5
could it be--
contained there,
in the scribbling of the old minotaur,
He was writing a blank
He was writing of an whole,
Crispin still sought
Not calling the phenomenon, One
waiting for--
an older Now, he held so
in his head packing and unpacking it all.
The poet rode his bike down
Houston Street, a black tee shirt and
a poem in his head
seemed all he needed,
maybe he could say it
he opened his mouth-- the crossing
was some crux or
crisis
things jammed
together like leaves and sunset and
ColosaLL suN and fragment
memory and VillA
into that OnE he still would crave
at least here in the painting
although it represented what we longed
for in reality the oNe, sees
that made the cymbal clang, trumpet blare
As far away as Tibet
Professor Thurman was getting excited!
Now, The idea was arriving!
the cycling-- soul
it was a life by now
a Surprised FlavouR turning
Crispin, blu-ish Comedian, Ha!
6
To transpose what he saw
into Hindi form which reflected back
but was a thing in itself
that sounded real--
Rather strange to fix an image into words,
Mr. Ashbery had said to me,
"Oh the painting and poetry thing--"
Jack said everything seemed so very
convoluted and difficult
Mon Oncle wondered what I meant?
There would be a point
and a digression
from it, Abstract figure flying
into dream of landscape questing to
surface, it was RealizatioN one sought
inner and outer resolution
the goings over
fixing to order
making of a poem
Villa whole and fragmenting
man made self,
UmpH!
it repeated and fell,
as that leaden balloon
and his clown bat, UmpH!
drove him back
to that ole, fish shaped island
to continue his HeaveN,
into dreams of unknown,
escaping profane
He, Ho!
Major maN at helm,
Hero on his heaD
SpAraGmOs
the rending apart,
7.
He'd found it on the dump
coming down
the tree cut up into logs,
this particular thought
into AmbivalenT, Comic sublimE.
a minor key
to coincide
with certain abstract
shapes
some striped, others plain.
"Y’r not talkin' to anyone, kid"
he couldn't believe all this was for sale
the chair thrown into the corner
He felt ok, with the cowboy hat
AgaiN, coming from the East
it would suffice--
The black line completed it all, it seemed
he was home
but still reaching for the Top Shelf
the bottle slipping
falling, tumbling
slow motion
the painting in a dream
Hero in a smudge, the “carving not a kiss”
everything BrOkEn
The larger heap, the transfer station
serpents lair
here is where--
He lives Here
nowhere and everywhere at once.
A word out of the sea
whispered Me
not to complete the thought but
to lead out into
the stars, tracing a form
8.
serpent flashing
a part for the whole
the name of one thing for something else
a turning
an emphasis
strangely, different
better than
"I sing a Hero’s Head... "
We've been through the deconstructions
The Universe of Death.
revolving around, down here
undid the Summer
in flames
imagining the Winter
constellations flying by
star spangled mind
of Achilles Universe
of winter circle
to deeper edge
She was the Universe.
Crispin passing
the leaves
in sunset,
Jack went west in ‘93
the JoshuA Trees waving
through Comic Sublime
he tried
to put it all together
and was distracted by Fashion Model
of this profane world
he looked beyond to the sea
to live alone, thankless
out there
he wasn’t dead yet,
Sun revolvinG in that time-lapsed splendor
No comments:
Post a Comment