He wondered, maybe
a minor key
he wanted to be believable
though had none-- himself
oh, maybe a pose
no home, no chairs
thrown in the corner
broken with Thanksgiving diner
memories all for sale now
he had his eyes on the east
waiting for
that figure
he had a sketch in his head
as to what it would be
comic sadness
who had this poverty to paint
the black line
seemed to be the completion
even if there was nothing to lasso
sun, hero
star
he was driving them nuts
they said, all of them
himself too
if he had a voice-- maybe this poem
want of darkness
a hard thing
delivery
The ups truck rumbling
shaking the house
he reached for the top shelf
the bottle slipping from fingers
slow motion
tumbling
a dream like earth revolving
west and sea direction of weather
force and muse,
fury and form
this hero figure, charcoal smudge
"was a carving not a kiss"
could I have been wrong
he wanted to be the whole
not just a part
both things
at once
this is where the serpent lives
everywhere and nowhere
at once
a word out of the sea
it whispered
serpent cycle
flashing
he said, one thing
meant another
he sang a heros head
he was re building after
the deconstruction
he used his head
to defend
against the universe he desired
the wholeness of black
and white
the zenith revolving around
the change
he remembered, turning
blank upon the sand, the footprints
it was in our own eye
it all gained then fell away
it was like the tide
the revolving of the moon
the earth and sun
it made his mind
if one slowed one saw
the aurora undid the summer
in winter flare
as it imagined the change
it was a glory
a constellation
of thought
the idea writ in the sky
star spangled mind
of achilles
she was the unverse
touched him
on the head
it all passed
in leaves
in sunset
in bird song
the next morning it returned
it was the " c" remembered
his life seen this way seemed
a poem all ordained
he felt alive in time lapsed splendor
moment sparkling
as they flared
to memory
a new
word spirals
through that fate
freedom and power
remembered
maybe not on the surface but rippling below
it all faded to scribble in the sunset
again he was left here to wonder
back again to zero here
then
there was some form to the smudge the drawing
when he backed up and saw the whole wall
it was a muted image of the day
that was coming would come to be
he saw the sunset too-- he saw it all
and night
shapes fly round, in phosphorescent trace
glare and gone
he was headed south
then a turn west
the stars ahead
the sun was coming up
he drank it in and exaggerated it
surprised and romanticized
I'm coming home
that inner world
he saw out there
this merely going around he'd defend
his church
and altar
kind of sacrilegious -- going round
he pricked the pressure
of reality
and flew with the dream
aesthetic cloud
part of the wave, falls-- with leaf
it was modern once
the soul he'd built
all the paintings in his head
he'd built
he carried his book along
shrimp pond and palmetto
I mentioned the object and the distance
the blank
but never said anything truthful about the creating
the making
the nearness to--
and Florida beyond-- warm green
he never mentioned
it was easier to be negative about it
but no he was making a reality and
one would say believe-- and it took all direction
he just kept going he'd see
that warm beach-- palms flowing again
but for now it was closed
yes a big sign CLOSED
down in the swamps ad rump, da rump
he remembered the purple stain
where it seemed to come from
a pilgrimage he first saw a purple--"poem"
he forgot it was a palm-- a chapel
he had to go far
realize this-- so dear
it was always there
from the beginning
as most was as he had eyes to see
it was there on his way to Mexico
the woman from down in old---- Mexico
Christophe, Philip it all blurred into
the universe
she was
had no need of aid
from them
he was the new man and his indian diamonded blanket
he would continue reading
the imagination as value
seeking the essential
Sincerity and Authenticity
he'd order it as he read
and it was apparent now
look
what he loved
the mother even-- forgotten
bleeding through
a face
for her
he would see her in Marylyn Monroe--at the Modern
strange profaned sacred image in my church
Madonna
he realized
he had driven all the paintings to the desert left them there
tried to tend to them now but was alone there
others knew but made no motion
abandoned died
the cranes
reminded him of hearing
"The Clouds the Clouds, paint the clouds"
but even so he'd forgotten how
he saw the work begin to dance
they didn't need ,
as they were
But he couldn't see that for himself
they sometimes danced
or made a few steps, flung an arm
thinking-- yes!
thats it might be--
all this so super-- fluent
painting, but can't do it all the time
but again today seeing when I, he is painting
that's it
thats all
he was Painting there
a new name for the poem
He's Painting and that's, that!
He's back its so good to be home
back to the studio
well that was before, its another orbit
He had this idea of a Last Judgement a revelation
where all was told
all black
and a few symbolic looking drawn things
like the beginning in the end
a doubling of the world
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