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--
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