All One, revolving. #2

idea! flashing

Shield dreaming

Name-- born in thought

into the reeds-- 

Floating

Revolving zodiac

Mind turning

Walking in the world--

stop in time

That fly catcher 

flutters

Kite like-- the Idea

The Hero

Altar of flowers 

Simple Giotto

Villa-- 

wall and--

A World

Plaster cracking-- 

Truth of surface 

rending--

Maybe, I was done

I took off

ONE.

Stop, to that --

• 
  

Something in the object

alive to a next moment 

Just in writing it down, the Ordering

Juxtaposed thought, 

some surprise

I hadn’t realized

Making a life some shape, color, line

Then this need to tell you,

Comic world made, 

putting together

But this fragmentation is real

Broken, HORROR

THE REALITY is frightening

Black tears fall

here?

But-- 

I have my own war

Getting further away

Maybe I should stay--

Just ask me to stay

I’m in that rather die mood

The abstract violence--

I’ll fight for it-- 

but not with you--

• 
  

Dreaming place reflecting 

Stars, chanting 

the things

Wandering afar

Wave breaking

Swallows 

weaving

Through fairy path

I am all heaven, 

bluest heaven 

Mountains greener blue

Orange dazzling-- 

outburst

Swoon

High up!

Offering it 

UP

UP in the hills

Looking down at 

all of this

Wild north beyond

Hard to leave

At the end it 

keeps on ending

• 
  

beyond another winter

Go round and round

All grossly alive and booming

       The world alive, One-- 

Seeing all things

Revolving style

Space to surface, 

here, 

ONE, saying it again

Western sun

20.

Behind me

Still, still-- unformed

Oh, that’s what makes us!

You are here 

to love the earth!

Still unformed

looked like my only chance--

The wind howling

Huddled in my-- Indian 

Diamonded blanket

• 
  

Like last evening in the sunset

The mesa upended into this 

elevated mass of 

Darkening shape

There in the sunset

Purple swoosh

Curve of road

The stars were appearing 

in the dark part

It changes the way you look, at the land

Woman with clothes blowing in the wind

“Old woman from down in Mexico--

All one; revolving. #1

All one; revolving.

Part One

Circling ‘round, 

The idea,

Revolving, All One--

It’s falling,

through Autumn

”Create something 

Of that broken scene,” he said

remaking--

The Sunflower Altar, 

A vine circling over Paumanok island.

The minotaur carting the relics 

mumbling, “Something about a tourist...”

tracing another arc, 

Crispin journey-- 

• 
  

Jaunt to the south 

Refreshment, 

in air, through season

Identity with the Sun

Shading into night-- sea drift 

THOU ORB ALOFT!

Sun smeared cycle, 

turning to icy self

Original dream, 

A place one could 

Surround one’s self with, vision

• 
  

Dreamed in winter of city snow

the sun is setting

The great hero taking leave

We go on about this death

Scrawl a tragedian testament

The sky is not moved 

The story goes on 

expanding beyond edge 

Ordeal of landscape, my new poem 

Is old poem-- over a repetition

Gaining still some sense 

Of a self 

In the cycling, 

color was ironic after all--

Sun and snow.

Spiraling space into apocalypse.

Exaggerated to bird cartoon,

Fragmented circle, the images clattering

Revolving, climb-- fall back, 

into black, and shade to

Comic sublime, 

• 
  

Shards falling 

In slow motion 

The pieces ending 

In ripple waves, 

Sound of dead man, 

No man

bibble of sorts-- 

BROKEN BIRDS

The leaves growing

In cracks

The villa’s webs and broken windows

The melting snow, 

faint sun in March 

That red object 

Organizing everything, 

• 
  

Still to go back, 

to check a blue

Giotto’s blue, 

Red in the Mysteries

Bang!

Clap of hands-- at the surface

Springing to moment 

and BLOOM of

Summer height

Pleasure that changes 

Existing self of that moment

Breathing in and out

weeping bare foot

Something happens

Ordering, remembering

Happening, 

testing feelings

Against this wall

I'd go back into my notes. I guess in a way not wanting to miss any thing I might have thought.

Any way as W Stevens said the Imagination is always at an end and I am always looking for some completion that never comes.

1997 Brooken Beauty Home I guess--

1997  Brooken Beauty  Home  I guess--

• 
  

To crawl out of the deep to a shallow hope

to look up, around

in the grimy light-- these directions of up

and out, have stung me.

Yes, still a faint-- Yes, like when 

I watched the ants, this summer their

fantastic purpose

carrying that grasshopper aloft

under ground 

to some amazing use

unknown

and the direction it pointed

to in a larger scheme

Yes, and the idea of a farm 

watching things grow

and being the caretaker for it 

if all else failed-- 

Yes, like Crispin is the namesake of Candide-- 

the Garden-- Home.

• 
  

somehow made a nice hike 

among the butterflies and flowers

I kept on though roads 

even an evil mind could see

the amazing beauty

blue mountain, golden hills

winding road

hurtling through spaces

windows down

wind through hair

remembering

the road in winter

full moon over the Sierras as Orion overhead 

turning, this is what my, ‘soul says. ‘

Yes, I can see the problem-- my expectant soul

wide open, I thought I’d never feel this again!

but my wound is great and only Peak Moments 

transport, to suffice

the heat builds and flat road leads to trucks 

and vacationers, passing through

 “We’re not from here, we just live here,”

Hot heat shimmer, a little too hot, 

I’ll climb in altitude, 

a little further North 

to adjust and camp for the night 

sun setting behind Sierras

through rain never reaching the earth, 

Rainbows appear 

another curtain like cloud is wrapped 

and peaking through, campfire blaze, 

aghast at black jagged silhouette

of elemental granite ascending.

I’m up early

and passing through, winding through pass 

and there is some slight green-- 

valley on a beautiful day

lucky to be here,

• 
  

Brooken Beauty

of the decreated.

This is my world, I’m born to it

Man’s Judgment,

is the Final Resolution, something 

is slipping away--

The final

end, dark glittering light of nothing

of letting go into that space

would anyone want not to be here, 

I for one want to go home, 

a death wish?

a feeling so very sweet, with the wind 

on my face 

want that death should be this

so very easy and inviting--

but no this is life and the struggle is 

delicious, this angst 

describing the depth, of love 

the grasp it has, 

feeling free and without drugged compliance

feeling apart from-- in all this self consciousness--

Oh and the goings on 

the urge, the act of continuing 

this unconscious

being, a part of, 

dissolved into, a feeling of rude--

awakening 

into reality

of What Sublime 

and unity with 

What is Beyond

except in this Poetry

final merging

to one swirl

of star light 

• 
  

I WAS WATERING THE PLANTS

and soon I knew each one

how much water they needed 

me and soon I needed them 

bought more seed, watching through season 

the goldfinches arriving 

silent, through the window,

the hummingbirds gone 

watching flocks of Pinon jays 

arriving, and magpies group, 

Oh, there the goldfinches

once more today perched 

swinging, the upside down pecking antics- -

off in a flock-- and swoop 

walking off into the hills, 

• 
  

that Sunflower’s bloom, 

finch bobbing 

in the wind, the toads gone, 

bunny hopping along 

pausing, the ancient fear in its eye.

Watching, I get up to make some lunch 

in the silent house, the warm sun 

across the table

looking out on the changing light 

cloudy amphitheater of yard,

the flowers turning, 

the magpie’s sawlike voices

announcing themselves.

I try to own it

decorating my head 

with the revolving orders, 

these cut out shapes

of cloud 

and hill 

and bush 

• 
  

PEDERNAL BLUE and

MARES TAIL AND there’s 

the ANGEL’S WING, 

swoosh-- through sky

the empty bottle, clinks

as it rolls off the porch--

rambling into

the years 2000

sunset sky 

over again

and again 

on to the future

stumble-bum saint

talking to myself.

“What I was trying

to tell you.”

• 
  

What did I bring back. What did I learn? Complaints of NY versus the Country, and the changes in the Art World direction—, not what I wanted the focus to be. Finally New Mexico and a Home seems the realization balanced by the City and it’s confusing directions. To make an order of it in this poem. There wasn’t any finality. 

1997, Brooken Beauty, Santa Barbara

1997  Brooken Beauty  Santa Barbara  

• 
  

already in memory

the desert showy skies,

decorating blue in mountain distance, 

ringing crumbling rock

into foreground of sand,

silhouette of Joshua trees

waving towards promise--

land brought forward

by desert flower

cactus bloom

standing, painting, 

in all this space

integrity of every object, 

at one 

with the order of, 

the poem

comet whizzing, into the stars

I twirl with all

• 
  

I’m nearing a place 

I feel as home but escaping my grasp, 

the familiar off ramp, 

then winding 

up into hills of homes tucked in here and there.

Up and around the winding road and a final curve 

and here feeling safe, 

high above the sea looking out 

every one is sleeping, the sleeping town below

the moist cool into darkness drift--

the road ending

and I wake to the busy growing town 

into city

suburban city of busy people 

busy with what ever 

they have gotten busy with, 

of what had seemed such 

a special place, my dream

vines and plants of every variety growing in this 

crowded paradise, 

I hear birds all over but can’t see 

them, people in every nook 

and cranny tucked away

I think of the lone hills, the breeze, 

a rustling grass

• 
  

the sun sopping up the fog

then a breeze makes a clearing 

days merge into the next

I feel like a intruder 

here all dressed in black

I make way to the lagoon a penitent like

outcast, my cross of anxiety

describing beauty, the stations of the journey

like that snake that crossed my path 

I’m still writing of it, 

black and white rings, 

I saw it again at night 

on the ocean cliff

it slithered across the way making its way 

to the grass, waves crashing

sunset walk into the trees

so picturesque

and menacing

I’m caught between

• 
  

Highway 101, as I remember it, 

unclouded, zipping free--

my coffee steaming, 

winding through Saint Julian

Ranch, hills of gold and green, 

fog making frame

for what’s ahead, 

there’s Hank and Michael 

asleep in the car ahead, 

hair in a morning  mess and-- 

Well lets go! 

it’s still only 6:30 a.m., 

off to Jalama, off beyond the gate

onto the sandy road, 

green hill against aqua ocean

blue and swerve of coast 

changing my mood

the chewing bulls, their vacant stare

mouths full nod, we stop 

and make insulting 

comments to the big bruisers, 

the car tilts up and angles 

over road ruts , this is the way 

it should be

what I search for, 

waves peeling off unseen

naked scene, private glory 

to match one’s soul

looping around the point and climbing 

to Conception, through ice plant 

and drifting sand, 

the fog parting and sun 

exposing the rich color of blues, greens

 in endless variation 

of ocean depth,

 foliage’s entangling 

blown to wild frenzy

ocean surge and whales breaching rhythm, 

the smaller point 

way below, the speck of black 

one realizes are seals 

in the extreme space, 

we are now enveloped into flowing 

along with the effortless 

flight of pelicans

in updraft

the wealth of space

and there, over there, 

see dolphins! wriggling into deep 

This is all beyond the capacity to remember

to remember, to tell!

O describe this

amazement

Springboard of spirit! 

red aloe to cerulean sky

and day lit moon rocking

the low horn, seal bark drifting

swept by wind, what is art to this --

adventure, 

worn out by goings over

into abstract shape, 

that different adventure 

in the studio, 

out there,

 I sip 

and could die

the painting, the refusal to die 

packing up wiping 

the turpentine stained hands, 

exhausted, 

fulfilled

the painting tossed 

into the back of the van

• 
  

my black and white 

ruined world 

hurled at you, 

I’m the Witch, the fairy Witch

Raven, hovering 

over the red flower.

Accomplice to the killers, 

of the red bird 

bright headed bird

• 
  

the confused world, my poem 

becomes, 

I verve off 

into, the constant cynicism 

breeding unhealthy power

surge of selfish want 

to stuff the hole, blown out

the missing figure, the flown bird

self lost, gone again.

Then, in effort to preserve that naiveté 

and

humility--

not to disturb the baby bird

flowing to and fro, on the palm frond

now hatching-- 

now flying to the sky!

Take away the outline, the captured figure

for culture and idea, 

release and free to the

beauty of nature, 

It is interesting to see my anger at returning to what has become Suburban life. I did not include much of this as it is mostly rant and does not hold up. I had begun my infatuation of wild place here in Santa Barbara as in Long Island, both having succumbed to the domesticated side. NYC was still an intellectual refuge from this Ambivalence.