
door was always open, now a
closed entry. Nothing more.
Can't bring myself to that.
Sit down and find the moment.
Think how words can be.
(Just ask Bartleby).

1019. SANHEDRIN

SANHEDRIN
Some form of arms hold
these worlds together.
Brash Grey and its darkness
holds this morning's dynamic:
awash in colors yet stuck in
place. Like those final High
Priests of the old and ancient,
a balky, convulsive blockage
keeps out true beauty as Truth
and Love too fade. We are amazed
at nothing - how little the brain
holds to be apprehended. It
is all an open book.

1018. GLIMMER

GLIMMER
(rain and mirror)
Pelting, the water hits the
window glass. Beyond
the reach of gales and
bluster, all things within
this house remain in
place: cards on a table,
water in a glass, the broken
reflection of a cat and
some books. It is
too soon to make
this matter. The
material world, a
pale glimmer anyway,
tries once more to
be what it is not.

1017. MR. LENZ, HE WITHERS

MR. LENZ, HE WITHERS
The small box in the parlor made me think
of you. Dim lighting accentuated the depth
of the colors on the walls, bringing me
forth from the moment to something other.
I remembered how, in Madrid you said,
the water in the central plaza fountains
runs at only certain hours, in tune with
an old religious tradition. Nothing I could
recall exactly, but the memory stayed.
This tiny box, too, looked like that : it
could have held a saint's bones, or
some other such sacred item.
-
People have ways of marking time.
Those bundled masses I often see,
crimped and dark, walking over
the bridge - crossing water, high up,
silent, engrossed in their own place.
Some talk, yes, but it's only a feint.
-
Three boys, I remember watching, once
were throwing some coins down on cars.
I don't know what ever came of that.
I heard of no accidents, nor arrests,
but I said nothing and decided I'd
rather just let it be. I too walked on.
When I told you about it, you said
I was wrong, should have said
something, should have been
'strong'. Yes, that was
the word you used. A
word I never got over.
-
Am I weak, I wonder now, for letting
these simple things haunt me? I would
rather arise from a sleep in a dream-walk
than have to grapple with other folk. That
small, silent box in the parlor of Mr. Lenz,
it really does remind me of you. Yet,
every time I ask about it, he looks
distant, and fades away.

1016. SPOFFORD 104

SPOFFORD 104
Can anyone hear me? Does anyone? The lackey
wind throwing the morning about, the mark of
sunlight straddling a horizon or two, the
sound of many motors purring - each of these
things in their minor way make more of
a racket than I ever can. I visit the dead man's
funeral thinking I will hear his sound. But - just
as for myself - no sound comes forth. Now who
can hear that? By definition, is not the world silent?
-
Otherwise, should we not hear the sizzle of the Sun
as it overtakes our places; the broadness of its
yellow light, flaming and pulsing our matter?
That would be sound for all time : the grim
and lofty noise eternity makes. Compared
to that, we are the spittle of an angry
demon's jaw, worth nothing in
the end but our aging,
and our death.

1015. TWENTY-TWO MILES HOME

TWENTY-TWO

MILES HOME
I went there, I wasn't there.
Nothing like a rim shot to make
things fair - watch me as I swizzle.
You sat next to me as I sat near to
you; starlight, starbright, first star
I see tonight. There's only three more
('and that ain't right'). Multiply the
multiplier. Fetch the pail, the barn's afire.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
-
I walk the city street in some very early
light - everything that's open should be
closed. Those that are open, shouldn't
they doze? Over on the corner, high atop
the sign that reads 'Schirmer's', a single
hawk gazes alertly - as if something,
anything, to move would be his.
A few places are lined up in
a row. Seems as if it's
been this way forever.
-
I was walking three days straight,
stopping wherever I liked, sleeping
on grass and in parks overnight.
It wasn't easy, but I made it right.
Twenty-two miles home tonight.

1014. THE YELLOW HOUSE

THE YELLOW HOUSE
Dunning the hive while shouldering
my hi-hats, I cut the icing in your eyes
with the knife my heart was holding.
The time-told story was again unfolding:
how the wily man, heartbroken, runs to
re-exchange the past with the now; idle
threats of no value at all. 'If I had it to
do once over again...' and all the rest
that goes with the running.
-
I stayed back. The two dark animals
on the south-facing lawn seemed chasing
each other in a trance-like folly. One
chattered - a noise I'd not heard before
or since - and the other, silently dodging,
kept going around in circles. I wondered
to myself which one I'd be if, Heaven
allowing, I'd had the choice.
-
Doorscape and sunlight - reflected
back on the shaded glass. The small
distance, shown in the nearby mirror,
now seemed - really - like nothing at all.

1013. THE HAMMER

THE HAMMER
Like leaden gold, it came down hard,
all the chariots and fires and angels.
No one said a word as, after all, the
entire thing took but a minute.

1012. IT IS STILL UNKNOWN WHAT ANYTHING MEANS

IT IS STILL UNKNOWN
WHAT ANYTHING MEANS
Fuzzy, starry sky I cannot see you.
Too far for sense and logic, I suppose.
The deep distances make your
yesterday-light both waver and hide.
Everything new is old outside.

1011. ALIGNED BY THUNDER

ALIGNED BY THUNDER
( a recitation on 'curiosity')
It's a tough place being between two bridges -
relying on one for support and the other for
egress, escape and flight while the disenchantment
rolls on - all around my face are lethal chameleons
and people from far stranger places than this one.
I can only hesitate as the water flows and the pure milk
seeps. Windchimes play fallow, broken by wind.
The watermill on Heathercote Lane lays sideways
in the marsh - all chains broken, the pump long gone,
and fifteen forlorn soldiers milling about. A
single matron lurks. Her name is Sheila May Abrams
and I used to know her brother. Now the rumbling sky
abruptly splits, thunder roils above our heads and
rainclouds and lightning together do their work.
Neighborhood kids come by hooting. They
somehow think we're lovers now caught
in a clutch. They begin throwing pebbles
our way. We let it all go and move on.
There can't be any more desirous
desire than this insidious waste.
Fifty states in one big
country and here
I am right here.
Nonchalance,
was it, that
killed the
cat?

1010. WHEN PICASSO LIED

WHEN PICASSO LIED
(Horto de Ebro, 1909)
He spoke of nothing, not even trees.
Barren forms and shapes, shaded areas
of cube and angle, the volume of objects
all giving way. Look! Look! Just have
your eyes fall into that gaping hole.
'Houses on the Hill' with that crazy
center shape : promiscuous void, gaping hole,
thin and narrow opening, entry to a Hell.
I shan't (before I try) ever look away.
Picasso lied; and that's all he had to say.

1009. THE SUICIDE GIFT (Reverie)

THE SUICIDE GIFT
(Reverie)
The man is writing his sixteenth note,
and this time - (he says) - it is complete
and final. 'The recognition of things,
the lucid recognition, is important to me.
Happiness is an escape from time, human
time, either through a life after death, or
before death - perhaps - through an
experience of spiritual communion, love,
or aesthetic transport. A third way,
mythology attests, is to die and
come back to life. This is the meaning,
in the western world, of the descent
to the underworld - from
Iannana to Dante both.'
-
But you can't come back from that.
Creation from 'Nothing' is bunk, at
least, after the first. Only one chance,
and I've found (oh, myself) that the
corridors of time are filled with echoes
and memory; and maybe I like to go there.
-
I see no one else with a hand in this
morning's pink light on the tall, green trees.
And, if I did, my own grand darkness
would narrow my choices. I sit
in this chair, doing nothing. Knowing
it all, backwards. I hardly have to
move. Move along. Get.
Get along. Little doggie.
Get along. And, so, again,
I wonder. to myself, is
that a reverie?

1008. WERE I TO SET A STONE FOR YOU, WOULD I A JEWELER BE?

WERE I TO SET A STONE FOR
YOU, WOULD I A JEWELER BE?
Were I to set a stone for you, would I
a jeweler be? Greylock. Redstone.
Cellar entrance. Green bush and chair.
Trellis and black door. The Grand Vizier,
I once knew him in a place like this. And
I'd seen him often. But now all that is
gone, and we must do something.
-
My sickening inventory, of time and matter
all. I grab it up and stick it to myself like
a foul attendant at an accountant's wake.
Waves are lapping the dew. I bow down
and grab a handful of dirt.
-
The tiniest bugs there are are crawling
between my fingers. They've come out
of that dirt. They crawl onto the morning
table, where no one but me sits. It's easy
to dismiss Love when you've got nothing
to live for - as easy as it is to dismiss Life
when you've no one to love. They say nothing
can come from nothing; but the Universe,
in spite of that, tells a different tale
(and I really want to listen).
-
It's at moments like this when I know I am
failing. The blind man in the art museum,
damn, even he sees more than me. I am
a makeshift enemy of all - everything -
around me. Larkspur. Sparrow. Tree limb.
Awning and shutter. Bench on the dirt and
that bicycle wheel tied to a tree. Were I to
set a stone for you, would I a jeweler be?

1007. SOMETIMES

SOMETIMES
Sometimes, like this, I am sitting alone.
It is 6am, it is 7. Truly, I have nowhere
to go. The semblance of a July light
hits my soul like a rock and I reel -
back a bit, over to the side. Farther off,
a man is whistling, and an emergency siren
too is heard. But for a moment, both.
For these are but enticing passes, the
human load, the moment. I watch
the bricks as they catch the light.
Quiet and soulful it seems, in a way,
sad. I can no longer dissemble. No
sense why I'm here, and no reason
to be. Maybe in a cloak of madness
the madness is grabbing me. But,
no matter; this garden setting
still holds my heart.

1006. THE RED DOT MEANS YOU ARE HERE

THE RED DOT MEANS
'YOU ARE HERE'
The red dot means you are here.
If that suffices, then let it.
There! You are, can be, will be.
'Accept your lot in life,' the
old miser said. Now, that does
NOT (necessarily) mean suddenly,
for such acceptance can take a
very long time. Something (well,
I'm stretching the point here), perhaps
like a virginal penetration or a long,
slow lovemaking.
-NOW-
'Why I hate other people,' - you see,
could just as well be a statement that
leads you into the whys, or it could be
(just as well) a simple exclamation, like
something an old Marx Brothers routine
would have : ('Why I hate other
people indeed!).
-SO-
It really doesn't matter if the
red dot means, say, 'You Are Here.'
Accept it. You are wherever you
want to be, and only that is good.

1005. TO MAINTAIN

TO MAINTAIN
(DIA Beacon)
There is (then) a point where the line
does not (any longer) exist - it is a marker -
an indicator really. With no life of its own,
on its color field you can stare. You will;
the variety of visual experience in tatters.
Yes, the mind will blow like a natural thing,
and as such it is to be expected. Yet,
grounded in tobacco smoke and lucre,
nothing past trite will have been achieved.
The art world, after all, keeps its own
conditions, biding time for time to pass.
Rectangle, square, a perfect edge or not,
The whole and entire world - forever -
is but a vast conjecture. Can be.
Would be. Should.

1004. A TRUE FEAST OF DURANGO

A TRUE FEAST OF DURANGO
I would have to swear - in a court of law,
I guess - that, yes, I watched the two murderers
as they jumped to the other rooftop. Those
wooden-front buildings here in town, they
each have that false height, that sort of
fake facade with nothing behind it, really,
but a flat roof; easy as it is to jump from
one to the other. Those two men right there,
I saw them do it, just after the shots rang out.
Their faces were covered with cloth - at least
their mouths and noses and chins. But I knew
who they were - Delgado there and Swainey too.
They killed those men and ran. The money and
the jewelry is in the wagon. They had accomplices
run off with that in the ensuing frenzy. Frenzy, hell,
pandemonium. Even the bar room emptied out,
and that doesn't happen here much.

1003. ULTERIOR MOTIVATIONS

ULTERIOR MOTIVATIONS
(What IS the matter?)
This is not Nature; these are not 'things.' Instead, all
of this is solid matter, forms and shapes; colors befitting
a king. Volumes and planes, the witty forms of all
Creation - never batting an eye, never blinking.
But, yes, all eventually returns to its elementals
and roots. I was taking the toil to heart, all that
work and so little play - you know the rest.
-
Watching those Lakewood boyhood Jews with
all their pretty girls made me uncomfortable
in a circumstantial way : the boarded up
motel along Route 9 - some huge worldly
palace, incongruous and now gone, amidst
all that religious puffery. Prayer shawls and
those crazy hats. The women, with that
certain blessed dignity, trudging past ruin.
-
Ravens, vultures, those careening skyward
creatures - all Heaven sent to hawk the
burial yards. Convenience stores in the
most inconvenient places. Old churches,
left out in the rain to rot. Three Hasids,
somehow looming past me, in their big
Buick Electra, outrageously out-dated
but running as well; smooth and
easy. They stared out the window
as they drove me by. I, it was
thought, should be looking
at them. No?
-
Life is a minefield of a million different
things. We walk, we cavort, we sing.
With stories of family, or the tribe
we came in with; it's all the
religion we bring, (though
chosen by a committee
specific to us).

1002. YOU'RE NEVER GETTING HIM BACK

YOU'RE NEVER

GETTING HIM BACK
My father had a father whose brother
was 'lost in the Yankee War.' That's the
way he always phrased, and I was never
sure. Sports? A baseball murder?
A form of New England play?
-
He meant, apparently, the Ardennes
Forest, but with a 10th grade education
what was to be expected? Little else.
The Yankee War would have to do -
especially since, in 5th grade myself,
I learned the Civil War wouldn't fit,
since 'Grandpa' was born in 1876.
-
Damned if I ever got to the bottom
of all that. My mother would just
say - 'Yes, whatever, he's gone
and you're not getting him back.'
That, too, was so disconcerting -
like they did it for spite, and
knew I was hurting.

1001. ANABASIS

ANABASIS
This is the end of everything I've ever known:
They put my face in a leather pail, ratcheted
my arms with some form of winch. Pressed
hard where my eyes set in. I screamed
bloody murder. Privately, of course
I was laughing all the time.
-
The first guy, some Slovakian Neanderthal
with teeth like coins, spit in my face
unwittingly while trying to talk. He
meant to be saying something
horrid, but couldn't manage
to even breathe. Any
soliloquy needs
breath capacity.
-
So he was a shit, but I knew
that already. The next guy -
'Coutrona' - said my sister
was his lover and my
mother was his slave.
Oooh!, so bad was
that! I laughed
again.
-
That's when my lights went out.
I think, dear God, they were
beating my head with a pipe.
Pain necessitates a future.
At the moment, I really
had none. It was over
in a flash, and
here I am.
　

1000. VETERAN APOSTASY AND A BOAST

VETERAN APOSTASY
AND A BOAST
(a summing up)
The figure is the segment of what we have done
- no more, no less. Invariably, just thinking this
over brings a shudder. On the side of the road at
Oakdale, I see there's a police car hiding out.
Where is it that police hide? In their minds?
Anywhere? Places not yet created? Or not
yet 'violated'? That cop, I know, goes home
at night to something. Such as is, has to be.
-
My hands, on the wheel (let's say) grasp.
Difficult word, that, since so many of us
grasp, in effect, nothing at all. All that
is - before we pass - is hiding out, not
letting us see. And then, in some stealth,
we arrive - fresh-dead meat for all to see.
-
My time in the hostel was filled with maneuvers;
as many as a sport allows - the feint and the dodge,
the aversion, the waver. Yet, as solid as - say - cows,
the force-field of logic became like a wall, made of
glass perhaps but a wall nonetheless. People would
hit it and fall. Tensile strength? That they really meant.
-
'You can beat me, you can pummel.
I can take the bruise,
ain't no Beau Brummel.'

999. HARD SCRAP/EDGE

HARD SCRAP/ EDGE
Won't want the ticket agent
the man with the spyglass
see me NO!
No.
-

See how that figures -

all 'runned' away!
Now is the
moment,

oh Sally
to say.

See!
-
Carmelite.
Crazy fixture.
Dauntless foe.
How far the distance
does the distance go?
Go!
-
Medicine man
Mendocino, man!
Man!

998. HOW THAT MIRACLE RESCUE SAVES

HOW THAT MIRACLE

RESCUE SAVES
I've read all that I could about tendencies like
this : the Hart Crane delirium at the end of a
boat, the errant Moldavite staggering on shore,
the greedy man from Menker's, looking
at lucre each step of the way.
-
It's nothing different, really, from Death itself.
Nice in a glimmer, then the lights go out.
Someone yells 'Save him!' while fleeing
in the other direction. Confetti floats down
from some weird ticker-tape of a broken mind.
-
How many notes this clown has left behind!
For myself, I'm tired of reading them; they
fade and waver like a sophomore flag
at a really bad halftime. Ask him,
over there, the midget selling
ice cream. See what he says.
In the end, all that matters
is that it's over.

997. I WILL SIT FOR SURE

I WILL SIT FOR SURE
I will sit for sure in the
farthest seat away.
No sunlight, no rain
can reach me. Acres of
green will cover me.
No one's eyes will see.
-
I will sit for sure
in the farthest seat away.
Between architecture of
other ages, and lights
of just today.

996. TO TAKE AIM

TO TAKE AIM
To take aim, first depart.
Go far away, flee, run.
To take aim, first,
do not look.
-
To take aim, first find delight
and revel in it, running forward
towards something you like.
To take aim, find the
source, find the light.
-
To take aim, put the book away
and watch - see the shadows
move, watch the tree in rustle.
To take aim - first! - stand still,
do not move a muscle.

995. HOW ONE HEALS (Calico Loom)

HOW ONE HEALS

(Calico Loom)

You can put a finger in a sling, an arm in a cast,

be treated form all forms of plague. Like ribald

crusaders, back from that wicked joust, things

in slings and jacketed bones matter little. You

have done your work for the Lord.

-

All those Civil War guys, splattered like nickels

over the untidy field - they die and they bloat,

the stay in place, moaning and hurt, until they

expire. Nothing to be done. Prisoners have been

taken, the most rebellious of them, of course,

murdered. That twisty fellow, over there, in

the cape, why it's either Walt Whitman or some

fault-ridden parson out on a lark. You can heal

the dead too, you know, with prayer.

-

Calico Loom, on the Perdasa Creek, below the rocks

at Edenburg. That's where my neighbor's forebear

died - he says. In 1863, neglected and drained. I

never believed him, and still don't, for one second.

He made that all up - claiming a Loom lineage,

somehow, by connecting himself with the person -

so far back - who happened to share a name.

-

For some people, that in itself is how they heal.

The wounds are so great that they themselves

reach and try for something other than what

they are : 'prairie grass, blazing, on fire, consumed

my family's farm; my Uncle Wallace, in Chesterton,

he would have discovered the quark, but the

established cabal wouldn't let him speak. Until

they had it out first.' It's like that everywhere.

-

This jacket doesn't fit. My chest is too big.

994. BASTARD

'BASTARD'
In order to be considered one, you have to earn
it - nasty, vituperative crank, old vile skunk,
sniping varmint, curmudgeon. Something
no one likes. All that and more, rolled in
one ball. 'That stinking old grouch never
looks back, unrolls his sleeves just to
spit on your face. Son of a bitch, he is.'
-
The weather was running like Evil.
I was bent over in the yard, in
some obvious pain - chest
upheaval, tired breathing,
a hard pounding in the head.
Down on the ground, I
tried to get up. Nothing.
-
When they came, finally, to
get me, they said: 'From
what we'd heard, you was
already dead. Consider
yourself lucky, you
ungrateful son of
a bitch.'

993. REASONING

REASONING
The dim roaring rise of arc and cable,
wire and steel, that sorted-out fan of
mathematics and drawing ; some form of
new precision landing on land yet soaring.
I want to follow with my eyes, yet glumly
my own feet stick here, on the ground.
What my eyes can see is only a tease,
for my feet and limbs do not follow.
-
It's been said 'how like in joy do
birds fly.' I wonder. They soar
as only they can.

992. '...DEPICTION OF RESTRICTION'

THE DESCRIPTION OF YOUR
PRESCRIPTION WOULD BE
A DEPICTION OF
RESTRICTION
And then the Winter came, and
we had forgotten how to live.
Ice on the landings, water, frozen,
in buckets beneath the porch. That
thin yellow bulb on the 2nd floor landing,
weak and cold and shallow, throwing no
shadows at all. We'd all thinned to nothing,
emaciated faces, hungry, with no money to
spare or share. Any handout was ours alone.
-
Before long, the crazy snows came : stuck inside,
as if we could not move, we were beggared by
the cold - a lack of warmth, little to burn, and
a scowling mutt all adding to the woe.
-
I tried to save, just once, the situation by
bringing a man upstairs - some creepy black
gay guy willing to pay. It was all ass-backwards.
over top of this and that. Yet, working it all out
together, we'd gathered 35 bucks. Jesus,
remember how much that meant?
-
Those days are long away now.
'Harold the Key', as we called him,
is dead five years already, and you've
done your time in jail. Me? I've got nothing
to show but these notebooks, and some
pictures of that old gray garage.
Apparently, no one wants them
now. 'Worthless', is all I
hear anyone say.

991. HIM WHO

HIM WHO
Him who tracking me tries,
finds nothing. You see, I
am already gone.

990. FOUND OBJECT

FOUND OBJECT
In the toilet art museum fauve-colored
windows all that they seem.
No one ever ventured in, making now
silence a cardinal sin.
Homo Faber. Man the Maker.
Again and again.
-
I boarded with Max Frisch
in Berlin; he made airplane
tires out of German
cellophane. Maersk.
Farben. All
that crazy
stuff.

989. SHAKESPEARE'S LATE SYNTAX

SHAKESPEARE'S LATE SYNTAX

(sin tax)

'Fie! Ye wouldst dun me

for the life-joys within this

clothing of my days? My

smoke and my wine ye would

deign to tax? Attach this,

ye foulest swine! Ye joyless

dead soul of such ordinary time!'

988. GERALD R. WOLFF

GERALD R. WOLFF
'That's a fair pen you're holding in your hand,
Gerald - one already long-bitten with lice
and mites and the shaded moss of long ago -
you make me shudder, just thinking of now.'
-
No constable holding keys and a warrant
can apprehend this fever. I am hot with
love and lust for words : as the real cabinet
of Dr. Caligari would show - 'I opened
that cabinet and out came the future like flame.'
-
In this broad and fussy room, the shelves
are lined with books as - along the wide
wooden table - the lawyers all sit; their
briefcases and hats too, as if it were 1956
instead of now. I am flummoxed by their
talk, and in walks Gerald R. Wolff again.
-
'We have here a 7.2 million dollar disbursement
all ready to be dispensed. If you would simply
signify here, it will be given over to you on the 30th
day past this date, at 10:30am. It may be transferred
electronically, or, of course, (yes, we know your ways),
you are welcome to arrange for yourself to pick up the
check in Philadelphia, at Ashford, Mays & Scheinbaum.'
-
'Mr. Wolff, I 'signify'? You mean 'sign'? If that's
all it is, I'll do so, yes - and, yes again, I'll
see you in Philadelphia 30 days from now.'
-
If I were to buy some acres of the deepest forest,
I'd still get out alive. There would be neither toil
nor shame for me to cover with this feat. We
wear the arms, after all, to which we were given.
There is not really, anywhere, a helpless man.

987. SONYATINA

SONYATINA
'I'm going to teach children how to read music,
what a great way to spend a morning!' She said
that across the counter, while gesturing to the
campus across the way, 'a music seminar, an
institute for Summer music study, with which
I somehow got involved.' I'd seen her before,
knew I knew her a hundred times. But so many
of these Princeton kids all look alike : or similar
in the way things with a group resemble the
group. I hope you know what I mean, Sonya.
-
Teaching rudimentary things, I thought to myself,
can be a debatable task. You're teaching, after all,
as much for the parents as for their kids. They 'want'
the idea that they're buying - my child the musical
one. And, anyway, how rudimentary is music really?
Ingrained, as they say a language is? A felicity for the
ear as words are for the tongue and eyes? I'd not know,
and now I'm too old too care. Little brats, darlings of
inattention, cookie crumbs and ineffective beings.
-
So anyway, good luck to that and good luck to her.
I figured I'd see her around again. She took her
double-espresso (I watched) and fled, out, out
into her vast and very musical day.

986. THE ART LOFT

THE ART LOFT
Just because you've got to have it -
the tools of a maestro, all those collected
cans and bottles - amplitude and true congestion.
Paint cans slobbered and dry with drip, old slathered
brushes, dried too and dimpled and pressed. I never
knew one place could hold so much. The accordion
folders of sketches , the sink with all that rust.
If you could just stop for a moment, you'd see
what I see - magnificent crazed matter, slats
of wood and plaster, a Gesso bucket over the
top with hardness. There are no steps to stand
on, as there are no limbs to break.

985. MY DREAMING

MY DREAMING
And oh how I dreamed of silver,
silver and you - gloss-gowned
hair on a head of jewels; fantasy
and phantasmagoria together
entwined and just as still.
-
Joseph Brodsky and Harold Bloom,
both are postage stamps now in the
mailroom of my mind - and a Walt
Whitman waterscape too. Robert Frost,
so sure-footed yet lost, in turn stopped
by for tea. We marveled at the glasses,
the water, the great New England sea.
'And I wasn't even born here,' he muttered,
'yet that's all they think of me.' But Rhea Schultz
was my real betrayal, an aid to make believe,

a matrix of all that be.
-
She smiled seriously and said: 'my life,
my own life of course, has a serious, sensuous
balance I've kept. Like mountains to the shoulder,
I've loved the sunlight and the rain together - as
anyone must, don't you think?' With that (my
memory says) she took my hand and quickly
kissed me. 'So let's be just more than friends, do
you mind?' We sat there for a moment. Some
coffee-waiter, or whatever they call them now,
brought a tray. Outside, the morning overmisted
whitely with a gentle fog - 23rd or 18th, what
was it, I don't remember. We savored the contentment
and it never wavered - and all the dreary cars were
dragging, while the homeless spat and some dogs
were barking on their twisted leashes.
-
'I am nothing really,' - she said again until I
abruptly stopped her. 'Why do you say that?
Stop it again - you are more than the sum of
your parts and, believe you me, those parts
are art.'
-
We came to a laugh at that, and stopped.
But all that - oh! - was long ago. My
God, how I miss the past.

984. DENBY

DENBY
And so much has been lost now
then Denby, let us count - all those
falling leaves now brown and brittle
on the ground are being dropped for
drought, or because of lack of water
at least. I want to see nothing wrong
with that, but cannot. Drought
withers, drought dries.
-
Henderson the Rain King - yes, that I
must read again. Perhaps therein some
clue resides : Western man, African natives,
enshrining someone as God, bringing rain
to a parched, dry land. But what does Chicago
know about the coast? Whose useless voice
now bellows on?
-
And, so, much has been lost. We live these days
despite, no less, the action; yet, nonetheless
bankers rage at rates, financiers finagle the
figures, and the reporters, those who say, they
just babble until their fat, salacious tongues fall
out for lack of either truth or water too. Like the
leaves, their dry and brittle tongues abhor
their own tiny moment.
-
I'd never know a thing, were I pressed to say.
My own knowledge is but bluster, a walking
cane down a street where only cars and buses
should go. And so, much has been lost, Denby;
let us count before we go.