18.
the Sun coming up ahead,
Tree growing on the Right
Mountain Height to the Left.
This has just been my life
a New BiBbLE
of sorts. What could be
maybe again now.
This scribble, Jack wrote, pecking--
with single stroke.
The whole feeling
from this part here,
and over there “that--”
the change,
a UniverSE of DeaTh
breathing life, in and out,
this Gaia eaRtH
the object writ LarGe, this Earth!
Ourselves.
That!--Whole broken glimpse,
Blue figure running
round and through, the reeds
Jogging in the evening light,
stepping sideways
to avoid that striped
snake writhing in the grass.
That made a place.
Here an altar of words
to make that PlacE.
It would be indulgent but
he saw the formless shape
gulpiNg after the formlessness.
moving flashing,
the chAnGe
A Thought Revolved.
Then he looked back
19.
the Earth from SpacE.
Slow motion, revolvin-G
CyCLinG.
Orgin of Indian design.
Giving it away, this pulsing
revolving idea,
INfluEnCe from The StaRs.
He said Thank-You, to someone.
They had provided a way into
that wonderful amazing Place.
“why is it yet unfound?”
It seemed the relation between
the things Jack couldn’t
quite make out.
Crispin wondered if his life
was beyond him
now. Explaining what was.
He thought of that bird
the black and white wings
of memory
propelled him forward
past his Red and Yellow head.
Crispin had seen
that friendly bird,
it had cocked his eye
to spy Cripin fella,
mimicking the FUZZY Apricot
it was pecking,
ripe in that orchard,
a reflection.
20.
Achilles was beyond that now,
just wasn’t an art to him.
That figure would represent
his imagination
and be a story
of how Jack
got there.
He bent over
to pick up the FloWeR.
He held it up to the SuN.
A figure ran through it
CeruleaN
like a dream or imagination
and was GonE.
He felt in the cenTeR
oF thE WorLD,
in SaCreD time,
turning.
Sacred, hmmm. the souL --
contained in an invisible
Ideal? the spirit
which filled the soul--
This is all very interesting, as long
as that controlling beard
the really hidden
purpose, of thAT Party
which had sadly forgotten “it’s” soul
never to create the Ideal future
mirroring
a government
which is us, the Ideal word
Democracy
then pretty good,
to see the god
like meta[phor,
contained in all of us.
Walt had that right,
the body
the poem,
America
21.
A bad ending
There was this chaos, a red
stripe organized it.
An order and direction
one could feel
again, a good idea, without
pre destined,
curtain,
He painted the dead tree, wondering
on the way home,
then he arrived to
the first sunflowers,
on the side of the road
they were the figures,
or ideas,
the representations for
Achilles journey, begun
ChAotiC round, Every once
in a while
these glimpses
of what now was the blue,
more cerulean--
nude, flash
of an imaginative sort,
meaning
something, or pointing to, or
some oblique reality
the walk around the lagoon,
he had already said
it depended upon.
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