Wednesday, August 7, 2013

He’d filled it uP, Part 1


 He’d filled it uP

Part 1







1.
by now, his life
The spiral bound books.
Among the dead SpiderS and 
kerosene dirt, smudged 
the moments time left, fading ...

he'd kept on spinning--
not really finished
reaching for some resolution
the final one? 
as Lauren had said, “he would figure 

it all out someday.”
though having lost that belief, mostly glimpses 
he felt there to be some truth
in a moment between
it seemed to suffice,

no unchanging single ideal-- 
seemed certain
only to be seen, in
it’s revolving
cycles, to new places

then swerve, and
seasoned mythos
each moment died, as
we all die, 
he saw a pathway there

In the SunfloweR,
the artist standing on his box!


2.
gOd! wasn't 
interesting so much 
anymore he was looking for some 
new name to give 
some other perspective, to SeE

this passing reality
a really what 
might mean, a SToP!
kind of waiting--for
StilL, the ElephanT Blare! the trumpets of TibeT!

liked that, they were a metaphor,
there was no occasion, beside himself
to sing.
no professional
his only milestone these 56 years.

“til’ the end of the world”
his death bed got closer and 
his idea of Giotto changed too.
THE construction 
of reality

two things-- juxtaposed
like our lives, and death 
reconciling  the two
he guessed you could say 
there was just no reconciling

THAT would be a life long poem
a metaphor, or fragment 
that LeaF, to have any end meaning?
OFF NOW! to the villa Wall
that fresco, that American thing.

felt from under his MountainS
he had turned it over and that BrighT 
Striped SalamandeR was the 
beginning and Indian glinT,
The portrait of the great man haunted him.


3.
Jack's poem was more than travelogue
not of business at airports--
they'd driven far
but it was more a length
of pictograms into a code 

of DNA like romance, yes
a lineage of quest
the goings over in revolution,
he lived in the profane world 
and still wasn't sure of the vertical moment,


Wrapped in his Indian blanket 
of diamonded beauty 
which pleased him in it’s own order,
The addition of a music 
made everything, 

the mountain to the right 
and the bush to the left, balancing
 Crispin saw it that way now,
a way--, a going on with and around the sun
all of it

traced around 
and it became right for a time 
then, it just had to change.
A wriggling like the snake out of the egg
there was a deeper, deep

4
Aesthetic-ly so much was ruined
an older Miltonic Daimon 
on the heap 
It was some real end to beauty.
He would find an island of fiction in the chaos

and dwell there
in the order he'd made "as if"
a presence that represented a loss, he said
“we should test this as we go”
Feeling for surface

Among the cracked and 
crumbling-- then building 
again, piecing together,
what to make of this diminished thing
the fallacy

the pathetic human 
all too human
stars, revolving behind
a reflected life going over and around
the Egyptians pointed toward a fate, 

the China man, a meander... 
He'd forgotten the Western-- 
Jack was just making his own way here
looking for a shape and line and 
color to make--







Tuesday, August 6, 2013

He'd filled it uP, Part 2









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




















Monday, August 5, 2013

He'd filled it uP, Part 3












9.
going down 
silhouette and black
fades to scribble
rushing around to see it all
come back up--

He would build from foot, 
ordering a head, 
repeating to symbol
He had this last judgement idea
revelations flying

unveiling any final truth 
as man is the final resolution 
of himself, at least
but now everything was 
just leant up against the wall,

waiting.
It was about putting 
it all together again and 
for all
it was the quest itself, arriving
he thought, this way

and that 
the flags waving
fate, freedom, and power
those Idealisms waning in the twilight
Jack had by now some philosophical idea

which seemed a reality,
a procession was involved
It was a making, the progress
of a he or-- self
Crispin was resolving an older order

new ideas were not what he needed now
as they kept spinning ‘round
presenting themselves
in negative and positive interplay
Akilles had seen it long ago,


10.
the reconciling of opposites 
it made sense of it all
this idea attached to a shape
to a surface, Shield
he gestured with his arms

it was all a narrowing down
we were all running fast not looking 
down to see there was no net, no
nothing beneath
we were only human

the sad fact 
we hid as well as we could, that
we would all come to an end
though the treasure was buried, long ago
in the winter mind, floating

through, he felt he knew a thing or two
that transcended or lifted him up
enough to keep on
a comic cycle into 
sublime and falling

We used to just yell up--
then that wasn’t so cool any more
on the now busy street
Roy got a bell but it never worked
I was saying I wanted to try 

it all from the Imagination
  to draw just from there, his head
he made it up--
we used to say, the clap of hands 
was like the surface, truth, TherE!

Why had that meant so much?
the outline, a shape, a stripe
"I see what you are trying to do," Alex would say

but he also thought 
this all too complex
a kind of abstraction repeated, 
and turning
revealing the blank in our eye


11.
we denied
a blind man seeing for the first
would mean something--
seeing black
an irony

we struggled beyond
a can of white and a can of black
was all he had
a new beginning, again?
a new modern-- modern

the nEw, the NeW, seeming glut
of post-- PosT--
he dove in, was soaking wet,
with his Shield
on his arm he emerged
he was still searching

for this abstraction, he discerned some 
medieval abstraction-- CarniVal coloR
Waving, dancE
from a deep space, to a thing itself
"and would find myself more truly strange"

and clear
seeing in a new way
with no cliche
but archetype, I guessed a cliche itself
they were all having dinner by now 

business was being discussed
we were still at the bar
and soon gathered over at Bill Wilson's.
Agnes Martin died yesterday.


12.
Jack was his own hero,
He came back from his own war, would visit 
the Modern
Chapel, he stepped aside to let them all pass
Mom died and the dream--

and what does that mean, 
being saved-- I'd never 
have put that on you?
Yeah, yeah-- and then go 
have a few beers in the parking lot.

she said, "I'd be a very unhappy boy 
asking all those questions."
though I've asked 
all the questions
they were in touch 

with the EartH, at least
had no questions, just to work
I read a lot, I said,
there seems no sin in this poetry
just guilt of living

too well,
too much,
he was in the dark 
dreaming his name
the poem was like strata of earth 

1st and now 3rd part put down 
like refuse and bones
layering
a drone, over and over Mantra
repeating forms










He'd filled it uP, Part 4












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