2.

She wants an affair
After all these years of duty.
Her husband drinks too much
Before breakfast
And gives their young daughter
A once-in-a-while black eye.
He yells too much for a Reverend.
But he is upper class
And only performs marriages now.
She has her youth,
A body still suffering desire.
She says "hello" to
My afternoon smile.

3.

Reward. Reward.
There is no reward.
Summer flies stick to the window
Hiding the fisherman
While formations of pelicans soar
Behind the cresting waves.
Some blue makes the color sky.
And children.
Late to catch their bus wait
Through another tide.
We get ready for love.
One day.
Then the divorce.
Our table rocks with the pounding in surf.
There is a bottle of wine for inhibitions.
Fishing boats sit unconcerned
While the salmon run.
Time ticks to the stroking of my beard.

4.

The historical, metaphysical, cosmical men are like yesterday.
Of course. They are dreams analyzed by critical shadows
That never know the extent of their own ignorance.
Which wins each new horizon with every corresponding human discovery.
We get farther and farther from love and understanding
When the critics begin defining terms

I eat the words of better men.
Bow to their ever verbal din.
I want to curse this raucous spree.
Like Blake to shout: "I must be free."

5.

The senses are pure art
Realized in an act of creation.
That has nothing to do with the physical world.
Communication is between the artist and the art,
Direct connection with the vision.
Which is never recorded until
The desired source is satisfied.

So away with cultural determinations.
I am a free-fall-flowing spirit,
The shaman of impending doom.
Numbed by the intensity of dumb love,
I have no patience with negative analysis.
Positive action is my solitude.

6,

I'm looking to the sea for answers
While she sleeps.
The outgoing tide carries no message.
Only the seagulls call.
I am lonely for what I must return.
Her love.
But we are stagnant,
Saturated with sameness.
There is no moment beyond desire.
She sleeps to hide the urge.
Just so things will work out once.
For her.
I'm looking to the sea now,
Wondering which way the swells will break.

7.

She came to the sea for answers,
To walk for health,
To throw sticks for the dog.
And for sex.
She said, "There's something
Sensuous about the sea."
And became beautiful for him.
A wasted effort.
A mistake.But a good one.
We are all here for that one good mistake
That will teach us nothing.
She said, "I can't tell you things."
As she sat watching the sunset,
He turned to watch the moonrise..

8.

She didn't want to go,
Thinking things could once again be nice.
But he refused to inhibit himself any longer.
The sun dropped below the border of clouds
Clustered at the edge of their world
As if awaiting this melancholy event.
The sun became a symbol then.
Before he made his commitment to the sea,
She wanted to resolve her misery.
He placed his cheek against the sand
And listened to the wind whistle through
The bleached bones of a cormorant.

9.

Social sickness surmounts itself.
There is no more time to berate
The disease of humanity.
Repeat again the Zola themes.
The higher we go in social strata,
Only the decorations change.
We are the common vulgarity.
Culture, society, class
Are costumed conveniences,
Manmade excuses,
Enabling the better set to act worse
Under a mask of justified civility.
So there is no reason to deny
The artists who are our mirrors.
There is no reason.

10.

Let the religious predict,
Portray case histories.
They still have to admit the exception.
But how are they to know?
God isn't discovered by study.
Blake saw God in a window.
Nietzsche said, "God is dead."
Nietzsche and Blake are brothers.
Christ came along by chance.
He whispered "Love"
And swung the axe of truth
Between himself
And the compassionate Buddha.
Are they brothers, too?

11.

I want a tabula rasa, to begin again,
Because of the many false starts made.
Writing is like painting, like the song sung
In unpredictable moments of joy or grief.
Creating is not merely to impress.
True creation wells from within
By forces of which we are only the tool.
They are eternal glimpses, caught in time,
Through a myriad of personal visions felt
Now and later with the same intensity.

12.

Rollo May said this country lacks
A sense of tragedy.
He suggested William James'
"Moral equivalent to war."
Rollo May theorized that we can
Transcend violence and become
A peaceful, humane species.
But reality interrupted.
Never has there been a time
In the history of the world
When a war wasn't being waged.

13.

The soldier who had both arms blown off
Knew the war would never be over.
The colonel who offered him half-a-crown
Was barely aware that the war had started.
The soldier said, "I suppose, sir,
You think I'd only lost a pair of gloves."

When does a war really end?
One conflict pauses long enough
To find reason to start another.
Regroup. Reorganize. Reequip.
Rally to the battle cry of war.
Peace is an interregnum.

14.

The plumber is a leprechaun
Who makes the water run.
He takes the bubbles out
And smokes a green cigar.
He carries a box with wrenches,
Ratchets, nostrums, and pipes.
His buttocks drag his footsteps.
He never leaves a trace.
He steals virgin dreams
And fornicates with drains.
He doesn't like to enter
Where no one is there.
His business is with people.
He makes things work all right,
But never look him in the eye.

16.

An old man slowly
Carries a seabag
Across the rainslick street.
A singing lady strolls in oblivion.
A boy steals his morning paper.
A red-haired curiosity
Drops out her window
When reaching for the sun.
Death pulls a dark shade
Over her rainbow-tattooed arm.

I can imagine life
As a circle of steam.
Charon carrying us
Forth through froth.
Is that hand dead
That used to turn
The stained spigot
Mouth to mouth?
Great hairy fingers
Cork the spout.

17.

A woman in Everyday Town
Walked through life with pocketed hands
To hide the scars of her toil.
Her glory was in the word.

She looked at love
With the enthusiasm
Of a grave digger.
Emptiness flooded her mind
Like a broken water main.
And on the day of remembrance
A crowd of curious seekers
Wondered why slashed wrists
Evolved into washed dishes.

Perhaps this is why
The poet silenced
The spoken word
With a broken sword.

18.

It is said that
In Old China
The doctor got paid
As long as people
Stayed healthy
It is said that
In New China
People no longer
Call an herbalist
If they get in
A car accident.
Charlie Chan said
"Theory is like mist
on eyeglasses
That obscures facts."

19.

The sullen man sits
In silence and eats
As if he's expecting
The phone to ring.
Sitting upright
And chewing deliberately,
He holds his fork
To his head
Like a revolver.
He's as animated
As a steamed mussel.
His shell is open
But his game is closed.
No cards to deal,
He meditates on
The gambler's mantra,
"You can't lose it
If you don't play it."

On Wednesday night
He peels and eats shrimp.
He goes to the pub and
Drinks two-dollar pints.
He sucks the end
Of his knife and jabs
It in the spaces
Between his teeth.
He is all shadow.
Always beside himself.

23.

The Madonna works in an insane asylum
Where patients have immaculate stigmatas
And crucify themselves on a clothesline pole.
Sympathy being the greatest need,
The Madonna is weak from the rapture of worry.

Since age is a parent's reminder for compassion,
She thinks each demented face is her Father's.
She loves her halo the way a child loves a hula hoop,
Her symbol of whirling-dervish dependence.
She understands the wounds of paranoia
And pampers the hysteria of rugged crosses,
Cross purposes, and crossing bridges
When she comes to them.

The Madonna directs this stage
Of hallucination by the revealed script.

24.

She says he plays with her like a cat
Because she doesn't know the meaning
Of a simple caress.
He wonders if she too is playing,
An innocent girl trying to grow up
And he is the experiment.
Today she wears sandals and a slip.

Tomorrow, wanting to upstage the bride,
She'll wear a strapless gown with highest heels.
She will be the first to lurch for the bouquet
And shock her married friends
By joining them in the security of sameness.

30.

There is graffiti on the wall
Beneath Juliet's window,
And it doesn't say,
"Wherefore art thou Romeo?"
The assassins are in the street
Where video game players
Want to show off their joysticks.
"SKATEBOARD"
is spray painted
On old Italian stone.
What does a sick writer
say at a time like this?
He says, "There will be two
Kids coming up for lemonade."
Then he writes a love note
And hands it to the bartender
For a cold pint of beer.
Bombs go off in the street.
The palm reader says,
"I told you so."
She looks at the peanut eaters
And asks them for their shells.
The writer composes a poem
With his blood.
The mockers with hearts
As sensitive as high-interest loans
Do not recognize such work.

31.

Into the morning mist
I walk the beach
And wait for sunrise
Warmth to straighten
My slumped shoulders,
To soften the tension
Of tormented thoughts.
I stop, sit, and stare
At the melting mist.
A crab crawls
Along the sand
And is grabbed
By a seagull.
I feel the folly
In trying to determine
My next move
With any certainty.

32.

Mortality becomes
Acutely apparent
When the man who owns
Too many books
Begins to realize
That he cannot read them all.
He opens the first
Volume of Proust's
Remembrance of Things Past,
A tome timed
To concentrated effort.
Alas, the reader
Rests and rusts.
He stagnates as the books
Become titled decorations.

33.

The urge to write
Overwhelms him
Like an epileptic fit.
He is at the mercy
Of larger forces.
He has no control.
He gives in to the pulse
0f crushing waves.
Thoughts pound and throb
At his eyes and ears.
He chews salal,
And saliva fills his mouth.
His stomach is cramped.
He reels and sinks
To the ecstatic form
Of wind-blown foam
Spreading like the turning tide.
The artist's madness
Submits to the struggle,
Lives without thoughts of success.
But society promotes
Gloomy personalities
Pursuing their passionless jobs
With the energy of sloths,
Except when engaged
In sex and war.
When Dalton Trumbo wrote
Johnny Got His Gun
He was talking about both.

34.

Cramped by the crowd
Of flying nuns in Dublin,
He turned to find solace
In one flitting fruit fly.
Scraped chairs cleared
His mind, and death
Ran fast in pursuit.
A priest promised the
Possibility of perfection.
He thought about this
Altered state and felt
Lost in the freedom
Of believing in disbelief.

The flying nuns closed in,
And his three piece
Suit smothered him
Like Henry Vlll's codpiece.
He tried to escape.
He followed the fruit fly
And took a leap of faith.
He landed in the
Bosom of bondage
Housed in a mini-skirted
Missionary cruising
Pubs along the Liffey.

35.

Love is not an exit.
The flesh never fulfills itself
Without the mind.
A Mendelssohn concerto
Rattles the window.
Outside tattered advertisements
Flutter in an empty concession stand.
Hunched over the bar
Like a praying mantis,
She licks her arm
And says, "I never thought
I'd become one of these people."
Where it began is like asking
Why the lone wolf sits
Howling in the clearcut's
Full moon reflection.

36.

He chained the Madonna,
Clipped her nimbus,
And called Christ a bastard.
That's how he came
To terms with God.
He lived in a world of phantoms
Where love would not penetrate
The most blasphemous heart.
His spontaneous awareness
Was that greedy survival
Is a fool's paradise.

37.

Why did they burn the intimate
Autobiography of Byron?
Why did they torch the bordello
Drawings of Degas?
The morals squad disdains
The artist whose only
Nation is the imagination.
Conflagrations come and go
Trying to burn Michelangelo.
Yet the power of art
Defies each auto-da-fé.
When Percy Bysshe Shelley
Was cremated on a pyre,
It was Byron who plucked
His heart from the fire.

I dream that my art is,
Like the panels at Isfahan,
Filled with ornament,
An arabesque circling
Back on itself in a
Fantastic mosaic
Framed by death.

39.

Now Dvorak begins
To sound like Liszt.
As I sit by the window,
My coffee cup steams.
Her red umbrella opens,
Hiding her face.
A fire truck roars,
And it's siren sounds
Just as she tells
Me she won't return,
Be around anymore.
Because of the fire truck
Roar and siren sound,
I pretend not to hear.
She doesn't seem to
Want to repeat herself.
So I decide not to ask.
I feel like the black remains
Of a burned-down house.
She leans forward and leaves
Like a wind-driven leaf.
I blow on the coffee
And watch the children
In their rainbow colors.
Are they my clarity,
Or are they my illusion?

40.

The man on the right is always right.
But don't neglect the stop signs.
Your infinity has no place outside your room.
Don't crowd for space in the limited firmament.
Watch for the speeding realms of new ignorance.
Prepare to advance upon knowledge of yourself.
Let the racing moon hunters chase
This atmosphere into the next.
Let them expound upon the known.
What you know about love in the dark
Is better than the light of all their lies.

41.

I heard her grumble from the couch,
"He's not paying attention.
He's dwelling on the past."
She was right, of course.
I was wondering about the woman
Who had written me years ago
About being in a saloon on a
Blackfoot Reservation where
a couple of Indian squaws
Wrestled and tore each other's
Hair on the tobacco-stained floor.
She said it only lasted a few
Minutes because the cops
Came and broke it up and told
Her that she looked too young,
Innocent, and white for the place.
She ended her letter by telling me,
"I have never quite adjusted
Normally to my role as a girl.
If it's a man's world,
Then I don't see why I can't
Partake of it like a man."

50.

From the couch she said,
"There aren't any bars on
Indian reservations, so if
You're going to dwell on the past,
Why don't you get it right?"
She was right again, of course.
I fumbled through my past
And found the letter.
The bar was in Blackfoot and
Here is what the woman wrote:

"Man, do you want something
Fascinating, it's a bar.
See, the Fort Hall Indian Reservation
Begins just outside the city limits,
And the bucks and squaws
And all the young kids, too,
Go get drunk on weekends.
Blackfoot has about twice as many
Saloons proportionately as the law
Allows, so this was an Indian bar.
Poker tables just like Cézanne
With a Wild West flavor."

Who was she? I can't remember.
Where did we meet? Don't know.
She brushed me off like love lint.
She said that our incompatibility,
At least from her standpoint,
Came from the difference in
The nature of our arts.
Here is what the woman wrote:

"You must admit that you are~
Shall we say~bohemian and
That I am not, and this gives
Me a feeling of conflicted values.
My roots go too deeply into
The sod of this country where
I was born and reared and
To which I have returned.
All the naturalism, realism,
Earthiness, homeliness,
Even the conservative."

I put the letter away and sat
On the couch as deflated as
A blown bag of potato chips.
Old age set in when she,
Getting up, told me that it
Was always good to get
The facts right first before
I began to distort them.
I told her that she was
Misquoting Mark Twain.
Then we got out the cribbage
Board and returned
To keeping score.

43.

Too late the knotted rope
Missed the falling man,
And the horse strangled
On a death sentence.

Where in the Old West
Has a rotted tree trunk
Smelled of a sea song
Torn from a swollen tide?

44.

Sweating in Sienna
Covered with flies,
He drools lamb fat.
His gidouille belly
Shakes Jarry jelly.
He dreams magpies
And boar heads.
He barely breathes.
With his long nose
And loose jowls,
He could be taken
For Père Ubu or
A stuffed pelican.

45.

Is it a painting or
A Joycean rhythm
I see running together?
Or is it my stricken eye?

The Russians ruined Shostakovich.
Socialist realism nationalized Prokoviev.
And Colin Wilson gave us cause to worry
By becoming the insider to The Outsider.
Then art critics served up glop to the beer hall
Of bumbling, burping, and barfing masses.
History has never qualified anyone to define art.
The process is subjective mud in a useless eye.

46.

My friend, the hebephrenic,
Wrote me a letter when
Her lover, the Rilke scholar,
Committed suicide.
She quoted Rilke, who said,
"We are so filled from the start
That nothing can be added."
She wrote that All exists everywhere,
That we experience parts of the All
As we let go of everything to which
We cling consciously and allow
The energy--the Existence--to
Come to our conscious level.
More than that, to be aware
In body as well as spirit.

She quoted Rilke, who said things
"Enter into us only as with rays--
The ring on my hand can no more
Enter into us than the farthest stars."
She wrote that she believed things
Enter us, that the reality of
Everything is the unseen
Energy that we consciously will.
Think how Things among which
We live disappear after a time
But we always keep their effect,
Their comfort, and at our most
Alive most intense moments
The seen part of things has
No existence except for
Our revered reaction to them.

She said, "I write this from what
You call my 'electric oneness.'
This oneness and the ever-growing
Inner awareness is my evidence
Of these truths."

47.

She walks by
And smiles.
He smiles.
They do not speak.
He wants to
But hesitates.
She passes on.
He, of course,
Turns to gaze a
Sorry afterthought.
Now he stands
With hands
In pockets
Dumb.
Thinking what
He should
Have said.
But knows
He won't
If she walks by
And smiles again.

48.

When their friends moved
To the Great Wadi,
He said, "Their lives
Will become a mirage."
She said "Reality will
Follow them there."
He said, "I don't understand."
She said, "Of course you don't.
You've never dealt with reality."

49.

The doorbell rings.
It's the postman.
He hands me an envelope
That turns out to contain
A bonanza check.
While I am glorifying
In this unexpected fortune,
Still standing in the
Entryway by the door,
The bell rings again.
The postman forgot
To give me the second
Piece of mail, a letter
From a young lover
Who has decided
To prosecute me for
Statutory rape after all.

50.

She wrote that she loved me
And sent her health to aid me
And told me that my painting
Enlightened her life.

She also wrote that her life
With me had a lack that
She was now filling.
She said that leaving me
Opened her to the excitement
Of seeing unimaginable things
And being completely free.

Yet this very freedom was
Contradicted in her marriage.
She wrote that it took away
Much of the wildness of
Living because she was not
Alone to feel something
Completely--there was always
The other person to deal with.
She found that her thoughts
And feelings were directed
By the moods of her husband.
She said this kept her from
Letting loose of the feeling
She had inside.

Her letter rambled on
Until she wrote that she
Can never express what is
Happening so she wouldn't
Continue because somehow
She could never shake loose
Of a kind of vagueness.
The last line of her letter
Said, "Only if I were alone
On a grain diet do I think
I could become clear."

51.

We applaud a singular
Voice rising from the
Depths of repression,
Like that of Alexander
Solzhenitsyn in Russia.
Yet we remain dumb to
Our own support of
Fascism throughout
The rest of the world.


We expected Solzhenitsyn's
Protest work to be the
Creative minority
In the Soviet Union.
But the voice of protest
Is rare in our so-called
Land of free expression.
Morally, we should see
The artist's outcry against
Inhumanity in the majority.
There comes a time
When art must
Transcend and transform
This cultural condition.
But it will not happen
Because most artists
Are prostitutes pimped
By a society based on a
Capitalist doctrine of
Monetary success.
Grotesque antiwar art
Threatens the artist's
relationship with the
Collective marketplace.

Complacency in art
Today reveals a void
That should be filled
With visionary outrage.

52.

I see words standing around
Just outside my mind like
Trees waiting for a chainsaw.
But when I look again
There are only stumps
Etched against the sea.
The fog rolls in, dissolving
Those words into Dunsinane
Driftwood in my head.

The ocean rolls in on
brain waves tossing my
Thoughts like glass floats.
The sea spray becomes
A corrosive cloud that
Grips my neck crab-like
To hold shadows of
Despair in the dark air.

53.

She left a note on my door
That read, "I stopped by
Twice today and I have
to leave tomorrow. If you
Have anything to vibrate
Please filter through the
Address in Idaho.
Stop and dig me out of
The hole if you are
Really insane enough
To be in that locality."

That locality was
The state mental asylum.
She had flown the coop
With a pilot she'd met
On leave and landed at
My underground room.
When I found her, she
Was wearing nothing but
A pink nightgown.
She told me that she
Had tried quietly to cut
Out on everything and
Was successful
(The ultimate failure)
And was taken away.

She said it was both
An interesting and
Unpleasant experience.
(The whole schmeer)
"You'll like it here, dear."
"I didn't. Funny farms
Are not funny."

She lay on my cot like
A crazy chrysalis.
She said, "I ran away
While on probation.
I asked her, "Why?" and
She said, "Because
They would only release
Me when they believed I
Was rational and harmless."

She left in the morning
With her pilot friend
And returned to the
Idaho State Asylum.
She wrote, "As a result
Of my cooperation,
A NEW IMAGE has
emerged from the ]
Depths murky, namely
I've stopped building
Prefabricated bird's nests
And am now working as
A legal secretary, which
Is boring bread but
Impresses the local gurus."
She referred to herself
As my "poor but
Honest Benefactress."

Her P.S. confirmed her
Return to sanity.
"Immediately upon arrival
Here, I painted one of the
basement walls vermilion
To hang your galactic
Painting on. It Worried Them."

54.

She wrote me a poem
After they'd taken
Her off Thorazine:

"My Buddha is naked.
How can you have an
Eternal look when
Your penis is hard?
I have been trying
To draw him.
He just smiles."

61.

Spontaneity in art is like
Working for Jesus
In a sweat shop.
All the glory of being
There is ripped by
A threaded bar code.

Where are the
Good Samaritans
When the cane of
Able-bodied screams
Echo truth through
Exploding microphones?

Defiant to the end,
The dying man offers
Flowers of folly
To the followers.
"Drop in some dirt and
Dig deep for dreams,"
He shouts as they
Shovel him under.

Often the living are
Mistaken for the dead.
Waiting can sometimes
Seem like the grand
Demise of patience,
When the emotional side
Of every wall hides like
Ivy in league with our
Torture-chambered hearts.

62.

When it became
Obvious that we
Were incompatible,
She told me that
If art requires pain,
There is plenty
In the world to feed it
Without the personal
Agony of the artist
Being necessary
To fuel the fires.
Misery may trigger
The creative process,
But it eventually
Smothers the flame
Of passion
Needed to sustain
Such creativity.

As I left the room,
I  suggested a
Contradiction in
Those remarks.
Her favorite artist
Was Van Gogh,
A man so full of
Pain that he cut
Off his ear in
Despair of ever
Finding love.
I told her that if
Van Gogh were
In the room instead
Of me, she would
Run screaming
Down the street.

She said,
"Yes, but he's dead."

63.

We camped out at a place
With white rocks, and
He took me to a spot
Where we could swim.
We climbed nude up on
An overgrown road
Then hopped down a
Steep bank to the rocks
That lined the stream's edge.
We leaped from rock
To rock and walked on
The other side to a place
Near the waterfall.

A long time we just stood
Resting, listening, and
Watching the waterfall
Come down over
The jutting rock.
The rock came out flat
From the hillside so
That the water ricocheted
Off it and shot down.
But the thing I loved best
Was cooking over a real fire.
I made potato salad and
Spaghetti and the pressure
Cooker blew up and
Sprayed steam all over him.

64.

They put him in prison
Because some punks
Decided to play "Let's
Get the queer" and
Accused him of
Contributing to their
Sexual delinquency.
The night the inmates
Burned the prison down,
He tried to protect the
Library he had built
With the bricks
Of his own books.
He stood in the doorway
With a leather-bound
Edition of Trollope's
Barchester Towers
In his helpless hand.
Unable to stop the riot,
He wept stirring the
Ashes of Thackeray's
The Age of Wisdom
And wrote a poem.
"For what unholy
Symbol do they dance,
These writhing, leaping
Creatures on the ground?
See how they bound and
Twist and prance before
The image of their
Love or hate!
What can it be, that
Wretched flickering shape
Upheld against the midnight
Moon in horrid revelry?"

65.

He felt that he had lived
The life of enough John Updike
Stories about dysfunctional
Families that he could be
A mirror image of the
Stuffed goose of grief.
He often went to bed
Wondering why a walk alone
On the beach was better
Than a stroll with his lover.
Not that this was all that
Unusual because most
Couples survive their
Differences by deciding they
Both suffer the same.
And they smile at strangers
And pretend with friends--
So they seem solid
And predictable--But this
Circle of engaged bliss
Was coming apart.
The ball of sunrise sunset
Serenity began to glow
Like radioactive dust
In his date with destiny.
He looked at his lover
With the eyes of an enemy.
He became a sharpshooter
Of sarcasm and wondered
Why he wanted to hurt her.
He realized the answer lay
In the fact that if married
He would never be more
Than a piece of paper mate.

66.

Somewhere in the theater
Somewhere in the fog...
I find myself wondering
Where
I gave myself as a woman
Up to the flames
Of his love
Never to be freed,
Unselfishly
Declaring him all
And yet
Unable to give
Myself to him.
Waiting to frighten me,
He holds back, waits,
Forcing me to admit
My fear of him,
My desire for him,
My love for him
Withheld for him
Given for him.
In silent worship
I would sit
At his feet
In awe.
Above me
He bares my dreams,
Holds them high.

67.

She told me that she was
Still living through and on
The Magic Mountain.
She felt there was something
Uncanny in the way Mann
Makes the reader experience
Time as if the reader were
Living at the sanatorium.
She was in awe of the way
Thomas Mann's ideas live,
Grow, ping pong, sally forth,
And feed each other,
But she felt Hans Castorp
Was too much, though
Fascinating in his mediocrity--
Like mediocrity pushed
To its farthest limit.
Just before she died, she
Stopped smoking and
Became addicted to
Pine brothers' Cough Drops,
Cherry and honey.

68.

So what can you say about me?
You can say I like
Bottles and silhouettes,
Laughter and sailing.
You can say
I have no career,
Get giddy with the details
And richness of life.
You can say I am
Depressed by injustice,
Suffering and bigotry.
You can say I have
Taken lots of academic
Courses and learned
Little from them.
You can say I have nice hands.

69.

I just can't get
What I want to say down
On paper and often feel like
Mallarmé, overcome by the
Virgin whiteness before me.
In fact, I am being seized
By questions and ideas that
Need words and development
And sounds......I would never
Wish to be Gertrude Stein,
But I would wish to write
As she did, putting a unique
Essence of everyone's
Growing-up into one sentence
Or else life pours out in her words
And funny times and people.
I always know exactly what
She means, but I wouldn't
Think to put it that way.
After I read something by her,
Then I write like her--
But then it goes.


70.

But ah--you best
Watch!
You best guard--
There is something you do,
And you can still do it!
Beware--don't sleep.
Don't let us drain you.
Do not associate with
Squandering weakness.
You laugh!...Don't laugh.
Do something--
Not nothing
Like the rest of us.

Foam moves,
Tumbles.
A new wave
Is here.
You have it--
Only you.
Yes--you are mean,
And I love it.
I love you.
Change the curse
To beauty.
Be beauty!
And say,
"I hope that I meet
Another like you."
And I say,
"You have."

71.

In the hot, sick night
Of red wine and no food
I begin to feel a full truth
Of the man in the mirror.
Who deceives whom?

My Mercedes overheated
In downtown Birmingham
And blew coolant onto
An optometrist's window.
"Seeing is Believing"
Slowly slipped down the
Good looking glass.
Only then did I realize that
The lettering was painted on
The outside of the window.

I was too tired to ask, "Why?"
As I handed the police
My expired "You're in
Good hands" insurance card.
This was just part of not trying
To experience something new.

But I don't care about that
As I have to lean
Against a mulberry tree
And watch my loneliness
In the light of mating fireflies.

72.

The sea bird dives
A diagonal line through
Frames of fractured trees,
A slash in the forest's face,
A streaming scar
broken by the wind.
A dancing shadow in the sky,
It spreads its wings
And soars above the sea,
Stifling the sun.

73.

Her words
Flow
Without analysis
Like
The mountain
Run off.

While she talks
Of suicide,
I watch
Dandelions
Close.

Her vision
Distorts
The moon
Seen through
Moving clouds
As she turns
Toward
The horizon
Of silver snags
Spiking
The night.

74.

Ibert's Ports of Call
Stabs a warm knife
Of sound into
The frozen chamber
Of my inner ear.
Something incoherent
Was shouted
 From within
But lies like a tadpole
In the jelly-ooze
Of afterbirth.
Claritas has crept
Into the hibernation
Of slow thinking.

Ibert's Ports of Call
Becomes the sugar left in
The bottom of my bourbon.
A slush of sound circles
My ears till the echo
Argues that the
Best part
Of a record is where
The needle sticks.

75.

I am suddenly
The Good Soldier Schweik
Filling in all the forms
To their most literal
And ultimate extremes.
One question asked if
I had ever been in love.
I wrote that
I had been in love
For seven hours once
Then fled to the
Doctor with an infection.

Perhaps this was what
Anais Nin meant when
She asked D. H. Lawrence
What those experiences were
That his friends
Could not enter with him?

76.

The waves pound wet fists
Upon an empty beach.
A rabbit sits in its last hop
Listening to loneliness--
A shoe-squeak
Splitting the sea song.

77.

Art is a
Snorting,
Solar stallion,
The artist a
Fallen rider,
His foot hooked
In the stirrup.
He is dragged
Across the
Universe,
His head
Bouncing
Off the stars.


78.

Uncle Joe drank
So much when
He became feeble
That he had no
Strength to hold
The bottle up.
He would spill
The booze from
Out his toothless
Mouth and down
His hairless chin.
One drunk day
He stuck his
Tongue out so
Far trying to
Reach the gin
On his chin that
He broke his neck.


79.

All the warriors wear black.
They walk like double shadows.
This morning their chants
Cling to the clang of bells,
Sonorous offerings for
The dead martyr's journey.

He lies with gloved hands
Frozen to the bloody spear
broken off in his chest.
How like a snuffed-out candle
Looks this deep driven lance.


80.

We sit down to banquet
And worry because
We do not impress
The politically pompous
With our correct cuisine.
We suffer humiliation
When full plates
Face empty stares
At our table of excess.

Unseen, the starving
And dispossessed seek
Shelter from suffering.
We could share with them,
But they remain invisible
Until their bombs of rebellion
Shock us aware.


81.

Sam said he used
To give them hell
In Omaha.
He put the drunks
In jail and would
Often take
Advantage of
A girl who wore
Glass slippers
In his squad car.
He said he wasn't
A bad man
Because once,
In uniform,
He drove her fifty
Miles to the
Garden of the Gods,
Poured champagne
Into her slippers,
Said a toast,
And played bongos
For her as
The sun came up.
He was a cop
With a beat.

82.

Tap your feet
And clap your hands.
It's time for Schubert's
Syphilis Symphony.
The conductor stands
Above the headless
Statue and tells
The audience to smile
And look at one another.
Play the first movement
Only, please, because
Mendelssohn couldn't
Find a thing to cut
 From this great
Symphony of Death.
A woman looks at
Me and smiles.
The Grim Reaper
Is reflected in her eyes.
Soon they will
Burn the Wicker Man.


83.

He'd seen too many
True believers
Act like lost dogs
In  dense fog
Listening to the
Clicking clots
Of Christ's blood
Stuck like gravel
In their tires.
The Lord couldn't
Drive them home.

How soon does
Belief become
Fanaticism?
Ask the folks
Who have their
Photos taken
With the statue
Of pissing Jesus
Just after they
Are told life
Only flows one way.


84.

Yellow star ornament
On a red fire extinguisher
Starts to burn beneath
The green Exit sign.
All the people in
Black suits hold
Their water bottles
Like unpinned grenades.
Laughter erupts
Instead of flames.
What's going on here?

An open window
Frames a pianist
Beside a bass drum.
Red umbrellas collapse.
A blue rocking chair filled
With children overturns.
The wind intensifies.
A perfumed sculptor
Fashions fans that
Stir gray germs.
What a great afternoon!

85.

A journey of a
Thousand miles
Begins with a
Single misstep.
So, don't just
Do something.
Sit there.

86.

He thought it
Too bad that
The insidious
Tentacles of
Her "path"
Or better put
"Labyrinth"
Had to extend
Into her
Private life.

 From personal
Experience,
He recalled
That he was
Never content
With involving
Himself.
He had to
Spread the
Lie over
Anyone he
Could when
It came to
"The path."

His "labyrinth"
Was a surface
Spirituality
As obvious as
Rattles grafted
On a dachshund
Or legs sewn
On a snake.

87.

Yes, there it is,
That greener grass
You were always
Looking for...
And it is greener, eh?

Follow the primary
Rainbow and in the end
You'll find the other
Side is about as
Exciting as your
Colorless values.

What do you want
To change,
Your all right
To no, never?

88.

What I fear most
Is to become outside
Of the outsider, to be
What I do not
Wish to be.
It is easy to do,
To drift into something
That is not you.

I Keep a wary eye out
For that which
Is not real.
Like quicksand my
Mind is sucked
Down drowning
Inside while
Life revolves
Around itself
Like a gyroscope.

Back to standing
On the beach,
Staring at the sea,
Waiting for that
Whimper which
Signifies something,
Alert to the cry of
A seagull as if
It were a signal.


89.

Too much external
Noise drowns out
The inner dialogue.
No time today for
Anything but
Exigencies and
Primal existence.

Once again we
Stand on that
Forlorn shore
Waiting Godot-less
For another freak
To step out of
The ocean and
Lead us to truth
And other vagaries.

All our words are
Lost in flames
And must begin
Again out of the
Ashes from which
A phoenix rises
And runs
Squawking off
Into the woods.

Snickering, some
Cavemen come
Grunting along,
Snipe bags in hand.
They trap
The wild galoot.

90.

Out of the crying dark,
He came that night.
Humankind clung to
The bard's skeleton
Which was the world.

And he did wrest
The rotting flesh
 From this soul
To be made whole
In a world reborn.

91.

There is no Acrisius to psychoanalyze,
Nor an Argo to send Lemnian earth
To make poultice for the plague.
But there is still the hand of Danae
Reaching for the prophecy of Apollo.
And there is still the Black Death
Denying her hope in a prison of greed.
And here am I to witness the myth
Like a catalyst, like an alchemist
As the gods conceive with gold sperm
First a Perseus, then a Christ,
Now the infant of my oracular soul.
The lunar hour of the owl is near.
He has joined forces with the troll.
As one they hoot warnings from Delphi.
They control the bridges of Styx.
I hear naught but "Danae"  "Danae."
When will I know of your successor?

92.

It was almost over
Before it began:
The blaze erupted
So fast it was as if
Someone had slung
A sack of dynamite
Into Walden Pond
And reduced my
Journals to dust
And ashes,
Dissolved by rain,
Returning to wind
And earth--muck
For ghoul boots.
My words became
Past participles
Of that fantastic
Nightmare scenery.
Perhaps little plants
Will sprout from
My vegetating verbs.
I am cramped
With life spent
At a gypsy pace
Without the music.

Sometimes disaster
Consists of a
Fumbled spoon,
Or two struggling
Starfish clinging
Together in seaweed.
I hear that drummer
We all hear across
The void keeping time
To thoughts that
Ache to be, but are
Too garbled, I fear.
I once ordered a bowl
Of words like cornflakes,
Ate them and asked
For more, but soon
Wearied of them and
Drove to the bay
To throw them away
But could not find
A place to park.

So what burned up
Is beside the point.
It's still there.
The old fire just
Spilled over one day
And devoured my
Words, but not me.
Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho.

93.

Old Zebedee, your name
Rings with cold laughter
Concerned with
Nothing but fish.
The deluge comes
To wash away the barley
Of poor farmers today.
And you have no pity?
Zebedee, there stands
The cross where bronze
Centurions pay gypsies
For zealots' blood.
Zebedee, the Messiah
Is next upon that cross
And we have to mend
The wombs of nets.

94.

We have smelt the crucified
For an eternity now
And have felt only fanatics
With unclipped hair
Dead with holes in their
Emaciated fasts to God.

We are sick of Messiahs
Crowding our asylums,
Shouting for the cross
To bear them to paradise
While we feed their pocked
Faces with taxed corn.

95.

A man In Africa wears
Leopard skin shoes
And sings with arrow
Heads in his mouth.
Do not disturb him.
He is on a mission.
He wants to save
Your soul from the
Impulsive desires
Of the masturbating
Monkey god.

96.

Hanging on a card
In the bathroom:
"Open-mouthed children
Lap up milk on the heels
Of disaster reflected on
The ripples of a spoon."

There is no motion
In Buddha's
Meaningless smile.
Have a cup of tea.

Old spirit tree,
I wonder how you
Cling to earth
With roots exposed.
Is your center holding
Fast despite the sea's
Ever changing attack?
Now surrounded by
Rusted rock, you
Embrace layered logs
Left by the high tide.
Your trunk bleeds
Pitch where lovers
Carved a heart deep
Into your torn bark.
You lean toward
The sea while you
Grasp the land with
One last link to life,
A gnarled, withered
Root tamped deep
Into the soil like
A stick of dynamite
Ready to explode.

Don't look for yourself
When the flowers bloom.
Smell first; search later.

99.

St.-John Perse wrote
About the sea in marks
Still visible in the
Sand of time.
He would not groan
At such a platitude.
Instead, he would walk
You along the shore
Of serenity and speak
Of transcendent love
That wills itself to
Hold tight against
The high tide and
East wind the way
The aged spruce links
Surf with sound and
breeze with breath.

100.

Regulated agony
Is a discipline
That depresses desire.
Some cannot survive
Without it.
Like jellyfish
Molded to a fishnet,
They cannot let go.

101.

He was on the
bridge when his
Thoughts turned
To Kant's theory
That if you stayed
Home long enough,
The world would
pass your door.

But he was not
Staying home long
Enough to prove
This for himself.
He merely moved
Through life as if
Life stood still and
He was passing by.

The threshold was
Where he stood.
Looking down at
The water flowing
Beneath the bridge,
He watched the sun
Sink as the stream
Flowed over his
Rippling reflection.

He saw his face
As life passed by
And wondered if this
Was the same stream
Heraclitus said we
Can't step in twice?
Clutching the railing,
He felt he understood
The old Zen saying,
"Every step of the
Journey is the journey."

102.

I saw a woman with
Deep green eyes
Rub her full red lips
With dung beetle juice.
She was in love with
A Samurai sword
Which she kissed
And turned to rust.

103.

Leaves danced
In that shady
Area of creativity
Where Tschaikovsky
Lived when he was
Conducting his
Sleeping Beauty.
Instead of turning pages,
He had to hold his head
To keep it from falling off
Like fruit from a
Loose-limbed tree.

Tschaikovsky's baton
Jumped in his hand
Like a shadow puppet.

104.

Recall the dictum
Of Nietzsche that
Only thoughts
Conceived while
Walking are
Worthwhile, and
Remember that
Haiku is the art
Of knowing
When to stop.


105.

The Leader spread his
Nation's wealth among
His friends and said,
"This is good because
Our combined riches
Will fall like water
To the less fortunate."

The less fortunate
Were unaware of
This lofty promise
Because they were
Too busy trying
To pull themselves
Up by their bootstraps
When they didn't
Even have shoes.

The Leader said,.
"Count your blessings,"
As he ate from his
Full plate of plenty.
Those with bare feet
Ran over cobblestones
As if they had hooves.

106.

When his wife died,
He was repairing
A pendulum clock.
He was thinking of
The significance of
That when he was
Walking the beach
Near the large rock.

This is where he and
His wife used to walk.
And when he saw the
Puffins burst from their
Burrows and crevices,
He started to cry.
A couple turned,
He thought, to help him.
He  extended his arm
And told them
He would be all right.

These tourists, from Japan,
Put a camera in his hand
And had him take their
Picture by the rock.
He felt the pendulum
Of the absurd swing
Back to strike and dull
The sharp edge of his grief.

107.

Sitting at a table outside
The small cantina in the
Hill town of Cipressa, Italy,
I sipped pastis in a tall,
Thin glass and watched
The boats below sail
In the Mediterranean.
Through the eucalyptus
Trees I listened to the
Bells in the old stone
Cathedral clash against
The clacks of wooden
Bocce balls and the
Curses of after-work
Players at their passion.
Here, I thought, is where
The humanist Holberg
Could have written,
"If a man learns theology
Before he learns to be
A human being, he will
Never be a human being."

108.

She slipped from my
Arms as though she were
Escaping from a noose.
Then she said she'd like
To cross a cockroach
With a watermelon
So when she cut it
Open all the seeds
Would scurry away.

109.

She wrote me from the
home for unwed mothers
About an encounter she
Had with an old man at
A drugstore bookrack
While waiting for her bus.

She said he asked her,
"Are you working hard?"
He was very heavy and
had long, white hair.
He was dressed in
Dirty bib overalls and
Was wearing a hardhat.
He told her he was
Looking for a nonfiction
Book and then started
Talking about certain
Groups of geometrically
Formed rocks and
Probable theories about
How they were formed.

She said he told her
About certain fossils
And carbon dating.
Any book he picked up
He could tell her about.
He told her that modern
Literature was patterned
After medieval myths.
He said he believed
That all forms of writing,
Even scientific theories,
Were man's superstitions.

She said he knew the
Latest weapons of war,
Even of a top-secret
Light gun that was under
Control of the Pentagon.
He quoted figures, such
As the speed of light,
Depth of the earth, and
The beginning of man,
With no effort at all.

She said he looked old
And uneducated but she
Knew he was brilliant; so
When he asked her to
Have a Coke with him,
She said she would.
Then he told her that
Lots of young women
Had old men for friends
Because they are less
Active and don't want it
All the time and wouldn't
Get them pregnant.
She said she couldn't
Tell me all the other
Things he said, but now
She knows he's a liar.

110.

She fucked many men
But took pleasure from just one--
A whore's faithfulness.

111.

I dreamed you were
Reading James Joyce's
Chamber Music to me
As I stood pissing onto
A mirror in the commode.
You stopped reading and
Said I looked like Joyce
In the mirror's reflection.
I said, "Stephen Daedalus.
Sea fun dead, alas!"
"Alas!" kept splattering.

112.

She held out her hand
And cried, "Help me!"
With the other she
Held the white, wet
Face of her baby
Hooked to the handle
Of her bruised arm.
"Coppers, Mister,
Coppers!" she pleaded.
Lines of rain ran dirty
Patterns on the head
Of her crying child.

This was Dublin, where
Wives staged their
Poverty to beg enough
to buy pints of Guinness
For their drunk husbands.

113.

The woods exploded in
Balls of fire when the
Sneak storm slid over
The hill like a snake.
The logger felt sparks
Shoot from his cork
Boots and watched
Blue flames stream
 From his fingers on
The crosscut saw.

He said he drove
Himself to the hospital
On this muggy day
In his battered pickup
With the 2/60
Air conditioner.
When asked what
That was, he laughed
And said, "I opened
2 windows and drove
60 miles an hour."

114.

The Buddhist saw the stream
Of life stretching in an ever
Present flow that distanced
Itself from the concept of self.
So,
If the whole is a sum of its parts,
Then the parts themselves are
Wholes with parts of themselves
Connected to everything else.
Thus,
The future becomes the past
The moment we begin
Thinking about the present.

115.

The man who looks like
The trunk of a tree stands
Barking doggedly at police
Who stare back at him
Like chainsaws ready to
Clearcut his wetland dream.

116.

White cat in new cut
Hay watches black spider spin
Into its small day.

117.

The poet stood staring at
The wind whipped waves,
Hoping that their fractals
Would be an inspiration.
He feared his fallow
Imagination had been
Ensorcelled; therefore
He clutched his crotch,
The way Italians do,
To ward off the evil eye.

He was tired, felt impotent,
And thought everything he
Knew had nothing to do with
Anything that really mattered.
He watched pelicans soar
Through surging sea spray.
Then he started talking
To himself and realized he
Was listening to a stranger.

118.

Years later, when she
Discovered he had
Never been a father,
She wrote and told him
That the role of Mother
Is easily slipped into,
Makes all its own reasons,
Needs no lame justifications.
Caring for those little lives
Is a great responsibility,
A fine and worthy thing.

Then she wrote that her
Children had been taken
 From her and now that
That particular garb had
Been removed, she wondered
A lot about what life is, or
Who is it that's left with what,
And why was she doing
This in the first place, not to
Mention what it was
That she was doing.

She told him that he had
Given her some of the
Happiest times in her life.
She had no words to describe
The freedom and the joy in
The universe they had
Been able to create together.
She just wanted him to know
That what he had given her
Was somewhere inside
Where she could touch it,
Feel it again, remember it.
She wrote that the white room
With soaring walls and music
Enveloping all was a place
She could go to be with him
Any time she wanted.

Years before, he had told
Her that becoming a parent
Is like building a fence:
You add onto space
That you will surround
With emptiness.

119.

He was a gentle young man who wore
A black uniform with a dog collar,
Spiked his hair, sported tattoos, and
Pierced his ears, nipples and navel.
He called himself the army of one.

Then he was pressured to give up
His outsider image and join the
Army of the many where they shaved
His head, gave him a camouflage
Uniform, and sent him to war.
In the first battle, he came under
Heavy small-arms fire and died from
More piercings to his boyish body.

After the flag was removed, folded,
And handed to his grieving family,
The government called him
Another fallen hero and said,
"Sometimes we have to have
Funerals to solve problems."

120.

Poetry reads best
When it is least.