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
