10
waving him on
One should ask what is the artist
trying to do for himself here
“and the nothing that is”
Achilles—frost
dusting himself off, insults hurled—
the He— heRo—HA!
Ha— and the rotation
Jack had been mugged, ClobBereD
wobbled, how does one stand
to behold, Sunset ideaL
dreams of EveninG LaNd
but he was— out there
that bird stopped—
he saw a god, there, then there
it was like—twit—he thought, peeing on himself
in the wild wind, with glee
roaring,
long slope, now old land
Weee—e,
and around the corner
turning, to night and another
right in front of them—
and he thought they missed it
Jack was going out to see
11
for himself
limping on over the hill
large figure
sneaker stepping over tiny hill
perspective of far away
blue and remembered
Parade of imageS
this doubled ideal in the stars
this flowering Universe
in our own heads
it was all coming from the
black and white behind
the different styles
were like poems
before the hardened belief
most exciting
when it was new,
each was painted gold
each was a sun
you shall be a Buddah of the world
Jack was the man—
he had been there
that looks upon the globe
from within his sun
a tree growing out,
12
revolved down from that height
petals falling—
closing
falling
dreaming
worlds above
worlds below, tumbling
through all
and another world appearing
mythic space breaking onto
breathing in
breathing
forgotten metaphor
of holy moments elevated
Crispin Halo—Sun
faceted diamond revolving
changing
breathing—out
other
spiraling inward—
WyrD turning
walking this earth incomplete
look for me in the dirt
under the rock
the snake crawled out
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he stood on the highest
mountain
twirling—
the snake emerged
round, from the dreamer, himself
cycling serpent
day after
Sun Day
GreeN MaN he was
revolving
it was the World’s, Earth
and poetry in that naive
beauty
the one that came
identity at the source
the wandering sentimental fella
thus come
in continually breaking forms
kaleidoscopic change
his arms up lifted
style of being
BroOke—N
beAuTy
tumbling into the next—
next, illusive thing
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the lonely
Lord that looked
the sovereign
of the seen—
from this high spot
Sheepherder of—! Ha!
this compassion of seeing
each world a tear
falling
falling
Oh BeAuTiFuL FloweR
seen through the reeds rustling
from the east
continuing
circles on the water, rain
an inner power
panting, out
of breath—, stages of the temple
steps of ZigguraT summit
day, night
round and round
falcon of narrative
unfolding, wings
the path
and end ahead
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Here I am and Here—
the whole aim of life that flower
rose, petal
opened and ready
measured, interval
“a fine frenzy rolling”
order and world
spinning
Why the birds seemed to lead him
esteem so wounded, fallen hero
far from—
make something
of that cornball notion—
it was winter again, fallen on that arrow
the NumBeRs
he’d return to, the numbers
the city— each year
the world, they had invested
in the empty apartment
in the mean streets and
the BiG CaRtOOn EpiC
SubwaY notE
bringing back
InDiAn DeSigN
glimpse, glint
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the consolation prize
blown through
empty streets of subdivision
the western blue bird
fluttering on edge
thou Shield, thy
Orb
in rotation
Orpheus, Christ,
turning through
he would die again
was like—
dead, once more
the gods waving
painting died— in the snow
the last revolution
he dwelt amongst the reflections
ideas, mirroring some ideal —
festival—
of death enacted
the whole of art
EartH, struggling
double,
the enlargement
a celebration of being, in the confusion
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alive as the poem
into an opposite, wind wisp
calming the chop—chop
the breathing , the breathing
the breathing, out
gnaw your bones
cut off it’s head
dig out it’s heart
bury it all
growing there
green sprout—
didnt want to get over it
the beauty
sky and cloud
Spreading forth the Seeds
fragments buried
sustaining a life
standing there brush in hand
one had to make it up
—A KinG
it was the numbers, the NuMbeRs
the Earth turning, and again
for rebirth, each day
from the East,
Sunflower god
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Paumanok,
The fish ShapE
wanderer of the disappearing lines
the simple awe
the morning
light on the hills
seemed original in its returning
recurring quality
and shot
through the waves
thoughts arriving
fine frenzy
the good earth
Has no edges
slips over horizon
Imagining
wondering in the reeds
dreaming
glimpse of blue
the reason for the poem
trailing away along the original
River— flowing
hero, figure
quest, order and
revolving Earth
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Curve—
changing
revolving ‘round
crossing that edge
the difficult
ordering to—
what he called BeautY,
that was what he sought
all tumbling revolving mirroring—
what we saw that was what we became
“we are talking poetry here”
the extended thought in the sky
evolving,
Yes, the Earth
a rounded form
of complex lineage
the Poetry of
blue and green
marble
whizzing round
zooming
hatch, hatch
cricket, cricket
Here I am,
Here I am,
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dancing to the cycles
turning
OnE spot
in black
IdeA,
RounD EartH
imaginative
order
two in the one
and circle
in the stars, ideal life
the future—there it was,
just an interval,
now gone
washing up the brushes
in the sweeping range
gone again,
the moment
revolving,
and memory
was all,
there was— this glimpse,
here,
it didnt matter
or mean
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