1
the blue and green,
revolving
all out there, reality
would be enough,
This Earth.
Crispin thought,
Heavenly, idea—!
changing shape,
bodies and minds,
“How do we imagine
this changing, stability—?“
spinning in black,
and night,
the lagoon
and stars,
from the first, dreaming
there was more
and Jack
was on the road again
next thing—to add
though it seemed the same
thing, continuing
what was it
that would be finished?
his life—
that painting?
when was a thing done—?
completed, Jack worried
this abandoned idea
Crispin kept on,
it was the only future.
Achilles grumbled,
wanting to go back
through a new beginning
at that new end, the black and white,
spiraling, behind
it could be confusing
anyway, the green,
the blue
and the magic
in the negative shading
that which was not there
another and another
beginning, and evolving
revolving and the nothing
that was,
having reduced to a snowman’s
bones
that figure here on the road
surprised him,
it was different,
than Jack had Imagined
the chant
continued in Crispin’s head,
kept a beat, a rhythm
for his life
and now the grand style
of another age advancing
repeating,
this late style
not so simple
but from his head, what
Jack had been saying,
he’d become,
ideals
all at once,
sudden shape
Yes, surprise
out of Crispin self
out of that sea
revolving
tumbling figure, through reeds
the poem
of Southern Route,
each year
The GreaT RotaTioN,
sounded good
the myth,
the leaves
rustling
explained the change
American End—
NeW shoW On the RoaD!
THAT ACHILLES SHIELD IDEA
WHY HAD IT remained
THAT SPace from distance,
to ClaP oF HandS
he thought—
meant something
that he believed
in a shiver, that he could be of that opinion
the white space,
the drip and
smear of paint
brought it near
one didn’t need much
out on that cliff at night,
a blanket
diamonded or striped
that Achilles was there
that funny handprint
thumb shape or shard
meant something, particular,
a mind suspended
in another’s
and yes,
that Achilles was there
and to think
they were going to create matter
from light, and time
from energy
and it would go on
turning
one and the part
net of gems
in motion to—, stop, there!
seen in the light, glancing,
height
from leaf fallen, dance
into flash
each year—
round about
CrisPiN Mind.
We were another puzzle piece
to an idea, arriving
the shapes
of minds
how we imagine
the wonderment
passing,
in elliptic
flung notion
thought, around the sun
now in shadow
shading
The narrative would be added back
to the stripped down shape,
and line and color
painting or belief becoming target
found shape
Achilles fancied
spring could be next
to fall, like summer
dialectic of winter mind
seemed poetry itself
how one got from one
to that clap—
red and yellow fiberglass shield
the surface
shadow lengthening
the simple fact
death, death
whispering
Thou Orb,
Aloft!
felt often he could cry,
cry,
cry,
for his vital force
to keep—
to mean or believe
to hope on—
a forgotten thing to paint
Song along the road,
Sunflower self
leaf and reed
order— Crispin found strewn
from shape of idea
to figure
blue— at ideal HeighT!
