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Qarlotta's quince squished with joy,
And improved upon the stenciled boy.
"You are you," it said. "And that
Is where you must start."
Now the horehound sand's at mid calf
And I hear you laugh and laugh and laugh.
Veronica bursts her sun-fed hair
With creamy smoke to spare.
Over out looking I from here.
Sees I more of my life than is me.
To you, to me, to it, to wit:
The rhythmic or random flow
Is here and going there
Is there and going here.
The musical dance of life
Is Beings, being.
The present goal of us
Is to assist life,
To help Beings be more able
To help Beings become more able
To assist life
To be alive.
The Lost Beginning
or
Impotence Personified
or
The Home made Inner Sandwich
or
The Corporal's Yearly Breadcrumbs
or
Summer Friendly Grin
or
Ode to a Line By Tennyson On a Television Commercial Tombstone
or
Patents Pending Raga Noise
or
Original Single-file Theater
or
Animal Cracker Boomerang
or
Five Thousand Two Hundred and Forty Nine Abstract Balloons
or
The Undelivered Thank You Note Tacked To My Wall
or
The Longing Of The Former Beard Of Paradise
or
Bloody Nose From Zealous Picking
or
Stop The Forever Clock Now Society
or
Albert Albright's Moon Dance
or
Sonnet: I Wash My Balls In Your Honor
or
Chocolate Steak Riot Answer
or
Favorite Cookie Crumb Typist
or
London Artichoke Welcome Wagon Blues
- - -
- - -
No later times will seem worth counting with neck in noose now.
Build future power splashes with Mocked-up dynamite from home.
Finish the first reach to grow Vishnu arms.
If you smile, your face will break,
And cascade to the floor
In purple rivulets of truth.
It's here! The door is here. Come. It's
here. Now!
Beyond the door is the bridge. Come! Cross it.
Your long search and wait is over. Come.
Brush off those cobwebs. Move the creaking joints.
Come! Into now the door is unlocked.
Together we sweep away dark eons. Come.
Here it is! The door. Swing it wide to the bridge
beyond.
The bridge out of the swamp and through the void and out!
Come! You are not alone in tears and fears and hope.
Now! This is it. Come along and soar.
Come! The answers have been found.
Over in the elder clums of wrenched chance
Where withered tunes, boasting, odor the chants,
Stands a willow sweeping the provincial walls
Of an ancient estate with taste for marble halls.
Elegant wheat-straw drapes stand guarding
From dusters potential windows, light rations rewarding
Shrunken red eyes stupid after weep - ing.
As for the rest, they urgently are keeping
One sergeant festooned in compleat agony,
Black witch devouring bloody white phony.
He told us his favorite kick of Indian seas,
Of pale or billowed contingencies
That neither man nor hideous serpent sees,
How the major clown expires in rubber wheeze,
And in trench deep and crawling our loyal fellows
Weave guilt with patriotic climax in weeping bellows.
Her the dusky mind flaps its final quaver,
Head on vest and twitching body nodding braver,
Thus we triumph (!) through time into time
Gravely ending with prayerful French rhyme.
Far we look, friends to retrieve and reprieve.
Over lost ground still we battle to achieve
Some tiny semblance of the whoop-de-do of old.
Thick, flavorful stew drips off callous hands cold
And hot, drowned gurgling meager thought.
Am I not attempting,
By supreme quality and purity of communication,
By struggle and manipulation of symbols,
By spinning and lunging this way and that,
By majestic delicacy and dainty power,
By acrobatic syntax and daredevil metaphor,
By double-entendre and triple nonsense,
By guts and tears,
Fist-pounding and propitiation,
Endless and repetitive lists,
By vast hope and dream and despair,
To create simultaneously with each communication,
Myself and the terminal to which it goes?
What, then, if we come to realize or decide
That the old gods are dead,
And can no longer serve to fall back on;
And that the old heroes are rocking alone
In front of their fireplaces,
Gnawing a pipe and twitching in their slippers;
And that our bridges are burned;
And that no one is going to do it if it isn't <me>?
Do we then pitch in and carry our load and a little more?
Perhaps.
At least it becomes possible at that point where we no longer
<assume> that "someone will take responsibility
for it."
As for me, that realization brings me close to total overwhelm.
I cling to slim hope.
I am a waiter, waiting for my tug-of-war to be revealed to me.
I wait for my number to be drawn, for the two ends of my days,
for my life to begin.
And I am waiting for the magic word, the ultimate gesture,
the perfect attitude,
Which dreams as the finally recovered long lost skeleton key
to an infinity of locked doors.
I am half a duality and to that degree a problem.
When I withdraw my neck it sticks out under the
accelerating axe.
When I must stick my neck out, it withdraws, the
risk being too great.
My vast bin of data I cannot apply, its brilliant
structure elusive amongst my thumbs.
I wait for that other one to speak and my response
is in wise desperate squiggle of symbol-sounds,
quickly regretted.
I wait to move. I wait for I to animate me and for me
to motivate I.
Cause is always the other side.
I wait and sometimes watch for that next great
cognition that will burst the dam that I keep myself
waiting with. I wait for the dam to burst. I wait to
burst the dam that keeps me waiting. For what?
There is the agony: The self-self struggle unknown.
From triumph to triumph marching
The great Snow Leopard stirs
The dense ochre sand of Antares' swinging debris.
A toppling red symbol punctuates the last of a vast chain
of terror forms,
Stretched-out hand wheedling in abject humility
Commingles and confuses the moments of winning
So that this is there and front is back to where the:
Slunking orange hyena-baboon grovels in my back yard and
From defeat to defeat drags the corpse.
Notorious in-criminal lax
Wax office bridge comer
Easy weight cross handily
Puerile Polynesia home pure
Mine? Evil 20 order filled
Squeak by tenderness foretold
Yesterdays was that special squat
Thought ought to be in salt ice
Pages smeary litmus cum Latvia
Tone hope for wander decay
Bank-wrought squandry
Yesterday I peeled back the shell of the glowing galaxy and saw the
weeping serpents there, writhing, frightened in some unmentioned
despair. And I looked for a time at them and asked myself and
them
what all the anxiety was about but received no answer. So,
foolishly,
I closed up the star system, patted the scar back in place and gently
let it drift on its uncertain way, while I lay back in the soft dark
to dream another dream. It was a wheeling, soaring downdrift
for a
few seconds of galactic ticks. Here and there I scooped up
handfuls
of time, molding and stretching it to accommodate long and short
events, turning it backwards and sideways and upside down.
Lonely
space I pushed and hurried and welded, flashed full of energy and
matter in or out of space as time. Through here marched golden
haired sunshine with shining young girl vaporously moving, now here,
now when. Startled clean breezes blew her hair her smile her
dress,
she walking smiling upside down in tall waving grasses reaching
down to the sky's curved bowl. In the warm white glow the
child of
growing nevertheless distanced its counterpart for being well-fed,
well-housed; a living watery grave; a garaged aggregation of cells
(material and structure) laid out neat row by neat row interlaced,
patterned by life itself. The silent spaceless timeless
hands, the
virtuoso swiftly, thoroughly puttering together his works, adding
or subtracting. Oh, I had a delight, a fantastic
delight! And I
run it back reel by reel, meal by meal. Here it is right away
in all
leisure an all-out assault of the many against one cell, from many
to two and two to many after a staggering implosion spreading to
the earlier unmelting of two polarized bodies by two beings.
Who'd want to live forever,
Were he not happy enough?
The milling crowds constantly die
Straining their grasp for formless visions of happiness,
Missing life, dying in puzzlement and frustration.
Like the warmth from a wood stove,
Happiness radiates from life more fully lived.
Sought alone and for itself,
It vanishes like the reflection or the mist.
Who'd want to die ever,
Were he only happy enough?
What of one more life with me?
What if one more life with me?
Who could not say that I dug the grave of our love,
Which waits stamping like a waiting horse, graveside,
Never buried, never raised up again.
What I want to say to you bluntly without metaphor
Is: I still still love you and want a real marriage with you.
But you could not hear so bold a volley.
So I must clothe the same in gentle slow yet clear metaphor &
symbol.
Let it sink & soak in (rain on the earth),
Softly stir your hair (mist curls at mountain's feet)
Until it is safe to confront.
Flee the fleecy white dream-pelt
By exhilarated confrontation of
What makes it seem necessary.
Twitch and flinch is the slow train
To hidebound, harebrained anemic agony
Of blandly embalmed comfort in a jar.
And, my friends, saith the cook, when-if
Earths do fall, companionate orbicules
Descend in the wildness as magic food
For semitic hordes on a ritual walk-out.
Nothing should result in bringing this to mean
Anything other than what it says.
Major read-outs penitentially blanketing
These nether regions with super-data
The end result of, being a solder-compacted computer.
Blazing in the skies like the fly swatter
From the point of view of one of the atoms
On the left middle foot of the fly;
An extra-galactic invasion triggered by a
Psychopathic poet's embroidered inversion of a vision,
Thus:
The white house nailed against the stone sky
Hard and grey, flat and erect
Flat as usual....
Roof black outlined
My eye picking out the passionate angles
And mind probing the probable anguish,
The latent lamentations,
A curious cavalcade of speculation,
A dry run in future tense;
My attention fades into the next turning
Which might be the text burning
Or the hex sign on the Ohio barn
The smell off the Hudson
The thundrous sheets of Montana rain
Tiny flowerlet wiggled by air puffs;
Before the time of the drooling pup....
After the discovery of assistant emotions....
During the lingering latter days of treachery.
Nominal quails do defend the night,
The black hole of no-seeing death.
Knowing treeleaves topple thoughtlessly
Into... while seeming joy overtakes tiny travail
Thundering toadhoppers shyly plunder a
Painstaking November apple:
Whose
Seeds balloon over the dynastic Memphis
Outracing stellar vehicles.
This oddity can penwhack periwinkles,
Almost.
Twin Siamese Mongoloid afoot ran ahead
To signal the final masked empty ceremony.
------passing parade of dumbdrums
Possessing pride in home sense
Presently rushed the ground of their fathers.
Eating.
Sleeping.
Waiting. Tomorrow we reach the horrible.
Tomorrow we reach the utterly repulsive.
Tomorrow
the beautiful.
the beauty.
There duty awaits.
With jaded breadth the cheery birdbrains
Peck and nod amid copious droppings.
pulling.
strutting.
Faded for neither generation nor generations.
Tabled for the next session:
Cruciform ceramic pheasant under glass.
Ringing frowning angry sweeping laughter
Risen on Easter hills of Punjab
Nasties my noises in blaze taste of ridicule
Pass‚ for educative ministrations
"One false stoop and you're agonna DIE, baby!"
"Watch yor fucking stop!"
Oval all bright moon's recompense
We'll see fantasy dancers coming at us,
Missing and pass us, invented ago ages
By "Mom" and "Dad" again again
By no accidental intention,
No new version perversion
Persevering in enforcing the basic goodness.
Flaming arrows tenderly caress
Heart, liver and gizzard:
"Are you washed in the blood of your own limb?"
Surrounded image of black/white photos
Of crowded rainy streets in blasted cities
And statuesque echoes are calling us backward.
No dice in your struggle as the sun
Of your own wise follies in ashland tomorrows
Capable of self decimation or sham illumination.
Feet scramble madly at silver cypress invoked
Seventeen spoked wheeler-dealer in a sky crapped with UFO's
Lay low the looney menders on slender benders and penny bennies
Will you superimpose those that froze on your nose?
Pedro, the wagon is coming.
Close to ten; yes it is
Feel my way through the night
Wonder of wonders there is time:
I am here, then I am here, then here.
On going eventualities like colliding dominoes
Trail on ahead to form a bridge
To a future growing more perfect
And I see that I put it there
To play tomorrow's games.
Nursing Day Rose Art
Around stuffing we were never strong
The rolled answers: now tell Leander's wood
His lunar recession; now it makes space
Smile one thing ails or meeting an opening,
A widow or lass leaving duty alone.
So, in the age over retirement is so bad
Or some strenuous girth, always used it to be
Chilled in where death especially pants into vapor,
Stating oh no wand on the ids for the food:
We always were not
When even a headfull dreadful doom just spun its curse
Plentiful for a coroner, swim unruly sport
Stare at hogs, show off where foggy dew and Mortimer's hearse
Flashes the incident reminded to thee.
In regal innocence an instant: now each wing burns astray
White clarity numb with plaster; for now man may
Have word with trash, or in action try,
What for them was not an impotent sailor. To one moan
Past Timbuktu on the right phase alluring with a sheen.
Matter, one too defensive medical trip that just had been
Tumbling amusing, calling a toy from the sky,
Mad near Waterloo and the mail wanly gone.
On some other world than this
We will meet again,
There is no blank sorrow
In the lowering black cloud;
For when you pop out
And see just who you are,
You can start the game anew
And surely make it go right.
Another evening long ago now
We undiscovered this law of games
Just for the sake of adventure,
And each adventurous game was and had its trap.
Here we are at the (might-as-well-be)
End of a (might-as-well-be) vicious game;
And we, lumbering, slumbering giant
See the name: GAME, and: LOSE.
And looking in on it, start to turn our gaze
Out, outward toward home, toward ME,
Beginning the long step home
Across the bridge of learning the game of games.
"Martha!" says Yolanda the parrot
In response to Rommel the dog
As he says "Youf, youf, whine, moan, howl!"
Liver moiling in parentality extra-super-paralysis
mercenary necessary we make our trudgery
into passionate conversation with parrots.
Built over or over and future intend
open heart fudgery
Cancel out two tweezers, three backs to two tobaccos
we tend to our mortar, carry our crying to
the twitching basement of sympathy
and not miss our audience with
the grimacing patriarch
or the performance with rotten eggs.
Which reminds the local yokels of the
juggler of dreams
prancing on a tightrope of screams.
It takes a fool to train the rain
a fowl to brain the train
a file to grain the brain
a feel to cane the grain
a fail to stain the cane.
Youth is sage to savor the drain of life,
the piles of calcification and
eagerly gobble the most gravitas and poisonous compounds
With impunity until they agree
that they
are being killed.
Scramble thy scallions, thou penetrated lover,
Apparition so keen in addled eye and head.
Over thy tender passionless gyrations
I ride in a cosmic rodeo the lost bull.
Antiquated asp in aspect extraneous
See my blue eye under brimful plumes
Brown to spill into my uninspected universe
All the Saints and the Holy Father traverse
The sticky parathion, crew socks drooping,
Rushing through the unconfrontable in wasteful pursuit
Cannons ablaze at their own red herrings.
Friday it is, or fast day - hurry, hurry!
Overlay, my analytic parka,
Inlay your powdery teeth,
With extra data fed unilaterally forward
Over the onerous tracks ominously relaid
In the opulent bed of nomenclature
Sufficient mentor for crowds of worshippers
Sufficient monitor for mobs of commandoes.