13.
of life and fragmenting, release--
new life from dreams of winter
shimmer shake
there was a HerO that cried that
he was dead,
that his adventure had failed him,
and ComediaN genius,
cartoon character
and hieroglyph
Oh, glad to be back out here
in the SUn
Snowing, though there were no cloudS
starS Bright
Jack was sitting having a quesadilla and jalapeno
over kitchen sink
the ConstellationS were revolving round
out the window
thinking about the size of the painting
that last judgemenT
thing, he had on his mind
the nearing final reality, he thought
nearing, he hadn't been up to the
pRaYeR flags in a while
he watched the health
of the Tree at the center
he stood up there reading his poem
the SSnaking river below
the cycles would lift him above
he was thinking on Beauty
he was thinking on deatH
it was his mOther
he thought about.
He was WobBbling down
the lane on his bike.
Another painting ahead--
It was GobBlinG him up.
14.
he would say he cared most
about the abstraction
the shapes and colors
that line which drew.
The black and white lagoon
the depth, is where he started
in mystery
which now the surface
that the two colors make
in the beginning is a hint of the end
meeting, this reality, a religion
of sorts or poetry of
reality, he said instead of
this empty idea they all worship
Unless you meant what
was older, he had an idea
for that older unnamable
which was reality itself--
all together, Achilles here, a part
of that whole thing
The TrumpeT blarE, like air raid horn,
now, here, the sun height
Orange square
depth in the PurplE square
all over form of starS
tHat out there, in here--
He’d said or painted the feeling before
so many times, though
the leaves were ongoing
He said "fuck you, if--"
A JoKe, well, I’m not sure about breaking it all
the leaves are enough and the
cartoon shape
no man shall see--
Odysseus
15.
was puzzling it all together
that fast surface
he leapt out the window
cold stone sober
what he saw--
SufFiceD,
a spot of time, here
repeated through a life
through a broken breeze
painting the lives,
through which leaves hopped, skittled
and over days, hours, a moment
here--the brush of a fore head
warmed in the blond sun,
that obscure glance
just looking for the outlook
that would be right
this poem that took the place
of a MouNtaiN
each day passed--
in adventure of some kind
sacred moments, which slowed
were looked for and recognized
a patch of blue
giving way
up there on the mountain side
he saw the full moon rise
I mean didn’t they felt badly
knowing the moment had passed
they were teaching now
some relation ship
that the nature we had lost--
never to dance
with the DaffodilS--
dancing
16.
in the WinD.
Something I saw once--
everything dies everywhere
and is born of these moments--
this profundity of an inner
and outer reality, which
blazed on the edge between.
He wasn’t sure what that meant
Crispin liked the reality seemingly between.
What he meant by JuxtapositioN
Those paintings were finished
and now feeling at some height,
he resumed, the stacking
more?--he wondered? the two Henry’s asked
how much further?
Say it even more simply, Jack said.
The different view now
The New, New, he was seeing through
the words now and there
wasn’t much more to say,
it was the goings over
he was coming home
here was a garden,
he could manage--
he held the idea
in his teeth
it was the flower
he saw in Zurbaran
there was a moment when
all metaphors became one
in the sun.
He was thinking of the old certainty
even if not a reality
what we expected from our intellectual
refinement, what we made up
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