1
The whole
world
in a mule cart
pulling
up
the hill.
Beneath the hill—Who?
Pulling the hill up
from the roots of it.
Pegs that strap the hill
down onto the world—
Hills' roots
reaching to the soul of the
hills' world.
(Ugly old night,
with raunchy smells
and rotting smells—smells
from the old garage
and that damn car trunk
stuffed with moldy rag smells—
*
The hill the mule cart trudges.
The rank(s) of night
beneath the passing worlds . . .
*
Hi. I'm fine. How
Are you. How are you
this evening. I'm just fine.
Fine. Nice to see you.
Nice to see you all. How
the hell are you? Well? Well, well.
This evening, well, I'm just fine.
Just fine this evening.
It's a fine evening.
How are you.
*
How far Up
the Mountain
trudge the mule?
Dawn break.
Stop. Watch it
Crawl
from thatch of Self. All
a blaze. I have a head
of tiny grids and animals.
With this
I constrain
the world.
The solar entity
strikes my capacity.
One of me
glistens
in the dawn.
*
a Break
in the work. Something stops or
is stopped. Something broken. Something
at last made whole. Take it up
again in a new place. This
text cannot
consume itself.
*
Across the gap
between the worlds—
an angel
above
The Great Divide
watches
an animal
of the field
(running about down there
in terrified disarray
looking for its place, its mate, its business
going about its business—
*
I am going about my business
being me, not
being somebody else—not
being YOU for instance—if you
are you then I am
not
you. I am "not-you."
The Angel
moves
in a circle
I am not witness of
yet
it
circumambulates
the life I write
and is its hidden term and secret order ...
*
I'll be on my way.
I'm going home.
I'm getting out of here.
I'm out of here.
Get out of here.
Don't talk to me.
Don't you dare say that again.
Say that again?
You can say that again.
Why don't you talk to me?
Just disappear.
When you are quiet and listening—
that isn't gone enough.
When I am quiet also—
Moons and Palaces.
*
It is like a lake.
At night.
No birds. No mules.
The Widow sits on her bench.
Dogs think.
*
The mules
are full of marbles.
They labor up the hill
and the green one's rattle.
(Sounds of marbles rattling inside mules...
Donkeys.
Monkeys. Tired ones.
Tired little monkeys
sitting in their rows
at the end of thinking
*
I am waiting
to return
from my journey up
the mountain
back from the tiny room
in the small hotel
where
all my needs
have been provided for
Now I have to get back down
the mountain to town
to catch a train to go back home
in another town.
Disturbance in
the information
structure.
And now I'm
standing in the halls
with too many packages—
*
Awake
then
sleep again . . . Again
I'm up a mountain—
disturbed.
There is a woman
more disturbed than I—
She has not been "imitated" "intimated"
"intimidated"
"initiated"
She has not assumed
her place in line—
She thinks there is going to be a process
for getting down from here
in an expeditious manner
and therefore she is frantic lest she
"miss the bus"
*
Dogs and strangers. Myself
alone on a barge. Terrible weather.
What to do? Go down
in the engine palace—monkey with the gear works
*
Nothing is in the way
of the soundings. The hard
machines
inside the wind.
It doesn't have a "thing"
in mind. No aim or outcome
hankered-after afore-thought.
It Moveth as it Listeth
the tiny dory "lists" on the tumbling breakers—
a wave pulse
comes over it
from somewhere
other than it—it
"lists"
along the wave pulse
*
They assemble assembling
the things
each
of us has to
give them to use. Each thing
we have
is a "nerve" they touch
an erotogenous
location on the paradigm each
has not contracted for.
The being they have
is of the being
we
bestow upon
ourselves—“Don't Do it
Don't Go for the Presidential
residence the honor
of the dead the moment of totality—
I see one mounted on a basket
with a calculator
passing into a cloud
above your
damaged hideaway.
You think him Real and Not
Real no words
you own compel
his dissolution—He Stands
in the Place
of Yourself—the same
locality and IS
as
you must be
*
As you are the terror of your own annihilation,
is the Prince that Destroys.
As you are the excess of your own release,
He the monstrous Guardian rattling keys.
*
Be quiet
in the posture
of your ownmost
passage
out
of determinate being
*
Falling asleep. A lake
the rowboats we are
riding in are, in the darkness,
filling up with water.
Mine keeps moving
however, and I am
puzzled at the logic that
compels we must go on.
Now the boat is
passing inside
chasms inside water
roads
in a mansion
in a mountain—
The passage is too
narrow
There is going to be a sharp
Veer to the Left /
and we do veer—
Another passage.
Deep
through the innards
of the inward
mansion
a boat or
trolley
carriage
careening as it must
towards further darkness
I am struck
by my own
concentration
down
the blank
career—Think
"askance" at the Managers of this
labyrinth—the beings
through the bowels of whose domiciles
willy-nilly all night I am coursing ...
*
That Which Is is
the First Identity. It throws
I
out on a vanishing world.
I sunders on nothingness . . .
That nothingness now glows real—
real with the many scintillations of that fracture.
*
Go away. Make the people BLINK so I can
hear the thunder
register disturbance in
the weather capacity—I need
a table
and a tall
drink...
*
Tiny mites die
as we all fidget to eliminate the itches these
mites unwittingly stimulate stuck
in coiling hair ...
a fish
in the murky
pond water
attempted to eat my calves—
I leaped and hollered—
dogs punish people. They don't
want to be trained or kept
in pleasant quarters while their
masters galavant— they don't want STUFF
sprayed on their delicate forepaws : the dogs
get mad and crazy
leap-through-windows crazy
bite the arms of gentle attenders, benevolence
not what dogs want
*
doesn't want to eat
animals wants
to eat tomatoes
infestations of anything Not Think
Not let mind know
anything of larval
infestations
*
The world is walking a dog
across the little
lawn patch
the dog people
live in a cottage
in front of the lawn patch and
the world they have is
walking the dog
across this lawn
into the general neighborhood
*
Everybody happy always never a blue
moment never a tired
time never a dream—
keep the people smiling through terrible
weather show them the
shining rooftops show the
blazing seas
keep the cosmos
winding keep it white keep
the lawns pruned keep
the dogs walked keep
the dark world
away
*
My hen might begin to
bleep. My little frogs
sit a long time on the mud bank
then leap
when some thought
strikes them
*
You need to (dis)play
the matrix out from which these
speeches
compel themselves the Bed
of itches and compulsions
beauty spots and zones
of ancient valley pleasures
which . . .
*
Primal Notes and blotches
little prongs of nervous
excitation threading
strandwise through the
thought flesh
that . . .
*
The House of Space
that worlds these
elemental nodules
the logic on page zero
the topologies
the algebras
Then the ghoulish legislation that commends ...
*
A woods a matrix a wet morass
a system of ducts and runnels
houses far in mountains
deep in night
a banquet and a journey
back
or down from
night
stop on the way
people attempting to exchange things
they want to enter deeply
into another State
investigate the minds
of others penetrate the
place of selves and others'
places
trees and huts
and the dangers of contagion:
if you touch the living
exudate of mud creatures deeply you lose
your nature or acquire the mud of others
you go out from your house in the day and all has changed
*
paths and little depots
going for a long
walk with no idea of why
but some dull propulsion
urging
down among the bluetts
*
You are a little child. And it’s the feeling of a new place
you have moved to:
people are trees and wolves and huge tan Bagel coats
exhibiting alien functions wide
white arms that push people off
the round green table arms that lift
fat logs and finesse menacing gestures so you dwindle
where you thought to be a major
player and are hoisted up too high
upon the table where, in all accuracy, you chose
to be so small
I didn't want to come here
Mrs. Doughnut has a Bagel Coat
everybody has one—Oh
to have a Bagel Coat and BE
*
Too much Buzz in it.
Too much "pop."
Put that bat back in the
bat rack buddy.
Make this hat
blow away.
Go awake.
Go away.
Go awake.
Go away.
Play it like a pro. Go
slow with it. Say it
like a pro. Throw it here.
Throw it out.
Make doubt.
The gap that rocks
rocks—in that
gap sparks and a
special little hissing noise.
Leaves in a net.
*
I am a large bird
a whole bush
a whistle
I whistle and I sputter
I cackle, warble, peep
I sleep
in a bush
while I bite
the stem of a thistle.
Push the rock
across the field
Make the field
yield. Then cross it.
Cross it in flight. White
Cross it in sleep.
The line of bushes
bordering the mayfield
cropped like ruly
heads
in an ominous pattern.
Green but inky black green.
The light
of the sky
behind black bush lines crackling.
*
The door in a noise
is
as
small as it
has to
be to
be able to allow
that which has to pass
so to pass
(Light crash through noise door)
*
The envelope opened. Closed
noisy boxes
dropping on linoleum
sodden
pudding suddenly
similarly
dropping on it. The Maid
with the braid
took note. This person
held her words. Held
her wooden
box. That's
the way
the noise
arose. The words
the Maid held
rattled
in the box. She
fixed her gaze. A stack
of trays.
*
We were learning about weather
mathematics. Everybody
knows that now.
The old shack
shook in the formidable
wind commotion.
You could hear
the tinny
rattle of bronze oak leaves—
you could feel
the front
of the wind
on the front of the house.
Loose, the glass
in the windows
made
its sound.
Whiney, singing, narrow
tones
mewled through board chinks.
How
the rain
beat down.
There was no town. Only these
few shacks
scattered on the plain
exposed to the wind.
Around the plain
the giants formed a ring.
Around
the plain
the giants
gather. They're not
supposed to know
or like each other.
Suspicious creatures
alone in punchy minds.
The general slander.
But this is the truth of the giants:
They form a ring.
They hold
a little box
of polished pine.
Something kept up close in there.
Something in the dark
the bearded mothers nurture.
The wooden shacks
rattle as they wager.
They have a wager.
Solemn giants, waiting on the plain.
2
The King's Ink
draws the ancient lines:
on this side
those
on that
these
and we
remain
on
our side
they on that side
*
Beyond the King
An Imperator
blanches
as the world
he organizes
shines in its
minute—
And then That Man recovers as
the world he ravages
grows white cabbages
*
The worlds are not assuaged by the
languages they rigorize.
The King's
mule
pulls
the cart.
Punks and deadbeats
weedle in the court yard.
Beat
the gong.
An elephant
is stalled, haltered, detained at a booth.
The King's
warts
are emphasized by
dots.
Adulatory tunes
brittle the room air.
3
Beginning somewhere is not nature hair
grown on famous old
bald mountain stone / time
increases with advice / the people take
too seriously / their actions are infected
by the voices they distinguish the forest
of noises is rife with little voices
*
birds in the atmosphere. A black one seers
through the boughs. Mind consumes the sight and reads it
ominous. (Ominous of what though?)
A hole
in mind's own act flies in black
across a tree of space thrown out to catch
the mind's OWN trees—
*
Stein, You Thought—
What
's wrong with
that? The balance
catches. The man
is swung
in the night
from his own
rigorous necktie—"Oh yeah? In this
culture people no longer
WEAR neckties" rather
they grow WARTs
at certain THOUGHTs—
(informations weedle through
All Things
and then some)
their mastery
of speech has grown so thorough—deviations
in syntax from the INNATE
NORMS induce spontaneous
corrections called "Performance Pustules"
*
UP
we raise
our eyes
and close
our dry soul
s'
holes
up with a sort of
spiritual caulking
compound drawn down
from the thought
of God—
[the thought of an odd
hat that
sits
on the heads'
tops imparting
SUPERVENIENCE to
the partial
thoughts
therein—I want to rise Up
Go Up
shut UP sew UP
my own predicament within the precincts
cynctured just for them
soar UP
Close the holes
Water the souls
*
wise. old wives
alive
crazed
raises
eyes'
brows Up at
that
flip attitude bruted about about
what
gods do . . . choose
or die. Words
don't make it
true a person's
reasons
each in its own little
thatched
thought hut collective breathes
its own kind
of li(v)es . . .
(the genre of the Market
marks it with a dry, conspicuous reality
exempt from material properties
save for those
that mark it)
Live alone
with the open
space released
beneath
immediate things of sense
hence:
Fence.
Whose?
The boss's?
Lunch.
In a pinch
on a bench
the wench
winced
when we
wanted her to
shove along so as we could sit down and discuss
a little business. Give me the business, will you?
A crime has been averted. The wiry
man
returns
to his own lunch
hunched with a leer
on his lip and a queer
glance proffered
The woman
finds
a new
bench.
A life
clenched
in a closed
hand
an organ
bound
to abuse
its own
secretions
free molecules
bond
licitly
quick
in the froth
light
in the gas
(These phrases spotted in a space such that the genres
of speech shift locally giving play
to mind's abuse
of brain matter brain's
control
of all
the other organ
lives
who turned on the lights
within the body cave?
(and how to make sense of it
4
1957
the smooth, wooden (shiny wooden
armrocker
with strawberry patterns curled up on in
against the fire
with chemicals added to make it look blue
and around the corner
a lot of books on metal
shelves
with names
the complete works
*
going to be myself for a change
going to be as I am
be who I was
when first I thought about it
I was confused
for quite some time
I put the question that had best be left unasked
it turned out to be quite unnecessary to respond at all to the charges I had
leveled against my own, what do you call it, nature? it wasn't nature
it was just
the way
I am
*
I ruled out
the property
and opened
the gulf
lurking
where all thought—
unnecessary
only the sun
at the bottom
of emptiness
calling
with a strange little voice
not words
but a quiet
humming
that grew into a wolf, actually
as you tried to distinguish its contours
while the mists
rose
as figures across the lake so still
below
*
I saw woods
where none had
been
where nobody would tell you woods is
either they hadn't seen it themselves or they were hiding
the fact that they too
had fallen
from the zeppelin
and were
as hungry
as I
or else they just didn't know
anything about the business—had been so enclosed
in their lives
that the exit and entry
problematic never
arose for them it would be enough to black out sharply
when the quickness terminated
5
The King
does not
believe it. He "hears"
with his
"Ears"—spies
Eyes. Instruments and
"moments" passing
from the throne
across the world
and back to it
with the speed of Holy Beasts
according the Categories
Kick the King in the Ass
with his own exegesis
"I can't see!" ...
Don't conduct an argument but Sheep Dog
the others down the field head for the Dome
throw rocks against the walls
remove one stone
run
sit
watch
watch it settle
watch the stones of the edifice
bestrew themselves
return
examine
execute
participate
imagine
imagine the King emerge from the empty throne
majestic
rubeous
halcyon
refulgent
fragrant
resonant
judicious
ugly
loud
an imp
a twit
a puck
a waistral
a vagabon
a song
do it for a song
to make one
to make amends for something
for someone
to bring one back from the dead
to use a sign
and keep quiet under it
to be among its instances
a bearer of its tokens
to be its cart
before its horse
its noble rider
prancing toward combat
and later
policy amiss predictably
the combatants rise anew from the general field
no good come of it ...
6
Nobody
thinking
this. The thought
itself
lifting itself
out of the mind that thinks it --
off the page or digital apparatus
the abstract code
in the auguries of the possible
in the unresolved ontology of its lodgings
poised
ensconced
enthroned
stashed in memory
UP there -- IN there -- away
anyway
off somewhere
where the indigent poetries gather themselves
to offer a last assault—
Do we seek a queer alliance
with such poetries?
with mysteries?
hooded wizzards on the peaks of harried distances?
hoodwinked by their inner prepossession?
The Emerald Bauble in the Wizzard's Tower
on which the Missives of Divinity
visibly inscribe themselves and vanish
on the instant they're perused?
Up Top. It.
The logic of zero commutes
with the trick of Now . . .
7
I was asleep
(probably)
on the floor
of
my office
in the middle of day
it was supposed to be Monday
we were driving
across the Bronx River Parkway at Underhill Road
and the car had a way of climbing
hills even if you didn't put your foot down on the gas pedal
and that's what it was doing
as we approached
Tuckahoe even though
there was no hill
and I kept asking are we going
to my house
and where is
my house?
I was certain
you had to turn left in the middle of the village, drive along the railroad tracks towards Crestwood
but I wasn't sure
that sleep
was where
I was
—for one thing I hadn't
fall
'n asleep and
then too
I could feel my body
lying on the carpet head
cranked up on a purple
pillow right hand making a V
beneath my ear my mind
all the while
remaining
anchored in my lower
abdominal region the accumulated
affects of an unpleasant
interchange
voluble still on my liver tissue
*
now that's better,” and I can bottom
out make my energy
smooth prepare
to get into the car and drive
in spite of carburetor anxieties
across the Hudson bridge to TK's clinic
8
The primordial nature of language
if it has one
anyway a way
to get things started
I was lying
in my crib
it was dark
I couldn't speak
I couldn't go anywhere
do
anything
but flail
and exercise my finger muscles. There were already however
certain things that were true:
the corner of the crib
at night
was a responsible
locality
it gathered over the gaps
separating its instances
into definite place
and any singular occurrence
of its
coming to mind
betokened the whole
*
your crib
they said
yer
berb
her brib fur drub
you
are lying
in the corner
of the darkest
palace
when the lights
go on it is ourselves
that have caused
this to befall you
you cannot control
the light
you will grow
into a house
by your own
reconnaissance
at such time as that occurs—then
the hazard
belongs to you but now
we incur
the damages
of your every
contingency you
are the edge
of our world
your activities
perturbations in
what we know
of our own
ministrations
towards you
*
It was less luminous, less warm, much more like
draining away—
something is draining away—
you have to stop it;
You have to cause an arrival
to come from below
and staunch the passing
of immaterial fluids from the image body—
This is the technology of stillness:
to summon an influx
from the reservoir
below
to work the organ tissues
till their contours loosen
far into daylight
and the reason for the compelling
vision of the gross materielle
no longer seem
good reason—
You can taste
the dissolution of solidities
beyond their grim topologies
and the subject of existence itself
drift towards the luminous. . .
9
some trip on a railroad cart up
the mountain but "inside" up
to misty vistas and dark
declivities.
I'm up top
but now to get back down
the cart slides down—no brakes!
only a small switch
and of course the power of gravity
'll outweigh that—
Later. Angry. No one wants to hear
my near death, near miss
experience.
I'm pissed.
And throw in the sponge.
And hit a friend
right between the eyes.
10
dead light
dark life
The Mule
on the Mountain
against the sky. The sky
inside
the Mountain. The Elephant’s
sky
inside him. The Lion. No where to go.
No challenges. His stalking
is accomplished
beforehand. .His rest
contains
his fire.
*
A cave, a hollow, a grotto, a platform, an altar. A station
on the passage upward. The light
flashes across the tabular
surfaces, flashes off the sheen of rural roofs.
In the grotto
beneath the summer trees
the beings
pause.
*
Situation obtains
but vanishes.
You breathe.
You know.
You retain your mind
between the intimate heart beats
between the thoughts that, harsh, assume the mind.
You stand aloof, alone, indomitable—but off somewhere.
Can’t get to me. Get to me. Through to me.
Can’t cut home.
Can’t reduce this thing,
this site
of the last reduction—
one’s own being
cavorting with The Menace
11
What Justice Is (ii)
how old
is thought?
(in the criminal degree—
the thought
that bucks
the mind
Angry.
The mind is angry.
undrinkable coffee. (well, then, hell
don’t drink it.) Cripple
people, hobbling
through the parlor, old
women in pink
blouses, gathered ’bout
the luncheon table—they
compel
the world with their brittle attitudes
(You don’t believe me—but this
old biddy OWNS
half of Dutchess County and
’s got DIBS
on the rest)
shut up. Convinced? subdued. The other mind’s
words grind your own mind
down on its own words—Stay
in the fray. Stay where you are. Find
the final theme, the Ace
proposition—that from which the other thoughts flow like bees
from the fecund hive to chase the honey badger
back from the honey trove, the wisdom
culled in nodules of golden vision, clean in the heart—
A thing
should be praised
for the way it is
not because it generates something good in others—
to do it is to love it to be it is to be
the blessed thing
(The holiday spirit, but solemn, bright, September—
the noise of the horn, the people
walking among yellowing leaves
to the Holy Apparatus Shack
there to cream the Cow
at the summit of Being
for all she has
to clean the beings out
with lucky juices
the vow of ancient thought
to think again
Ancient people live again anew
who
crave the crystal cleaning
pouring down
through the cranial suture
—enters the veins
and covers the ground
and cures the will—
And lightning flashed
and the meadows opened
and there was a horse of bronze
with many doors
and a corpse therein
that wore a ring
(for chrissake can’t you remember how much of this stuff you just
made up and how much you copped from Heroditus or whomever?)
And if you turn the ring so the bezel
points into the Lao Gong point in the palm (to calm the heart)
you become . . . inevitable!
(Invisible)
inevitable!
But The Just can become invisible and yet remain
just. They Do What (They) Will
at the heart of The Law, The Law convened
to constrain the profligate
estranged from the Just in nature
(though Law’s secret ends, if not its ways, will be their own
“Being just and seeming otherwise”
"Being otherwise and seeming just”
Must
12
The Dog put this in my head
on the Eve of Nuts.
Is a Text
a place
to stand?
Will it stand?
Will it stand in my head?
Will my head
stand
land
on a text?
Will the Land
Stand?
The Grand
stand
and
then
men
and women
quietly gathered therein.
Now they must choose.
Who’d choose the rules by which those rules were chosen?
The dog
in your head.
The dog put these words
in my head.
I heard
dog words.
I said I heard dogs words. I wend dogwards.
*
Must choose.
At night
amidst
a torrent
of the Possibles.
Water coming out of a crack in a black stone.
Only a trickle.
But the water becomes
UpStanding Men and Women
that fight against things
with noble fortitude
and ominous footsteps.
You sit alone
in your house
on a sunny monday
and hear these loud stepped persons
stand against the rock that made them persons.
The land that stands against can't stand for long.
Soon it is a rock a wall a tower aloft in the mist.
Upstanding ones comprise the tower.
They show the beacon of their nature
and bespeak the dog whereof they have that nature.
There is something on which to stand.
A shout of joy a moment
brief and oblivious
when all the possibilities flood the light
you get out of the rut or trap, take off your muddy trousers
feel all new all over.
Stop your thought in its tracks. Find the bright
interior.
Stand in the light
of the blue
dog..
Abort the text.
*
Wheels and deals and I have nothing to do with the thoughts I adjudicate. Let them rut
in the dirt. Let thought rut
in the dirt. Let it propagate
its opposites, let it spew
a spectrum of nuance a range of compossibles let it SMORGE
all over the type face that
oblivious to its nuance
supports it with a dim
aplomb
a dumb
neutrality. Well fuck you you type face. . .
*
I am going to peel
my face
from skull selected
for me to have myself the
inside and the out of.
It comes right off.
I pack it
in my case.
I take it home.
And where do I live in this "home," this addressable domicile?
Inside your mouth, you crotch heart. I dream within the spume beneath your tongue.
You eat my words.
*
It is almost blue
it is growing
inside my forhead
it rides bicycles
but not loud bicycles
it effaces the path by which it came to be here"
comments
the Dog
*
a man is standing on another one's forehead
or perhaps it is not a man. It has hands and legs.
And his left hand looks like it's just poured out a can of nails
onto the earth but there is no can and no earth neither.
Behind him there are drops
coming out of an invisible source
and falling evenly into a bird bath with a small hole.
Drops
appear
where nothing
is.
The edge
of shining
worlds.
Crack that wrench on your knee and hold that smile.
Lick that bench on your tree and weld that pile.
Clack that bunch on your beeper and scold that owl.
Trick that lunch from your chopper and build that tool.
Fick that kanch from your dipper and fild that mool.
Snak tok gonch dom tor dacker ind fold ak dool.
Crack lick clack trick fick snak
wrench bench bunch lunch kranch gonch clack
knee tree beeper chopper dipper dacker
hold weld scold build fild fold
smile pile owl tool mool dool
ak
13
The large frog face
has been here
from the beginning.
It sits on the spectacular mud
oblivious to odor.
fifteen minutes
twenty minutes
an hour
not dead
not sleeping
not waiting
a large bug passes
14
That bald tall leaning creature
without a mouth
attempts
to impose his
nature upon
the other
thin
bald tall
one.
Both men have ears.
*
This other
holds
his ground.
He is firm, stands
tall, won't
lean when leaned on
won't take in
the mouthless force
*
The hair
grows
from the rock
and has
no friends. Associates, possibly. Companions, companions at arms)
length
holding a black string.
They all hold black strings.
It might be a snake.
A headless sliver
profferred to the absent
force
to force it OUT -- and STAY out.
Stay Out
Blank Force. Or Rise
In My Head
15
Over the masticating Ocean HALF HEAD
hovers and throws
its image
down
upon the seething water
to wait for the water
to smooth over
and the re-
duplication of its nature
inverted
to appear.
*
A carpet spreader named Pete and his three companions
stand at the corners of the room and lift the rug.
Pete gives the order
in response to a huge video monitor he has to keep one eye up
on as he works
the dust
from the surface of the carpet
into the shadows on the air.
*
Now people can peep into brains and see the shadows
of personal ideas
creeping across the thought flesh.
Behind the shadows
Half Head Hovers.
*
If seventy percent of my time I actually feel like the man whose name I carry—
that's the question I wanted to put
sitting
beside myself,
in a public room
among the other supplicants: Which what am I?
I walk
outside my body and into
the surface of the expressions I see
opposite
to mine. Then shut up.
And sink.
Into the enigmas
of my own locality.
16
The Vacuole
the up arm turns the wrench and the
down arm
comes
out of the bald man's beard
he is back
to back to a creature with a single sickle blade
riding out of his skull
one finger up
to the sky
tangled
thoughts
a mouse
with a city in its
seminal vesicle
*
there are bridges over turbulent
water ways so the
people that live in the holes
across the bay may
behold their smaller and tree-dwelling relations
we are culling
our ancestors
as they ourselves
cull
—a single [unitary
mother
in a large tree
giving birth
to variety.
There are geese and ducks and a few
goats
wandering in among the spinning wheels and items of wooden
furniture at the end of the road after the turn in the hill
where the muddy-coated mammoth goats
graze in the purple
light, you never see the proprietors
*
inexhaustible funding
a yellow field
of spectacular growths
embellished on the menace
*
"people keep fooling around"
standing
in their own regard
holding
"positions"
and large crepuscular beverages
in goblets
in their forepaws
before the dawn clears
*
nothing you can say will drive
the world crazy
enough any more the existence
of elephants
as large an emirate
whose legs
are the pillars
of the sky
*
the speed of light
exists
in the state of things
and THERE
no time is passing
*
little men
address each other :
good evening and how do you do
here is my string
there I see you too
are holding
string
*
ink blotch holograms and wiry snakes
for hair
if there is only one string
between them
there is only in essence
one of them
*
dis-
gusting. Alone
composing
the entire procedure the world will use but you are only a small
person with thoughts
on account
coming out of your more civil
orifices
your needs
happen to be our own
so we make you into an oak tree
and grow your roots
in a field
for all to wonder at
all to wonder that you convene yourself
in the form of an oak
*
the philosophes
mumble
....sit
in correct manner
and bring
attention
to bear:
an entire world (in a mule cart) connected
to its parts and everywhere
the independence of the plasma
is thought by the managers to bless the enterprise while others
of us
rue this same
connection
and labor to convene
a vacuole
in the social cytoplasm
17
excuse me. little sphericals hang in the sky
the tower is built of bricks
a feather licks
the crown off and
the people
topple.
Or
Are not these little spheres terrible holes—
holes in the air
to show another zone—
terrible holes in the world
so that another world
you cannot know
you know now hides there (?
[
The woman is a star. Black
crow in finger's trees.
*
Read it all. Find
the thought
that spots the little pictures in the mind.
That opens doors
beyond oblivion
(what is beyond oblivion?
The little dogs'
tongues
wag
as the
moon drops.
The sun is as bleak
as the snow.
[
The word goblet.
The little gobbler
the cup gulps down
the night juice
It is logical
the head's mouth
gobbles down
the tiny blue cup
before you can
down your draft
the goblet has done it
before you
so
you
come later
after
the ancient cup
[head that is]
has
downed
the night juice
*
on the other side
of the night
the intimation
in the form of the grandmother creature
must be lies).
beguile you
with no more than the fact of it
*
come let's buy horses
and ride them in houses
till the windows pop out on the sky. That will express it ...
*[
mind
hungers
for words
a pond
And over it things to be eliminated
hang
from an enigmatical lift apparatus
*
Frog Damage.
They sit
in the black
mud
forever, actually.
The smaller
dragonflies
crossing each other
over
the black
water
*
All the living animals in the night
in side their sounds
are projects of the dreams that grow about me
I am all drunk down
by surroundings
black and rich
I sleep and fall
into the phases of a passing far within
and hold the secret image inside my hands
*
When will the aged Rinpoches
come out of their cars
and hold me in my dream
in a bubble of clarity
against the murky substances
the living categories
that consume each other
then all are gobbled down
by the mouth that
swallows all gobblers—
(bliss of origin
*
Blue Light. Or LIKE
blue. (Analogy
in a zone
without structure ...
Our failure to understand
is as
peculiar
to the history of each of us
as
our knowledge, wisdom, calm
abiding insight into …
*
each
particular item
enlightened]
freed from the world
(returns to the zone of beings whose light it shines
mind resolved in its ocean.
*
Sleep cycle stopt.
Who
just happened?
World
out
like a puddle
resolved
in sun.
Late
at night
or early
before dawn. One bird
in blank
auditorium. One shadow
line of willows
against the wet
light.