Zero and the Seekers

			ZERO     reply to a challenge Keening, rising, whitehot   --   "I shot. Broke the pretty middle of the lace, That lovelywall Connected to the posters of my bed, Tightly. Like a killer shawl Around the neck And shoulders of my space. I broke it with my head   --   Brightly. The pattern is a wreck. And I'm sorry, father, I can't fix it now, I'm too far out. But if you Want to, I can tell you how To go about It.   Take a long and fragile thread, Tie a not, And sew a thousand tiny traps. Use them as wraps, They are guaranteed to keep you small And warm. You will never have to travel in the storm At all, not at all. Mama and Grandmama are coming with me, Though. We Have to go; There are colors to ride. I'm afraid we have let this thing slide Too long; It's all gone wrong. Let us go then, we three, While the dawn inflames the surface of the sea Like an arsonist at a barn. Let us dissolve our breath, Take a fatal frolic in a meadow made of glare And hollow death; There, go there   --   Leave the teeming, Screaming. Leave all the little human voices dreaming As they swim among the pillars of the air." Said the living, liquid weight, Heavy as years, that I think I thought I carried. Because she was and is Before mama was buried. What was the date? It was some clever spring With coiled leaves I sing. The white-trimmed, pink Hat I bought, Thin as news on paper. This Uncurled a long Time ago, I know, (The taper Of his torso to his waist, The strong Greaves.) During the war. But I should try To remember it I don't know why, Or... Just let me baste This roast Which wouldn't fit Into the pan. I had to freeze Part of it.   I knew He was a man From an other Coast. My mother Said The breeze That wineblew For him   --   This is dim   --   Was earned By a dead Girl, Probably more than one. I learned That after the thing was done. She was a purl Of great price, Did her duty. Let me put this beer Into the ice Box. No beauty, That's for sure, But a real dear: Ugly and pure, Thin and brown as an old spear. She had tended Her flocks And her own knitting, Just sitting, Unbefriended, When they took her in those hairy rocks They use for arms   --   One of their many charms   --   And started slitting her deepdeepdeep. They slit away your life, You see. Her father had a wife Who couldn't weep Ever again after. She lived happily Between her fits of laughter. What was I saying?   The shore? Won't you take Some more Coffeecake? I can only recall the story By parts, But I have it whole In my art of hearts Like the bole Of a tree.   It's about glory I believe. I didn't want to leave, But that was part of the game   --   One set built the walls around Us, and the others tore it down. It was pretty much the same With both of them.   My thighs Ground into the sand, Garlic sighs, The back of a hand, And it was all over. That's a snapshot of Dover Beach.   We vacationed there last year. A tear Or two, and they tossed us into the ships; Bruised hips And breasts, Half-dressed   --   After a while We found A way to smile At the sound They make when the beat their chests. Children came To us as we sailed. Some live, some lame. Sometimes, The ship wailed, Pregnant with noise. Internal tempest: Girls, boys, Stench, came to be. Women factored by two or three. The undivided   --   primes   --   Cared for the rest My sisters   ...  but best Was Mama's marked face, Smile worn, For she had borne Many, often and much. Such A comfort to be commonplace. When my Ceremony began I Ran Fever.   Sweat and water Poured a lake, Cast a cradle for my daughter, Sea within a sea, within a sea. Wedded By a ring of ache, Bedded With eternity, It was hard, hard; Piercing frown, Pushing down Till my face was muscle marred And twisted. I Wanted to die; She resisted. She Fought free. Beautiful as ancient lore, She was worth Living for. And pain was gone. Child and birth: Neither of nor on The earth. Once done, I was two, not one. I was glad, I might have had A son Instead; Bloodhead, Born to die.   We would live. But Mama sank into too old And had to give Way.   After the strain They buried her Between the furrows of some foreign grain. The one who 'married' her Took her gold Ring. That was the dirtiest thing They did. Let me get rid Of that dirty dish. I wish You could have seen My baby then, Before her pen Drew The blue Clean From the sky. How could I Know to be afraid Of alien perfection I had made? Ever since the caul was rent, Vacuum is her element, Energy her toy. So frail, so frail In slumber .. Almost imaginary Like a number On the upright scale. Very Far away and very pale. My joy. Silent when cross. I would toss Her on my knee Until she glittered like the sea, Laughed like a waterfall. She grew too tall. The land, the men, Wondered at her height, Took fright. Then I tried To hide Her, but they strapped her in a jet. Her winged shuttle wove a net Of stars. Now, their babies come in jars, Not ours. In their city, Handsome is as cruel Does.   No pity. Beauty is the rule That measures all things, Even kings. Such as I wielded powers From the shade In the bowers. Why wasn't it enough? She broke it from the inside, She was too rough. I nearly died Because she wouldn't wait. Why did she writhe in hate When he called me a thorny rose? I ruled a cloudy kingdom and my mate. Proud of shadows, I suppose. My hair was clean .. But she has kissed the faces Of a sunny, starry Queen, Known Graces, Become a shining-skinned Erlkind, Who draws me on. We start at dawn. I have to carry Mama's grave Who was so brave And had no rest. It's all for the best I know; She told me so, My child. That one, wild Above, I love. My mother Behind, Drawn and lined. We travel soon. You've dropped your spoon, Here's another. There's nothing to pack; I doubt that we'll be back. Ah, her voice.   The bell, You hear? She is near To have me tell You something.   She says it will be hell For you to know, and laughs and dances.   Will you take your chances? Very well, The entire Message, written in fire Above your head Said, "Click, clock, crack   --   Love is nothing but a lack. I am the only child of none; My blood is black; My bones are sun. I and the everything are one!" You cannot see her With sight, Not at that height. You have to be her In a way. Now she is burning up the day With night, scorching the sky. Scratch October, find July. What was I going to say? Something to say before I go, Or you die... Oh, I know: I love you Too. Goodbye. "A lean And sallow moon Held fasting In the crystal shell, Black bulk unseen, Soon Fell   -- Lasting No longer than An old Woman can   -- Rolled Out of sight Before the flight Began." I feel the thud In the ground. Worms pressed Into the mud Make no sound. How dull and quick The living tread Who build their nest Around the sick, Upon the dead. What do you say? Speak up please. Yes, I am quite at ease Now. Going away? Oh, There will be a travelling, I hear. How Did you know? I fear That I can't go; Too far for me. Although She Says to come, I cannot leave; Dumb As I am, It would make me scream. Dam Of God, the rocks would grieve Without the soil to cover them. I am all roots, no stem   -- Growing down. The others rise, they dream, They are apt to drown. No, I will remain. What have I to gain By such a move? I love my groove, My mud rut, Shut Tight, Softening white Rain. I am more fixed Than any star. I Am the reason why La mar Estaba tranquila.   Flesh Mixed With dirt Has no need To breathe or hurt, Is always fresh And full of seed. You should have a seat. Living feet Get tired, I know. I remember That much From fifty kids ago   .. You touch Old memories in me. But see! See how I nourish the wheat This September? At least One grain For every point in space. For them to eat, You know, with yeast And eggs.   I find They grind It in their face. I had teeth and taste Once too, Like you. But now I have no pain, No haste. I have leisure; This is my school. I would be a fool To leave my purest pleasure For some wild Steeplechase Through space, Following A child's child, Hollowing. Besides, it is too empty there, No air Or anything. Not that I breathe, or Want to sing, But What is it all for? Why Should I Cut Every string, Every tie? I would die All over Again. What would the men Do? You Understand; I would explode. Let a heavy load Of water, air and land Surround me; I want every pound Around me For safety's sake. I can't do or move or make Or speak Without it.   I am weak. Why would any creature go Into, once ex nihilo? Changeling on the asteroid, Nature never loved a void. Don't mutter Son. Yes, I was just Speaking To her.   I must Say, that's one Mouth butter Wouldn't melt in. A cold Mouth.   Why are you seeking Her?   Are you kin To us?   A bold Question:   Who Is she? If you know Enough to Ask   -- But you're the type to buy a cask Of Amontillado. We Call her Leda's Revenge. It's a private joke; You knew She broke The feather bed? A few Of us said It was about time. I disagreed, I like my bed of weed And grime. In fact, I love it. Never want to go above it. I won't be Racked Across eternity By a young Procrustes, near Relation, Or not. I'm here For the duration. I have sung My song All along. I brought Fifty children to the world, Curled Inside Me, in pairs And threes. I bore Like hares, Like trees, Until I dried Up.   I wore Purple, gold and white Even to the night They wheeled That creaking piece Of treachery Between the gates And kneeled Before it to the Fates, Grateful for release From the men from the sea. We didn't have to burn. Why didn't we turn? Why didn't we listen To her? The girl, I mean, Who had seen And told us all about it? How her eyes And cheeks would glisten.   Her cries Unslaked, Couldn't keep a dog awake. For weeks On end she'd shout it; No one heard. How absurd We must have seemed To her, how vain. We lightly deemed Her insane, A mere Nut.   All people grown, Grown mothergreat Have known With fear That state Of fullness Uncommunicate. With less Lust, And more attention, None would now be breathing dust. Write? Why do you mention It?   I don't think she did. She hid A lot ...   Oh, her.   She might, She did before. Not likely anymore. Nor Does she breathe, of course. No force Of earth withstands Her. Don't incur Her fury, or her hands Will   ... She is terrible, Oh, Unbearable! I go! I must, Or she will tear me up unwilling --   So unjust. I have no choice Against a living parable, And must rejoice. She says there is no second killing. She says unless she scatters Loam, She can never scent Her way back home. Aa, she is near me, She is all that matters! Her brow Is too bright, My soul is bent, I bow Before the windy light ...   O Lord, my God, Hear me Now! I am a clod That any continent Could spare. I am a bit of clay Anointed A signpost Pointed To and from the Milky Way. Forever almost There, Never reaching, Teaching   Back To Contents       THE SEEKERS     a poem in the 7th person abstract The Visionary The Warrior The Lover The Scientist The Artist The Fool The Sinner dedicated to Nancy for her science seeds at the Piraeus that day     Vision of Power Daliesque:  Babies in cribs; A field of infant skulls, Fleshed purple and cream, Mounding under a scarlet sun, Hushed with wonder, numberless; Universal units, helpless as An array of gods, Paralyzed by omnipotence, Omnisciently speechless.     The Warrior Power is potential Consumed in use   -- Its quintessential Longing is to be let loose, To die in doing. Power Is people:   it sleeps, It eats, It goes Out screwing   .... Bouncing and writhing Like a Wilburforce Pendulum, Curling Like a tongue Around sour Candy. It has a sterling Source, God knows, Deriving From The successant sound Of computer Queeps And bleats Sure as money, Savoury As brandy, More neuter Than tall politicians At a single bound For glory.   We are hung On our own Gibberings, hoist By our own petard. Power is as easy As it is hard: As funny As sad; As moist As dry. We have all grown Queasy, But we had To try To get Ourselves unhooked On slavery. We were plastered With conditions; We are the unlooked For, bastard Children of a tribe Of waxed morticians. We are unnaturally Human. Actually, We are all made Of the same albumen   -- An umbilical Chord, played In the white Of one egg, yet Not identical   ... Hard to describe. I guess you might Say we scratch Different spots But we have the same Itches. Time is a game;   We draw lots to define Who plays what match. Ego is the line Of demarcation Of the court; Sharp limitation Is what makes the sport. The victor takes no spoil. God and Hoyle Are very Arbitrary Sons of bitches. Pretend You are A tennis fan, And I, a star: You see me bend And run; You hear the thwack Of my racket.   The ball Is a small Round rocket, A message pinned To the pocket Of the wind. I am lithe and Trim; I rub dirt On my hand After each set; I earn My sweat With grim Effort. The sun Is completely real   -- I can Feel It burn My neck And back And shoulders   -- So is this massive, Twinkling gun, And the clack And tramp Of the forward trek Of soldiers. We are playing Conflict. We make camp Beneath an impassive, Greying Sky.   The score Is love --   one. I have played before, As a Pict. My weapon flashed: A pair of blood - starved Crescent moons, Lashed To polished wood, The handle carved With mighty runes. To fight is good. I see My enemy arrive; Nor he Nor his shall leave Alive, So long as I can heave And wield My battle ax. I concentrate While I relax; I lift, I swing   -- "And, it's A hit! Right past The shortstop Into center field! I thought The swing was late And she would pop It up to third, But my word! She's fast!" "One thing You ought To know, Joe: She was chosen In the first Draft ...   "Drift Back to the burst Of shells, The frozen Trench, The cholera from wells Polluted By severed arms, The stench Of the fallen, burning farms   -- So much more. What Is the body, but An army corp? A convoluted Hierarchy of mud, Of cells, Of specialists   -- A team! Life spills Blood, Life conquers, kills In order to eat. What about That Fat Stewed meat You spooned Up to your mouth? Every scream, Every loud shot, Every unkissed Slut, Every wound, Every trauma, Every guilt   -- Oh, war is a wonderful drama! I play it to the hilt!     Vision of Desire I am the penetrating womb; The spit of my mouth is like semen. I swell and flame, I rise like the tones in the pipes of an organ. I kiss and fertilize my mate And he gives birth In a single tear from each eye   -- One daughter, one son. I give them to the sea to rear. I am the monster Nature loves to fear.     The Lover I have blended With strangeness, made Alien joins; I have held The Unknown In the palm Of my loins, Incommensurately Extended; I have paid Such a cost That the stars are as coins, And been lost In an instant's quiescence. Sensation is the toy Of souls which are calm In corporeality; Dreams are a substance Burned as fuel To wage And wield Reality. The stately Romance Of Troy Has thrown Upon the page A certain incandescence. Truth is a burden Men May not refuse; A spear, a stone, A tool They Must use, Which women alone May possess Or may lose. Desire is a field Of gravity, It sinks Me to your ground; It is an emotional Cavity, Warp of a mental Dimension. Compassion is the chain By which Prometheus is bound. Erotic tension Links Them to a devotional Niche Within the brain Where the differential Zeroes, and I yield. Variety Is but a spice To the meat Of repetition; Propriety, A dark device That clarifies Coition By adding heat. Those elements Italicize That ring As definition, Like defining Flight as, "an expenseOf birds." Perfect love drives Out all fear and unifies All words. Why am I making speeches? I should be taking You to the inner reaches Where a kiss is not a kiss, But synthesis   .... Where strong Paired Legs part and close, Smoothing Themselves along The length of those Belonging to another; Or the inner Surfaces of thighs, Tantalized, Tremble With restraint, Trying not to smother The soft-haired Head Between. The clean And airy billows Of the sheets upon the bed Are thinner And more soothing Than the robes Of a risen saint, And pillows Resemble Fleshy human lobes. Once within This ticklish sphere Of tumbling touches, Where Lips Communicate With aureoles, And fierce Intoxication Rushes Along the skin From scalp to soles; Where each Sensation Grips A spike With which to pierce And satiate The deeper brain Until it bleeds, Content   -- There we reach And may regain Knowledge that Was hidden In the Fall, Like the seeds Of a once forbidden Fruit, spat Out, which grew, Meant To meet the needs That nudge us now. Men and women: We become alike somehow, Where one and one Make two, Then one, then Three, then all, Then   --   none.     Vision of Division Experiment: Newton, white wig askew, Watching a bucket twirl. Accelerated water climbs the walls of its confinement Like Ocean trying to shake the weight of Ocean As humankind.   Mantia is the magic that moves the mind; Mathematics is the motion. The Witch of Agnesi conjures under a gibbous moon; The Conchoid of Nichomedes shines like a shell Wet and clean, on the shore where Newton's trident lay, Pointed witness to a boy at play.   A wasteland? Not where a Dioclean cissoid of a storm Can litter roses in the heart As equations of a high degree; Where transcendental curves spiral and roulette And can transform;   where gambling serves And may be understood as King and Subject Of the realm of Likelihood. We are all spinning: This marble - veined majesty, Earth, spins; The electron spins, furious as a charger On a negative merry - go - round. But between this large and that small world, Who has spun these helices of DNA   -- These still twisting strands, A spiral staircase to which stars?     The Scientist (and The Artist) Speech is division   -- Original sin, Of mathematical origin   -- Whereas knowledge, one discovers, Is an integral Function of being;   for Tranquility Hovers On a mantic shelf Unfallen into legibility. Either/or Decision Is negative;   it happens By subtraction Of every other possible action. Consider the body as a lens, Permitting mental Focus. Then, self Is a photograph: Dazzle defined By synaptic shadows, Shadows thrown By habits lined In striking pose (Habits are the nuns In the cathedral of the mind. They are the ones Who regulate and smoothe, Endure a Pale routine; They improve With tedium and prayer; They are always there. Strong and dull, They cull Peace from chaff And duty; They clean The glass Which lets the fruity Stained light pass.) The image, Soul, However, is brought To you live, caught By camera obscura. (Brilliant, small! A moving replica of all! A watercoal!) For iris, or shutter We have the cortex. The will governs The flex And flutter Of the pupil by suggestion; Thus, It learns To govern itself.   (Much Like a tutor, who Explaining the answer to A pupil, begins to touch A better question.) Sight, I find, Is a kind Of dream, Spun From quanta of light Into one Coherent Stream Like a laser. (All that is apparent To the gazer Is Mind   -- Sleeping as granite and bogs; Dreaming as ivy and corn; Stirring as cats and dogs. At dawn It reluctantly revives, And people are born In the cheek Of a yawn. No wonder most weak Lives Are livened and refined By a criminal Proclivity; The seminal Juice of crime Is exquisite And expressive.) Too True! It can jolt The slumbers Of the numbers upon numbers Whose radioinactivity Is marking time, Is half-life In decay. What can I say? Bolt Your door As long as you thrill At the prospect Of a knife. I will give No more Advice.   Draw your drapes! (Still, No TV western escapes Hegel with impunity; Every shootout is tripartate: The object, Its opposite, Their unity   -- Which needn't faze Us a bit! Things may oppose In at least two ways: One is the extremity, And one goes At right angles. The latter mangles "Dimity Convictions", Wouldn't you guess?) Oh yes! There is for every great Attraction An equal And opposite satisfaction, Without sequel Or restrictions. (We are all priests, Unique, Each with one light Onus. We are Divine Beasts; Though many Paths may Have been shown us, There is but a single Mountain, any Time, every way We seek. I am an artwork, Subtle and tight, Drawn from a palette Of persona.   I tingle With delight as I create Myself.   Any quirk Deliberately made Isolate Is art:   My spirit is a blade To which my body is a haft; The holier my art, The more meticulous my craft. I impart The rhythm Of my being To a stone, Chipped With a fine Chisel and malette. Mine Is the art of schism: Freeing A vision that can stand Alone, If necessary, Stripped, And glad. I am very, very Patient, and I'm very, very mad.) No more than I! I am a Don Quixote to the nth Degree, The bon Vivant of mystics, An architect Of absurdity, Founded on Why   -- Spending My hours In fantastic towers Of indirect Proofs, With decimal Points Serving As joints, And curving Conical sections Raised to be roofs! Gradually and surely, I determine The specifics Of specificity, With infintesimal Skill, purely For my own felicity, Like a connoisseur Of creme de menthe Savoring A favorite liqueur; Or like an ermine Sporting in the snow, I want to know! My life is a series Of small corrections Of small and daily Horrors, mending The wavering Flaws In my crystalline construct Of natural laws. I live in the turn Of a phrase   -- Extricating � From the clarity Of days. Sometimes, if I've lucked Out, a tiny Rarity Will burn And glitter gaily   -- A shiny Speck among the dross. Other times I live In Tantalus's hell: A continual Ineffectual Tracking Of familiar conceptual Ground That wearies Me.   I give Up  --  for a while. Later, in the middle Of some other game, The answer to my riddle Will slide into file And claim Me;   I feel a shell Cracking From around Me;   I have a sense Of sudden elevation; The breathless tension Of impending consummation Makes me feel immense; I am an extension Of myself, thirsting. I shudder at the impacts Of explosions Of illusion, The avalanche erosions And the turning of great keys. At last, when I am bursting With the ease Of concentration: The intolerable climax Of a fusion Revelation!     Vision of Comedy White cold:   High Himalayas. Chomolunga, Mother of the winds, Exhilaration of stone, A mass of spirit. Remote theater of pale and thinly clothed Aristocrats, whose brains glow as they gather . Observe: Razor passage of air into the chest, Naked next to the yield and tease of furs; Ears beating against the vast and stainless still   -- Then, the brittle laughter Of a shattering frost sprite.     The Fool I am the Joke And the Joke's on me: Merrily, merrily, merrily Do I trip Over the fabric Of the grave And let 'er rip, Like the seat Of my pants As I bend Over, earnestly Seeking to relieve (Beg pardon) internal distress. Personally, I am A Carrier, I believe, Which, I confess, Makes me all the merrier! God defend Me.   Ahem.   Let us advance. Reason, my sweet, Is a nervous Breakdown;   logic Is a lapse, A dotty line We cut along The edge of every flick And wave Of vision, As full of gaps As we are full Of spaces  -- A molecular sham Of solidity. Learning is a process That erases  -- No derision, Now, this has scientific Validity. I know;   I talk To a brain stalk: Gangling Ganglions Which I pull Out analogous To the angling Axons Of an octopus. We are the walking Riddled, trying to guess Our own answers, Mostly wrong. Chalking Up a lot of cancers. But I digress. Let's get back To death. OK.   Take one deep breath: A crack Of lightning Stirs The primeval soup; A protein strand Occurs, Which, several storms Later, Wriggles Itself into a group Of forms  -- A hearty band Of adventurous worms, Who, defying frightening Odds, Replicate, Selectify, And mutate Into gods, And ever greater Business firms! Excuse my giggles, But I don't buy it. Darwin's alibi   -- What a riot! Entelechy, ontogeny, Lamarck has got My progeny; I'd write a letter To my love If I knew his philogeny. (The above Is a sort of spatchcock I suppose, Hot Off the wires.   I'm prone To those.) BETTER UNLOCK YOUR BONE JAWS, MADAME AND MASTER DEATH, BECAUSE YOU'RE DUE ON STAGE IN FIVE   -- YOUR CUE IS MY RAGE TO STAY ALIVE. MOVE FASTER! Sorry. To my regret, I am Not an actress Of sufficient skill To get That pair To perform.   They hate To share The bill With me;   I could care Less If I die. They'd rather hunt A sweating quarry. I HOPE YOU FRY MASTER PRICK AND MADAME CUNT! Look at 'em squirm: They can't tolerate Any term Dealing With life. Husband and wife Who can't help feeling That sex Is an obscenity, Nasty, slick, And slimy.   All things convex And things concave Mar the level of the grave; The lack of dignity and poise Destroys Its sweet serenity. Creation Is a ball. That's all The information That you need. Play poker With the Joker In the pack, Mac   -- I'm first among the seekers to succeed!     Vision of Hell Just this: What is before you What is around you What is behind you What is within you What is above you What is beyond you. What is  -- What is.     The Sinner I am the Terminal: The End Of pain. I send And take it back again. I am the power source That drives, The goal of a billion, billion lives, The germinal Force That activates the soul. I am a polar Whole: One half black As the lack Of sight; The other half Is a solar White That shrivels the purest Eyes   -- The surest Blinder of the wise. I am the Number, Two. I ride A Golden Calf. I am Unspoken. I stand in a pit As a rude Cross stands, Drawing lightning into My hands, And through My fingers, opened wide. I am nude; I am having a shivering fit; My spine is broken; My feet Are tied. I am the living, Screaming, Sighing, Singing, Lying, Seat Of Pride. I am an Act Of Exclusion. I am giving You my Mark. You are a dark And dreaming Circuit, a channel For a current of illusion, Wired in parallel. You are a fiction, Clinging To the fact Of matter. You are an unfolding Memory  --  retrieved From a bank  --  A blinking Bit of binary code, Conceived With a hank Of hair and a thinking Nerve. I am your Prediliction For the Perverse; I am your goad, Your Lucretian swerve. I am a holding Pattern of the Latter Days.   I am bringing You Into view On the screen. Everything you have seen  -- Every kiss And every curse  -- Is a record in The program Of the Universe. Light and shade Are kin; To live is to be displayed By them. Freedom Is when you have a choice; Fate is your selection. Freedom is a red Head Bitch; Fate is the siren's voice. Learning is recollection, Faith is a mounting doubt; Analysis: The shock, the switch, The slam That makes the lights go out.   Back To Contents       CITY OF ANGELS     We spurned The sphere Of the fixed Stars  -- Turned To the near, The low Glow, Uncertain Spark Of cigarette and candle. We can handle Them behind the curtain Of our dark Bars. We like Our liquid liquors mixed; We strike A match For the scratch, The perfumed wax And sulphur.   The little facts Of life absorb Us.   The orb Of sun Is fun, The moon, A boon, But omigod How regular they are. They tend To mar Our sleep; We nod At different times and places. We are a neap Tide  -- We're always high And come in springs -- We can't use the sky For lots of things; We spend Our bucks and time in stasis. But, We are so Practically romantic; We cut The mystic crap And set our cap To reproduce The night Effect  --  and juice It up a bit. We like our radiance Dyed Bright And antic. We wired To the streets, Aurora borealis sheets; An earthquake grand Electradance Adorns the land. Oh, We Never get Tired Of it. The net Illusion Is a source Of gay confusion  -- Not so much for us, Of course. What a scream to see Bucolics Fuss At losing luscious lambs Within the wilds Of midnight jams And candy beats! We live in a child's Eyeview Of what we do. None of us are fat. In our frolics We are always at The highest pitch Of carnal carnival.   Smell the smells: Pastry shells And browning meat? Like a bitch In constant heat, Like a flock of snow Gulls, We are our own show; We are auto-angels, B-movie great. When we get in perfect synch, There is no way to overdrink Or oversmoke or overeat Or stay too late, Or oversing Or overanyotherthing. We keep Our morals on the shelves; We have a growling heap Of selves That we can change Like bed Linen, when we need. We're the strange Ones.   We bleed Talent. That's how We pay Rent, Stay Fed. We live now; We can Have no doubt  -- We always will be lucking Out. Look, man, We are fucking Rich! Rich in the wealth Of cities, Which Isn't much On health  -- We're no City of pigs, Plato. No one pities Us.   We're glamor! Everyone digs Us.   They clamor For a touch Of our magic. Ain't It too, too Tragic? They think they think it's all Done with mirrors.   They'd faint To know that's true! They have the gall To call Us plastic  -- Those spastic Bumpkins that can't tell Top champagne From Farmer's Dell Cider.   It's plain That they're the imitators. We Are the originators. Our treasures Are not fake; The pleasures We take Are genuine as well. Listen to the list Of our materiel: Mist  -- Scented hair; Blue smoke Shadows On bare Shoulders;   tobacco's Sweet dry leaf And acrid sheaf Of fumes; Brocade draped, Deep-carpet rooms, With warm and musky Leather  -- Coated chairs; Hand-shaped Marble stairs; Silken surfaced wood; Dusky Ambers sipped From ringing glass; Feather Boas;   jet Velvet Cloak and hood; Mountain grown, Unclipped Columbian hash; First class Pianos, honeytone Clarinet And sax;   cocaine; And cash  -- Mint-julep metal, Pennycheery rain, Coin clatter, Starched rustle Of laundered lucre On a wet cork Platter  -- (We won't settle For less Than whole hog Happiness. We really hustle For our pork  -- Slice And suture, Dog eat dog); Ivory dice, And jewels. These are the tools Of our trade: Lack of shame, Arresting face, Familiar name, Sense of pace, Muscle Control; Blue and gold and silver voices. We love all our choices; On the whole, We have it made. We have no qualms Although our trees Are outstretched palms, Taking, giving tips. Watch us   --  mysteries Hover On our plump, moist lips; Tears glimmer On our cheek; Tune in next week To discover The unknown. Flick the dimmer  -- This is our treasured Essence: Flesh and bone. Our presence Is measured By microphone: 'Hello, I'm Don. Welcome!   This is a test: Try Crest! Am I on?' Well, Can you tell If we're there?" None of this is fair. I sing their song Too loud  --the poet Doth protest too Much.   I don't belong And know it Must be true, Truer than I'll allow. Saying this now, I smile. I know They speak A truth, Uncouth, But realized By their belief. In a while I'll go, Surprised Into a rage of grief At the peak Of which will rise, Among the knowledge Of my eyes, Insistent visions Of a crooked canyon wall  -- Insuperable, uncompromising, Like elder gods or fresh Pain; Incisions In the flesh With a ragged edge  -- That paralyzing Kind of shock. Nothing more than Air and rock; But it can Make me want to die. It does;   I Fall, Horribly small, Still shrinking, To my knees In the dir; Grit my teeth Against the howls Of thinking Hurt That seize My throat. Underneath My rigid Face, There is   --noplace. I am still, Until The tarp Of night unrolls, When, out of blue Holes In the sharp And frigid Black, owls Float By To cry "Who."   Back To Contents       A JARRING NOTE     Like Poet Plath, in metaphor, cut Off by grand malaise, I, too, am shut in by a jar, but Mine held mayonnaise. Set on a hill in Tennessee, A Wallace Stevens jar got praise; Yet certainly it could not be A jar of mayonnaise. Some poets have a gentle Muse Who treads as light as morning dews And bids them tell of fragile things Like violets and angel wings; And if they chance to speak of glass, They rarely mention jars.   Alas, That I should have no nobler glaze At hand on which to drape a phrase  -- No crystalline, no midnight ice  -- I'd settle for a jar of spice. I'd even take a pack of yeast, Which has potential flair, at least. But no, my Muse is cruel and hard: Of mayonnaise I am the bard; On mayonnaise I base my fame, And oh!   the anguish!   Oh!   the shame! But I console myself with this: I'll not be scorned for cowardice. No other poet born would dare To write of mayo jars.   I swear No hardened hack, howe'er hokey Would touch it with a ten-foot trochee. Not Yeats, not T.S. Eliot (Though Eliot comes close, I wot); Not Dickinson, not Thomas Gray, And certainly not Hemingway; Not even fearless Gertrude Stein Would risk so clearly asinine A course as is the one I take; No Visionary Beast of Blake Has any greater power to amaze. Not to overstate, I feel a Saint Theresa of Avila Couldn't match me even if she prays. Laugh then.   I'll sight by my odd star, And know that you will travel far To find an image more bizarre Than this, my large, fictitious jar That once held mayonnaise.   Back To Contents       THE PUSHER     I am a danger lady, Chaos keeper. People mind where I walk, Respect me like a snake handler. Chaos is 'mm 'mm good, It's devil's dust - More kick than crack - My TNT tinkertoy. Full of dirty secrets, like toe jam. Ooh, it's a precious poison; It gets real personal. But the impure stuff will blow The traffic away. It's got to be doctored. Better lemme cut it with a little meaning; Something in it got to signify To make it safe. Here, I'll even put it in a little bottle of rhyme. Come on, you sweet bored suckers, Buy my powertalk. I can lift you outta your socks; I can make you feel positive. Come on, come on, buy me. Get your rocks and rushes out of my Sizzling stew, my tasty, buttered brain.   Back To Contents       BREADTH OF VISION     I used to see the world with wider eyes, And I, the moving center of a whole, Could more than see  --  could know and recognize Those elemental movements of the soul That match or measure beauty in the skies. And how shall I regret the years that stole The freshness of my sight?   Shall I arise In grief each day, allow my heart to toll The measure of my vision's requiem? Can a voice unsing the songs that it has sung? How can I be the being I have been And fail to hope that I will turn again, Will sing once more with ancient joy unsprung To see the world I saw when I was young? The left brain looks at the right brain's world, and the right brain returns the look. Three quarters of the head is filled with light And only the home quadrant is dark. Observing, thus, from darkness and a kind of silence. All color and sound are elsewhere in the mind; Depth and distance exist externally. Three quarters of the earth's surface is water, and 75% of the body also. What is known about people is known from people. The upper right quadrant is currently occupied by a pale skyline of white and winter trees. The lower half is bright and formless, like a fluid. It appears that some winter trees, though leafless, continue to reach both up and down toward light. What is known is clustered in fuzzy sets. Members who belong partly will have a grade Of membership between 0.0 and 1.0, so that membership is fuzzy rather than crisp.   Such a solution, if supersaturated, would likely help to crystallize out two kinds of melancholia without panic, e.g., one crisp new moon cradling a fuzzy, old, and a single evening star. This yes is or is not understandable, as it is known.   Back To Contents       INTERSTICES     The woman in the mosaic is composed. The interstices between her bits and pieces, Remain, irrelative to the whole, unnoticed. Immobility and speechlessness Are characteristic features Of inanimate objects. One property of memory is its `quality of rightness', Another is density of continuity, or the lack thereof. The woman in the mosaic is sometimes called The Mona Lisa of Palestine  -- Except, of course  --for there are, you know, certain exceptions  -- Comparatively speaking,         1)   She is much older than anyone cares to discover;         2)   The image representing her is remarkably incomplete;         3)   She does not smile.   The gist of her expression is similar to one of the following:             a)   Mildly attentive.             b)   Calm inquiry.             c)   Dreamy displacement. It is not a smile. It is a suggestion of absence.   Back To Contents       WHAT IS, MORE THAN NOTHING     The light That from The New Moon Shone In a minute span Of a single night Is more Than All the evil ever done By man, or By a man Condoned. Above Black spite And ills That come, The flow That spills From lip of horn Is milk of Every woman born.   Back To Contents       CAST OF MIND     What plethora of flight, its lid unsealing, Now spills upon the floor of air and flings This raptory of hawks, in one place, wheeling? Mark which bottle holds the djinn of feeling: Some unconsidered, hungry purpose brings What plethora of flight!   its lid unsealing. The sky gone black and dizzy with the reeling Of contradictory concentric rings  -- This raptory of hawks, in one place wheeling. A font of weird and universal healing, An emptiness of knowing from which springs What plethora of flight, its lid unsealing. What mystery here shown without revealing! This is a sport of something more than kings, This raptory of hawks in one place, wheeling. Who knows to what keen eye you are appealing? Look carefully at every gift of wings. What plethora of flight, its lid unsealing. This raptory of hawks, in one place, wheeling.   Back To Contents       SILENT WATER, BURNING     Like a dreaming cat, the breeze Sweeps a lazy tail along my undressed spine: A cool and textured touch, sensible As silk ends in a dancers' pageant; Graceful as godlike musicians  -- Quicksilver labor of fingers on a flute, And pure tones wander in a garden, Born of breath and mystery. Everything passes; nothing is lost. We are never all alone.   We are incubating peace In our cathedral bedrooms: the afternoon Stains scarlet clarity into our curtains; Morning confers the unity of snow. We are all cloaked liquid; We are all the same silent water, burning. Light is in the water, Miscible as vodka, Odd as salty ice  -- Crystal dissolved in crystal  -- Clear. Light is on the water, Riveting.   Dazzle is death's face  -- A stinging vision.   Genesis: The syncopation of being Against a pulse of joy. Light is among the water, Prismatic.   Color Is numinous speaking, Revelation even to the blind, An incorruptible treasure, An eternal feast. If I, Pitched into time's greenish depths, Splutter across its bluespan acres, To kick and thrash and howl  -- An angry cat, mocked by fish  -- Thirsty and always wet, My only urge will be to bury; My only passion, sand. If I am a mermaid I may voice the element Like light in the water; May sparkle and lilt and glow, Like light on the water; May swell into song by breathing these, These, the waters of affirmation. A dancer I am a dancer.   I move. I am all things that move: The brilliance of disturbed water (A fountain of time in the center of eternity) The edge of a mountain that enters sky (An infinite limitation.) Oracles are not more rare Or more truthful than I. I am Intelligence;   I play like fire in a crystal. My flesh is hard, clear, Piezo-electric.   My shivers are Ideas. I am blind and selfish as green leaves; I must be cultivated. I exhale visions and distill dreams. I am an uncounting animal; A frenzied savage. I am an expression on the face of the sun. I do not know these things. I embody them. I dance. Power flashes forth. I feel it go, Even as I feel the sweat Whipping off my skin, And the pain, filling my feet like new wine.   Back To Contents       MORTAL #2     I am walking with an animal. It is surprising, And difficult. It loves me, And wishes to rule. I am blind, of course. This animal is my guide. We have distinct powers. Love and blindness Impel us on.   Back To Contents       ZEN DAEDALUS     I wonder At my brain And the fact That cream Rises, And entertain The act That tantalizes, Which is my dream Of a grey String, Twirled From a spindle, Balancing On a strong Wind.   I watch it dwindle Over miles. It is a way To follow That divides The world Like thunder. Notice how your Underpinnings  -- Sure And fast As a gambler's winnings  -- Rest Best On whatever slides, Like the past, Or things you swallow, Or smiles. Keep moving, You're OK. There is a throng Of laws That links Riddle with Sphinx, Effect with cause; With thirst, conversing; Hunger, cursing; Loving, being; Seeing, proving; Spending, Scrimping  -- Too much For my poor head. Me, All I know Is revery Revery and touch And go, And go advancing, One hand On the monochrome, That unoffending Thread, Sometimes limping, Maybe dancing, And, like a jazz band, Taking it home.   Back To Contents       THREE LETTERS     Dear S.,     With you I have chased     The flowers and the dragons     Of love:  pastel     And passionate purples.   Between     Us we have rescued     Seventeen     Maidens;  drunk more flagons     Of wine and lapsang soochong than I can count;     Eaten English muffins     And God alone knows what amount     Of pills.   Together we have embraced     A certain angel     Who tends to `knock the stuffins'     Out of you.   We have wrestled     Him till his shoulders met the quad,     Square, and you have become imbued     With promise, even as you nestled     Blackly in bed with a shriveled groin     And a hip thrown out of joint.     Today, I am giving you the nod;     I purloin     The future for you;  I anoint     You queen and fearless;     I give you a place to stand and a lever:     The word for you is, always and forever,     Yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, yes, yes!     Dear T.,     With you I chased     The ocean, and the faded     Traced     The lineaments of glory     In the lights of passing cars;     Gathered bits of broken     China, small, whole shells,     And thoughts from Zen;     And traded     All our dignity for spoken     Words of men.     We are a Pat Bond story.     We are as much as we can be.     You cast potent spells:     A witchly womanly, a bold     Martian friend.     There is no coming to an end     Of your fertile notions.     You are my explorer of unfelt, untold     Emotions;     You are my scout;     You are my fighting Irish, my inside out.     Dear N.,     With you I have chased     The burst     Of leafy winds and the intimations     Of snow.     We have conducted sunset and sunrise,     Flashing universal sparks between     Our solipsistic eyes.     We have bled a rainbow.     How often     Have we seen     Each other's first     Draft, or struggled     With each other's revelations?     How often have I juggled     And erased     According to your guide?     How long have you been my other self,     My side?     I don't know.     You are my wealth.     You will be my ripeness, should it come.     You are the little tune I hum     In sleep.     You will be there with me on the morning that I leap.   Back To Contents       ELECTRON AND PROTON     I am Odysseus, seeker of rest, Forever in motion. Where is my Ithaca, where my home? Lost in folds of malevolent Ocean. Cresting and troughing over the foam, I, like the sun, travel west and west. I am a circular, endless poem. I am Odysseus, beast of burden, Bearing tales from village to town. I am a father and king of lies, An actor in the all around, Crafty, balding, shifting, wise  -- Strike the set, ring down a curtain! Let me be seen without disguise! I am Odysseus, patron of inns, Thirties of inns, with weatherworn names. Give me a drink, a fire, a song! Give me games! How long, how long Can I numbly pass across space that spins Past unnumbered places I don't belong? I am Penelope, guardian of youth, Weaver of shrouds, and tester of kings. Blood is a shadow;   he blackens our door With it, forcing the bow, fitting nock to the string. We bed; we talk.   His eyes rake the shore. Before he has time to tell me the truth, I smile, I kiss him, I hand him an oar.   Back To Contents       GO GAME IN TECHNOCOLOR     Level 1. White Zone. Entry point for me. At Level 2 is my contact. Today we do not meet. I pass by her sector without stopping and continue to rise. Level 3  /  Blue Zone. This is for the long haul. Many enter the Blue Zone. Some live here. Those who reach Level 3 have received special training in the shapes and shades of fear. I have many connections in the Blue Zone.   Age is a factor. In the Red Zone Certain transactions are processed. When they are complete, I hear that moles in the Green Zone have penetrated to Level 5. This remains unconfirmed. Ground Zero. Orange Zone. Zone of no windows. Everyone here needs to look out which most do by looking in. This is the uncontrolled sector where change is always imminent. This is where I make my move. Warning: *** Potential fatal error *** ::: Embedded sign within field ::: | Character value encountered | | where numeric value expected | Warning: **** Check your data ****   Back To Contents       ANGEL BAND     Sunnyside, September 1982   -----------------   dedicated to Chris and Rachel     My friends, It's true  -- Angels do Play harps  --oh yes Flutes And lutes And fiddles, too. I guess I can't say They Have wings, But never mind  -- An angel sings Quite Good enough To make a flight Without that stuff. I find My feet Up in the air, I'm like To wind Up anywhere When angels strike A reeling Beat; The ceiling Barely Holds me Down When angel bands Roust out The town. It's grand To hear an Angel strain; Angel music can Burn Your brain. Angel music is never dull  -- It shakes Your skull Till you're free of doubt. It makes An atheist turn Devout, And changes quibblers To a choir. The angel fiddler's Fast as fire  -- Hands Like lightning Along a wire, Bowing on the heartstring, Heart's desire. The banjo angel Picks and strums  -- Never gonna stop till The Kingdom comes. The angel cellist quakes The ground; The angel sax makes A foghorn sound. Lucifer thumps On a washtub bass, Brings lumps Of plezure From deepest space, Battles With the angel that Rattles Our bones, And the scat Singing angel with the pure, Sweet tones. The moon like a dollar Shines on the crowd  -- They whoop, sway, And holler, And they Shout Out Loud. But the harp Is the angel I Love The best  -- I hear That harping above The rest. Clear And sharp As a crystal knife, It rends My body But Leaves me Whole; Cut To the life, I do not bleed  -- It bends My soul Like a brassy Reed, And makes it cry Like a child In need. It's wild And sassy And nasty and Right  -- So command Us with that harp, angel; Prevail Upon that harp, angel; Wail Away on that harp, angel  -- We'll dance in Heaven tonight!   Back To Contents       MORTAL #3     Solitude is a peculiar grace; The womb is but an open space. Exist alone as if by sacrifice: As great a privilege as a price. Scission is a mode of play  -- Cut away, and cut away!   Back To Contents       WAYSIDE EXCHANGE     Hail, airy asterisk, thou fluttering footnote: moth, signifying foliolate elaboration below. Denote me no more!   Right well read I upon that vine-scriven page unlettered revelation of my fortune's failure. Halt!   sounds out the shouting indigo: bold challenge declare  -- who goes there? Loud purple mouth of morning's glory-trumpet, who dares defy thy vibrant royalty? Only I, abiding not beside the pitiful path, the small pale track scantily parting clump from blade, come across this thin, subtle, ragged, acrid gaiety, to walk amid ranks unheralded of lank and limber tares, where all lies lazily extended under the yellow, dripping, honey fire of day, and all but I are easily at home in a scrubby, unwatched eden whose reigning deity is ribaldly productive of abundant waste. How cheerful and unseemly is this ruin!   How sly with obscure treasure!   Who knows what squabbling, elbow - swinging crops come popping up on this tossed off scrap of land? What untold and unintended wealth is casually bestrewn about this long and patchy pocket realm of nothing much, this heaven - capped, untouched stretch of bee - visited wilderness, narrowly left between anybody's business and the road? Taking nothing but slack, this endless strand  -- lushly sown by chance upon indifference  -- this unbegotten, careless poet's farm yields everything but the haste which on me feeds.   Merely, I pass, treading out no measure that the wind cannot fill as well, or even better. I should have been a harvester of weeds! Not to stay, but to dance prettily in attendance, step lively to the march called by that other, folded, green; and if I stand at all, it is to curse, first, the emperor with his spleen;   second, to wither with a blast, to scald with fumes of boredom those clock - drawn carriers of industrial disease, imperial minions, all;   last to spit from my mouth the taste of sovereignty lest it spoil my glutton's appetite for the sweet, whining succulence of fig-fed luxury. Too late!   Too weak now to reverse the cultivation of cowardice. If I could clutch and twist the fabric of squandered seasons, wring my history like filthy water from the dragging hem of time's garment, take back my early ardor at any price  -- if even the ghost of my young vigor would suffice  -- if I were utterly unfounded, landless, rentless, roofless commanding no common respect, neither peasant, nor beggar, nor gypsy  -- a peerless citizen of no polity but the state of song, would I then bestow an equal scorn on every constitution of powers invested in us by our greeds?   All Hell declares it so! I should have been a harvester of weeds. The harrowed ground I tend is bound and strait; How I have been fettered by such stuff! Why did I renounce my real estate? In wanting nothing, I might find enough Of every property acquired by art. Kali, I might more readily rely Upon wild peppergrass and bitterroot than any food or hope in world supply. Uncertainty will always bear first fruit. O, Death - delivering Mother, nothing pleads of innocence in my specie - shielded heart. If you, whose will no human hand impedes, Should speak one word, all fields would be as this: Fallow, forgotten, void of all but bliss. I should have been a harvester of weeds!   Back To Contents       UNTITLED #2     ...ive*been*dreaming*forever* forever*forever*forever* forever*unclear*today* forever*tonight*forever forever*forever*impossible* ever*forever*forever* forever*to*say*for*dying* forever*becoming*forever* for*grasses*forever*and* sunlight*is*never*forever* forever*forever*is*never* forever*is*ever*forever* is*here*for*ive*been dreaming*forever*forever* and*dreaming*for*ever* for*dreaming*forever*and* dreaming*forever*i*ever* i*may*forever*forever* awakening*near. . .   Back To Contents         Return to the Other Dimension