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

Prologue to Part TwO, Part 2

5.
in Allegorical doubling
Jack read of Achilles anger 
and the Emersonian Bibles
we should all write
He was drawn to that darkness 

of Nietzche in the desert, piled into 
the intimate emensity
of Bachelardian space, 
and a Mythic Hero 
with a Thousand Faces, 

in Eternal Return 
and cycling 
through the Sacred
and Profane and an Anatomy 
of this structure

would become Anxiety, 
a poem of Crispin
Achilles was kicking up dirt
on the Mesa, 

his bed pulled down 

and pressed to the clear pane 

Orion turned round
He saw everything 
behind--

It located Jack 

on the Earth.

He was camping by that wreck 
of an airplane she called, 
“...a broach.” He gave way to 
that aesthetic, 

but would notice 
the Bluebird flitting round 
the fence post, the shards scattered,
That dog, just stared .
Into the distance as she would--

As Jack read her the poem.
day, night
before night,
after-- and round 
the stars

6.
death before me,
death after me.
It was called the Heavenly Fable--,
Crispin was feeling good 
he was wondering of that poetry

 --was it as good as any 
ol’e lyric on the free formed radio?
The best part was 
it didn’t matter. 
As now it was all broken 

and he could toss 
another log on the fire,
making some blaze,
in the turning night,
there would always be that glow,

The first light in the morning.
Wave after Wave, 
of memory erupting 
The Mythic memory 
of earlier day,

That bird again, I mean 
these colors 
make some sense 
but then that dance,
and it worked, 

all the girls 
looked up and moved along,
Jack guffawed 
at that, he was looking 
for the Ideal BeautY, beyond

7.

Yes, he was amazed 

 He guessed it was 

the Second ParT

Jack thought putting 

it all together was some SublimE,

after all, it was all beyond

The explosion, 

we were all DeaD

the changes happened 

slowly-- the cow hip, pelvis bone 

breaking  

apart on the still-life table  

set to mark the change, 

it was decorated by the Tibetan flags,  

fluttering

and the vase-- 

containing flowers-- 

If they came again,

or last years remains

They were still a reality,

and he remembered, 

the shells 

as that was what 

they were, the bones

There was the wind 

the resultant weather  

a large part,

Jack watched it all, 

and he felt like home

in the mystery 

already there 

in the words, Such sHadowy 

slipPery stufF

but I’ve sworn against the SpoOky

mind-- Oh Natura, 

like tree, the thought of tree

like figure, like thought

barren, in winter--

then full in summer

Spring and AutumN


8.
He was off on another round
Whenever Jack was unsure 
  He went through them all, 
The pictograms balanced 
everything into a Vortex, 

out of which 
he slowly spread his wings...
and to think some of us 
have never seen 
the BirDs.

The genre mimicked life--
as it was a reflection of Achilles MinD
He’d go out to see--
Jack was taking off once more!
that Lucky Fellow!

Like now he created Jack 
and Henry,
the two Henry’s actually.
He wasnt crazy, just Mad 
about-- a divine metaphor

He knew what Home was now, 
So could come--
back, a retreat. Which made going out 
even better,
to write it all down, 

to paint some sense, 
into it all-- the ordering
Crispin made, just made uP
strange how they were becoming 
Heiroglyphic, 

Coming 'round again, Part 2

5.

Rational thought did a lot 

for the situation,

But then they were hectored 

and cajoled into quitting. 

Just thoughts 

and a good direction, 

Just seeing 

Well, rolling up his sleeves 

he picked up the rake,

He felt at home,

Akilles dream of California 

was on the Wane,

 the Nature Lovers 

had no conception of an abstraction

 on which to hang their love

so it was no love 

and in vain, 

Crispin picked up his pen 

as they hadn’t seen the mountain.

It was his to climb, 

and NaMe.

He Read his poem, 

to the wind,

curled below, 

there had been a spirit 

named Gary and his friend Allen, 

and Ken who introduced them.

That old guy Jeffers 

was mad, he got it mostly wrong, but

beautifully wrong.

Seeing What? They play their

word games 

missing the beauty,

Here Crispin meant seeing 

any order


6.
creating a Hierarchy
somehow the idea was abandoned 
there was nothing else to Jack, 
no white man 
owned it, surely not me, 

or you 
or all of us-- finally 
was the only soul 
that there was to have 
the vultures 

eating ones heart out 
seemed so elementally violent, 
by now it was a selfish greedy affair,
Jack was surprised he felt 
no sympathy, 

required no payment
then, we all partake 
in this violence of being
if we see this rigor, 
this harsh, almost mean 

meaning base is the spirit 
Patti had allowing her the delivery,
to speak of Love 
was not a word 
Jack used much like, 

Light, 
just as hard to define 
and maybe too illusive, it was 
what meant, though maybe 
the stars held a similar fate 

7.
but, well
he had to get on,” it was nice 
to meet you,”
That Western place had inspired the JourneY, 
OnE 

of the troublesome words
but he had identified 
with the HerO 
especiallly the one 
with the Hero’s hat, or head or

He did want to say something here. 
The StorY 
held the parts together 
and continued 
to make these PartS

meaningful, 
not just decorating the space--
but each a piece 
of a larger puzzle.
we might never know 

what it meant, as NO 
MaN sHalL sEe thE ENd.
sounded pretty final.
what it meant 
was this search, 

would turn up 
not so much, a nugget here, 
or there but
man, Crispin here was 
the final thought, 

8.
On his death bed, 
well lucky for him 
the universe still twirled 
above 
and that seemed enough 

to-- that word was, “suffice” 
it would do to just be part 
of that somehow 
that chaos or grand whale 
of error and --

We'll, see just here again 

on the way to the temple,

steps
building oneself 
out and up into some, 

Ha! he exclaimed,
Lets make some music.

That’s what we need 

some pleasure 

in the abstraction

in that it changed 
made a start, 
we needed some rhythm, and
Well, a sad music, 

the saddest in the world,

         was very funny--
They just didn’t understand 
serious, thought AnGrY,
it had an element 

of WoRld WeaRiNesS.

Geez, John was gone 
and all he could worry about was where 
everything was, 
he didnt want to lose anything 
on the way out. 

Home before Dark, Part 2

5.

and rope swinging--

rather a hope of a second 

life, a new 

beginning, 

another ten years.

Well, that was a real gift 

as those ten years were a 

second chance

now Jack needed a Third.

That’s it, The Trilogy!

he’d find it here, in the story line 

developing by the poke weed 

by the fence post,

 in the milk weed

the ole weed, around in the 

cycle, through a Sublime 

MomenT, in the Sun

just the thought-- is sublime in itself

and dies

as our saving-- 

self

in the sunset promising 

at the very least 

tomorrow but then Jack 

had this poem to take along and 

increase that chance of any hope,

Save Yourself!

back to the dream and 

lowly beginnings

the leaves
were blowing in the shopping malls  

6.

and corporate headquarters

and here I am in Kansas, damn!

100' on the 4th

I have to get this right

each revolution 

had to increase, Jack felt 

he was spinning, 

not just his wheels and 

he liked the spinning idea 

of the earth and the spinning 

of everything else along-

I’m driving 285 

south from Denver

this Hero is going his own way--

that town, that city, that urban affair

 hid what he came here to see 

that diamonded 

clank changing chance 

crop fragmenting--

big idea! dying 

before it has any chance to be
TruE
They thought they needed more
  guns, Jack wrote on
his horse sauntering

 in the whithering sage,
naked on that horse 
with an older god
out there
he felt he was the very earth 

7.
spinning, 
floating in his oasis 
of thought, Jack thought, 
“ I am it, it is I.”
Achilles took it apart and 

Crispin was wanting 
to put it back together
figuring out 
what it might mean 
realizing as he wrote it meant just 

this, and why Jack kept on
It was good just going 
to the hardware store 
the mountain clarity and 
snow on peak, blowing

he remembered the prayer flags 
though he had disregarded 
the warning of bad luck
Jack was the hilarious fella.
extreme in the page.

a little poof, or puff--
Prophetic intention.
Looking back on his City
his Bridge
talking about the weather

the prophesy 
Crispin kept to himself though
you might overhear him
out on the edge of the Village.

The real Apocalypse
is no Apocalypse--

8.
it was the same whimpering...
it was the same dirty water thrown 
in ones face 
the Walmart aesthetic,
all colored plastic 

for their pleasure and Jack--
Well, the trailors and tumble weed
trash decorating
same disappointment 
Achilles wailed, Why? is it yet unfound--

The Earth creating itself, 
we all, in the stars revolving
City and Country disappeared
The sunset painting into violet
color and MilKy Way

into Sunrise
the cycles circles
and Universe and
moments between
the black 

and the white
circling
all passing, revolving
here again
in the stars

Jack stood there in disbelief 
Achilles looked at the towers
Crispin looked at the Aspens
They were jumping out of the building 
“They looked like birds on fire”

9.
It seemed to go on, 
We with our plans
A part of the NY psyche, 
Jack felt he was now with 
out

never would be part again
to have
to be without
Jack was out there
painting the mountain

a sacred place 
to the Indians
everything smelled like burnt brakes
we stood on the Bridge
 trying to remember

it was beyond us 
and Jack’s cheek was 
wet, this, this real tragedy 
pale beside the thought of 
Achilles rage through Time and --

The bowl, world of indian design was 
of some solace, 
the kill hole entry 
to another dimension.
We see ourselves now from space 

that lonely planet in the stars’
spinning round
the images that make ourselves 
fill our selves, 
our souls, said a different way.

Merrily Goin' Round, Part 2

5.

stepping across green rolling hills

there were moments

he could capture

it all before it slipped 

away once more and again

He simply saw 

it all 

in that spinning orb, in black

the outward appearances 

were stifling

and Crispin would turn inward 

he’d be on his way 

once more

it would suffice

though he lamented 

the lack of 

CompletioN in the AudiencE

Carter had asked who Jack thought that was--

Huh?

Hamlet, 

wondered-- if it would be. 

For the profundity of BeautY-- 

Boy, the first time 

he saw the Pacific, 

then the Big Sur

coming down from Half Moon Bay

arriving to the wild Sands Beach

God, or anyhow that Ideal

was on his side 
and Boy,

Achilles had really screwed the whole thing up



6.
We were marching again
a few were walking away with it all 
and we were just watching
them shoot each other 
playing at Quail games

Crispin had seen these blue figures
looming and thought of them
somehow they got in line of 
things for his 
mind to order and 

it was hard thinking 
it could be the end
the oil crisis and the environment 
just went on another war longer 
than the LAST waR

they accepted it as reality 
like God, again-- no changing this
fundamentalist dilemma
Crispin was found in this 
frantic, going round

the paintings had their own 
rules which were not 
written down
they must have come 
from the looking

and what others saw, also
and the relation then to what we felt 
we saw today and into the future
as spring came

to summer


7.
but the world had grown 
outsized in exurbenant soda size 
and the huge rear ends jiggling 
what our land had become 
dotted with

and driving round in carts--
there were too many and the 
aisles were all blocked,
abortion was the issue and wanted 
more and more to fuel

the economic continuity 
of our great land-- 

of the few advantaged, and 
nobody went to the Parks 

anymore, just the French 

and German tourists

muscling into 

to get the view of things

We sedated by Wal MArT

Jack worried 

the scene was 

getting flat, 

what of the character 

he mistrusted as blind stabs 
and the mess 

he had already created 

which had seemed authentic

as long as it was fashion--

and that portrait or representation
of the GreaT MaN, ohh, 

8.
That he believed 
in the Myth, in the Ideal
that, that really bugged him 
that depth 
in the marks

and futzing, to greatness
he thought a device 
Sincerity and Authenticity
it all came round though
ThE RomAntiC 

stabbing and slash was real 
to an extent but was an aim at a 
shape to contain an identity.
though it was true some 
figures were stuck in a phase

seen by another 
in their own phase
we were planets all revolving at 
varied distance in differing 
light and season wondering 

gauging
what it looked like
then that was just a part
he thought ,
Jack’s mother said that would be the 

problem, thinking too much on it
he should trust in an
Authority, we would leave unnamed
it was ok til Dad could 
supply the frenzied answers,

“because I said so”
Weird God, Alien God,
No God, I could see,
all of them,
though that book on the ego and id

and sublime and the intellectual 
beyond
the real was all so much more 
interesting than the speculation and 
mystery fell short