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--

Prologue to Part TwO, Part 1

Prologue to ParT TwO

Part Two

1.

It was later than he had thought.

Every thing was needing attention, 

the never ending stance 

stabbing at the Opposite 

the moments what we saw, 

the real world, of night and ash, 

the Snowman 

wasn’t the whole story

but then the melt 

 and the ventriloquism 

of Spring

“the Virile Youth,” Young 

Poet at Summer Height.

the passage was enough 

everything passing, 

the irony 

in the poetic 

pass, pass-- 

Don’t worry it will pass,

the hope, 

towards the Ideal

beyond the insult, the pressure 

of this real

Chaos which we tried, like here 

to order, 

into Temples, 

the five lines, envoking

O Muse! Crispin called, 

Jack continued 

the mental traveler--

Achilles-- 
No, he would say, 
 Henry! this madness! 
let no one frighten or flutter us. 
there were, the rivers to cross

2.

And it was only his will 

this kept him alive, 

Henry was washed up

He stared upward 

from that Beach

Jack sang that long ago

Ha, Gregory Singing! Still-

Akilles into the Night-- 

the distance 

and the death

that Romantic scene of Instruction!

all passing, all arriving

all at once, 

can be scary, a Big Bang! 

Another day tumbling

around as zodiac.

Decorating his moment, 

best as he could

that world revolving

above and around his bed,

 the dreams,

the memories, and reflections

the existential beginnings.

breaking against the flags,

The Colors of Flags, 

a sun--flower, here

and twirling shells 

through projector beam.

He’d get away with it, 

He was an Artist, 

Jack had made it All Up! 
Would again 

and again

swoosh-- and do it all again!

Making it all happen at once.

His life passing, 
continuing on to that further 
death's bedand passing lexicon, 
of Jean Michele like symbols, 

King’s Crown!

but he was gone,

Too early to matter.

Book of hours 
revolving 



3.
into the next and--
he twirled the flower 
between fingers 
into the blinding 
unnamed SUN

the echo, still 
blare of Tibetan Orange
forest of words
big game hunter amongst
SymbOl CrasH.

Lion --
of Red Reality.
Jack was out there painting 
but he was trying to tell
of the underneath

structure, Coupled with the Ideal, 
a conceptual painting
of Imagination, he willingly believed
in this fiction of knowing
He didn’t like spooky

He substituted a rational thought
diving, deeper, 
the flower in his teeth 
ExplodinG to the sUrfacE. 
Outlined in black, diving again

A rhythm,
A butterfly stroke,
All the evolving parts 
were coming together.
It was becoming an order 

of Crispin gods, 
spirit memory behind and Ideal 
Reality sought, His spirit 
and soul--
Might suffice.


4.
Some end of what this mind 
could comprehend. Jack hoped it 
would be remembered.
Jack was on his way,
he tried to tell his Father 

but when he got there
 it had all changed, 
he’d brought back something for him
Though he couldn’t see.
Crispin bathed in

the waves of diurnal motion
It is the Mythos and Poetic 
parts, not bad words. 
The SublimE 

he felt had failed him

That mystical moment, the
still rustling in the woods. Again
he would heighten, 
The moment, 

or drive it to depth-- 

he would keep on

till this poem’s stiff neck 

would give way, Yes, 

he was interested 

to a degree in this mystic-- 

way, it was poetic 
anyway, How does that bird 

arrive to, that same pattern 
and behaviour
Anyway-- well the complications 

Coming 'round again, Part 1

1.

The paintings were a stab 

at some final resolution, 

put in place, 

he could move 

it around later

coming 'round again, 

maybe it would 

be right this time, shifted 

somewhat, Oh, geez. 

The shopping Mall, 

and that corporate sky line

now blocking the vision,

Did you think about how vision 

could mean seeing the whole, 

the order 

making it, one 

But it had to be true 

somehow 

had to hold a lot in one’s head, 

the weight 

was worth the struggle, 

beneath,

that corporate plan lacked, 

The suburban was the plan 

to lull into a submissive --

these wanderings 

more pressure 

the reality of it all 

to bull doze Jack, tumbling 

in the black garbage bags 

down, rolling head 

over heels, 

cartoon like--

of course it was hard enough 

without the backache and stressful 

cold sore, and we were human, 

all too--

That water over the dam, 

just continued 

into a beautiful, 

slow motion catastrophe 

of loss, now even the ice 

out of order Koyanisquatsi like

Green World, melting.

where would Jack salvage

2.
this or 
these 
thoughts, and stick them 
where, 
to file them, 

stacking the next,
Painting, it seemed 
to stop something.
Jack hugged the sheath 
to his chest 

it would get him through, 
he thought, his thoughts, 
which he loved 
from a distance, tumbling in like 
fashion 

tumbling the new work, in 
likewise jig saw 
and juxtaposition 
and cycle revolving, 
fragments 

in the evening OranGing Sky.
He was happy like Ariel,
Jack thought about a painting of 
the Sneakers, 
icon like 

Vincent’s peasant shoes,
and what of a hat on a stick? his 
walking stick?
 that Staff the one, 
a leaping flame.


3.
he was out on his walk 
around the lagoon, 
the blue spots, 
glimpsing--
Alex was passing 

Jack on Mercer St 
his White Bucks and Over sized Sunglasses 
another Theater, 
I enjoyed 
another Fashion 

of sorts. He made 
a picture of it all.
Crispin thought 
he’d take that simplicity 
and break it  

was like the lost sun,
and it showed the other simplicity 
of merely circulating.
It all went round,
and it was behind 

what happened 
and then there out in front 
and it changed 
the perspective on he saw 
what one was doing, 

radically,
and NeW.
They were shifting in their chairs 
by this time, another left to the rest room--

Exaggeration and Surprise! 

4.
Ruin the Sacred Truths, 
Ironic , Hyperbole, what a great word
That transposition.
made it's mark, erased

and drawn again 
and erased, 
they had decided that they would 
never know,
tossed out the results 

as no result,
Crispin would make it up 
beyond that heap over there,
Achilles was gesticulating with one arm 
dragging that corpse around 

with no self consciousness.
He had recognized Billy-- 
out there in the distance, 
his gaudy scarf
gave him away,

The whole contained 
the opposite,
and that was where he was headed,
this was just the second PaRt
He hoped he’d make it

Well the gardener was gone --or
really there never was one, 
someone had put in some work
though 
it had been forgotten.

Home before Dark, Part 1

1.

it was late

the yellowing sky, scattering 

slate of cloud

snow whipping at the very height

jangling diamonded light 

and credence of snowman, joined--

and blank returning.

jumble and skip

the same bare place

Stars behind, 

Stars aheaD.

continuing, snaking, New Poem.

I did what I could do, they 

were all left locked up in the barn.

I had to make my way 

forward 

before i lost my way

the snow was deep and the pipes 

were frozen,

the tracks were soon covered over,

the shadows blue lenghtened 

into stripes across the way.

Blue stripes.

the light turned

a vertical thrust towards knowing

repeating enlarging idea

even here in the cold there 

was a numbing naturalism.

he was reading the book

the cracking made them turn,

falling from


2.
creating the language
blank in the reeds
the paintings were piled high 
against the sky 
He drew the little drawing.

It seemed a competing image 
to the one in front of him.
He could compound it in his mind,
the earth was being destroyed 
it’s order  

Beauty we were guided by
 lost and why it was 
Being destroyed.
Henry and company were Burgers 
watching on, silent going about their 

lost way, 
they were part of the Hollow men, 
some one had pointed out this 
direction before. 
There was a book, 

about Modern Men
and a War
This little picture 
this PaintinG might not do.
repeating, 

the pontification-
the dunce hat
the soap box
Jack looked for the reality 
before this mess 

3.

for the reality from this chaos

from this dump of old words 

and goings on the NEW 

WOrlD, worleD, twirled

flying rushing thoughts

It’s ThE EartH, StupiD!

turned round upon itself

turn, turn, turn

Sometimes Jack liked to paint

the scene in front of him.

Sometimes Achilles like to remember 

the scene, and simplify 

the arrangement 

things in the Imagination,

Crispin thought there should 

remain some reverence 

he, Jack, Henry, and the Company

had all--

struggled beyond, some failed at this

The Henry’s were struggling 

behind, 

Jack meant,

how could that foolin around 

out there 

get us any where?

well, Crispin was way beyond 

A job-- there was none for Achilles

He would write his nonsense trying to

spin it Rumpilstiltskin like into goldlike, 

sense but 

not the green cash 

4.
you have in mind
you had forgotten the real gold 
in this metaphor,
a meta beyond,
and you dont believe in beyond,

the doubling otherness of every idea 
in heaven of our thoughts
Heaven is ok 
if just here in my mind 
under my mountain.

Just dont make any promises
of revelation 
of apocalyspe of another’s promise 
fulfilled
This text is all you have.

Going on.
“If I should get there-”
Dr Kings promise 
I think maybe, or well I wish.
we had some rhetoric as that, 

to fire us up,
VarroooM!
A SonG, a narrative type road song
telling us some story! of--
quickly narrowing-- 

to dirt-- and repetition.
less and less, but
road curve in great space,
to oranging sky
SihouetteS

Merrily Goin' Round, Part 1

1.

of New Mexico

he saw it all in the weeds 

on the side of the road

chant chant exposing rhythm

height of going round

round

through this common day

speeding

on Crispin fela, would go back 

to that Yellow Britches Creek

that Gitchy Goomy, that started it all

It was a dream that we were ever alive

the pressure

the road

the cycles

the out of order

blast and flare!

drifting down

in the dark

speck of blue floating in a sea of black

Jack’s life

bouy, bouncing

spun to whole

Jack hiked up his pants

His soul

comin’ by in revolution

slow and speeding to perihelion

gone

into stars

we liked the idea of golden 


2.
future
anyhow, even if just an image
to compare
to the sun each day
Jack had plans to paint up into 

Maine and Nova Scotia
he remembered Paul’s horses he painted 
in a simple scene on his way 
back from Fairfield’s island
 someone else’s world 

but it was a good visit
he was in love with the earth and the 
falling ice backwards in slow motion 
was particularly poignant
It was sad 

we were so very protective 
and ambitious
we could talk about that
a kind of violence
of wild bulls

Achlles hoped he wasn’t that man 
over the hill
that was dead, 
and didn’t know it.
Whose food was cold 

Whose wine was-- 
Numb, he pared away to 
essential minimum
and repetition, 
it’s own memorial

3.
he was reading 
of the shaman skipping 
and jumping across vast spaces
to Siberia and back
over the positive and negative 

magic of pottery shard
labyrinthine maze of life it mirrored
spinning mandalla
You have no use for.
This, is, where, the, serpent, lives.

In the constellation turning above 
in the dizzying moment 
of thought turning
in the green orange purpling
to dark

Vermont was green hills and 
black eyed susans bobbing
Jack saw Alex everywhere
the black tumbling water
Crispin would describe it 

in a similar language
he was from the same place
and interior wood
Jack wanted to wed it all to 
Iowa to California

to Aspen and Vermont 
to far north
Jack had hoped to glimpse 
that Northern Light 
and green sea, 


4.
in the Far South, the Sun
snaking
polar inkindlings
of the snow and Ice
This land, my land

from Ca--li--for---nia, to
New YOK HarboR
Crispin HaT
It was from the Amish 
country he grew up in and then 

he remembered William Penn, one 
could drive a car around in the brim and
in those paintings 
at the Capital, as a kid
and Walt Whitman 

brought it all 
back and so Cub-scout 
Crispin pinned it on top
and held it up with suspenders,
and attached it all

to the uniform of  

SoHo art Capital too-- he had been 
a part of
in Converse sneakers
and black t-shirt, 

like Jean Michele writing 
on the walls
and Keith drew dancing figures
all black and white
the snake withered