"Man, that walking bag of sea water, is the the oceans
way of going ashore"
"I never knew I was the ocean of my own dreams"
The sea of me
rolls contentedly
over mountains of egos,
under volumes of sighs,
around runs of ruins,
and ends with a shhhhhh of pebbles
on Dover Beach.
The sea of me flows
through translations of pedestrians
betwixt cornucopias of sounds,
around tombs of literacy
and booms of complexity.
Tombs of literacy and complicity
that Dante never guessed
defending the shape of lunacy.
The sea of me
reserves this space to flow
on times continuity.
And down we go and up we flow
around lines of concinnity
that bind us to walk ashore forevermore
as bags of fluid flowing.
Liquids of awareness swimming on the surface.
An intelligent fluid rowing thru the universe.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
28. Great Authors Revisited, Numbers One And Two
.
1
Come out Henry David Thoreau you old fart!
I know you're in there,
meditating over Troy's defeat, eating your
"Indian meal (cheaper than rye)".
You can't bullshit me with all your fine self quotations.
Living in the woods is a drag
and you damn well know it!
2
Don't shake your Moby Dick at me Mr. Melville.
Talk about cabbages and kings,
well ambergris and God beats all.
Although I must say,
being part of the connecting link,
I am not unaffected by
your vision-version.
1
Come out Henry David Thoreau you old fart!
I know you're in there,
meditating over Troy's defeat, eating your
"Indian meal (cheaper than rye)".
You can't bullshit me with all your fine self quotations.
Living in the woods is a drag
and you damn well know it!
2
Don't shake your Moby Dick at me Mr. Melville.
Talk about cabbages and kings,
well ambergris and God beats all.
Although I must say,
being part of the connecting link,
I am not unaffected by
your vision-version.
27. Snowfalls
.
The quiet of:
The falling of:
The sliding of:
The fullness of:
The blessing of:
The coolness of:
The lightness of:
The whiteness of:
The wholeness of:
The brightness of:
The closed world of:
The surrounding of:
The love of:
The love.
Snow fall.
The quiet of:
The falling of:
The sliding of:
The fullness of:
The blessing of:
The coolness of:
The lightness of:
The whiteness of:
The wholeness of:
The brightness of:
The closed world of:
The surrounding of:
The love of:
The love.
Snow fall.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
26. Wagon Trains
The children circle the adult table
Like movie indians around the white shirt wagons,
Yelling, whooping, performing, letting it all out
With physical dexterity.
The wagons, enclosed, guarded, keeping it all in
With verbal dexterity.
Off in a corner of the lawn a young girl
stands, watching with blank face.
The filling observation of a child growing
To be harvested in old age.
I do not know if she is empty with hate or fulled with love.
I only hope she will learn how wonderful it all is.
Like movie indians around the white shirt wagons,
Yelling, whooping, performing, letting it all out
With physical dexterity.
The wagons, enclosed, guarded, keeping it all in
With verbal dexterity.
Off in a corner of the lawn a young girl
stands, watching with blank face.
The filling observation of a child growing
To be harvested in old age.
I do not know if she is empty with hate or fulled with love.
I only hope she will learn how wonderful it all is.
Monday, February 25, 2008
25. Earl Wild Plays Rhapsody In Blue
.
Listen up you guys.
The real thing.
Joy power.
Go power.
How sad that Gershwin missed hearing
his extravaganza turned into
this mountain of excellence.
This New York time,
in language of structural spontaneity
detailing the genetic history
of a people of exuberant strength.
Transfixed by a translation of events into sound,
from street sounds to piano sounds,
from street language to piano language,
the beautiful translation of randomness into
movements of feelings.
Listen up you guys.
The real thing.
Joy power.
Go power.
How sad that Gershwin missed hearing
his extravaganza turned into
this mountain of excellence.
This New York time,
in language of structural spontaneity
detailing the genetic history
of a people of exuberant strength.
Transfixed by a translation of events into sound,
from street sounds to piano sounds,
from street language to piano language,
the beautiful translation of randomness into
movements of feelings.
24. To Robert Duncan
.
If I had had a mother
named Minnehaha Harris
I too would have become a
famous poet.
But alas, my mother's name
was Turalura Epstein
and that is why I am,
Yours truly, A. Nonymous.
If I had had a mother
named Minnehaha Harris
I too would have become a
famous poet.
But alas, my mother's name
was Turalura Epstein
and that is why I am,
Yours truly, A. Nonymous.
Friday, February 15, 2008
23. At Nine Years
At nine years old I knew
I would become famous when I grew up.
Thats why strangers starred at me,
at the bus stop, in the dime store,
walking to school.
They were from the future
and wanted to catch a glimpse of me,
the young boy who would become famous,
who would change the world.
Today I am the old man
who did not become famous.
Looking at the handsome children
enjoying their lives.
I would become famous when I grew up.
Thats why strangers starred at me,
at the bus stop, in the dime store,
walking to school.
They were from the future
and wanted to catch a glimpse of me,
the young boy who would become famous,
who would change the world.
Today I am the old man
who did not become famous.
Looking at the handsome children
enjoying their lives.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
22. Where They Went
Nobby, Punch, Uncle Bill, Weary Willie, Guts,
Gone
Into
Scott, Wilson, Bowers, Oates, Evens,
Gone
Into . . .
Gone
Into
Scott, Wilson, Bowers, Oates, Evens,
Gone
Into . . .
Friday, February 1, 2008
21. Wagon Trains
The children circle the adult table
Like movie indians around the white shirt wagons,
Yelling, whooping, performing, letting it all out
With physical dexterity.
The wagons, enclosed, guarded, keeping it all in
With verbal dexterity.
Off in a corner of the lawn a young girl
Stands, watching with blank face.
The filling observation of a child growing
To be harvested in old age.
I do not know if she is empty with hate or fulled with love.
I only hope she will learn that it wonderful enough
to live with all senses open.
Like movie indians around the white shirt wagons,
Yelling, whooping, performing, letting it all out
With physical dexterity.
The wagons, enclosed, guarded, keeping it all in
With verbal dexterity.
Off in a corner of the lawn a young girl
Stands, watching with blank face.
The filling observation of a child growing
To be harvested in old age.
I do not know if she is empty with hate or fulled with love.
I only hope she will learn that it wonderful enough
to live with all senses open.
20. A Description Of A Poem By William Carlos Williams
.
Putting into words a simple observation,
wrapping it into a new beginning.
Defining the obvious from a new direction
as "the great number five" flashes by.
A phantazein of four dimensions
that smoothes recognition.
Turning a sideways thing
into an absolute gravity well of meaning,
of meaningful sound between
two breaths.
Overtaking and freezing in understatement
the greatness of now.
Putting into words a simple observation,
wrapping it into a new beginning.
Defining the obvious from a new direction
as "the great number five" flashes by.
A phantazein of four dimensions
that smoothes recognition.
Turning a sideways thing
into an absolute gravity well of meaning,
of meaningful sound between
two breaths.
Overtaking and freezing in understatement
the greatness of now.
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