#3, He'd filled it uP.

#3, He'd filled it uP.

It was later than he had thought.

Every thing was needing attention, 

the never ending stance stabbing at 

the Opposite side 

of Day, 

of everything, 

the moments what we saw, 

the real world, of night and ash, 

the Snowman wasn’t the whole story

but then the melt 

and the ventriloquism 

of Spring

“the Virile Youth,” Young 

Poet at Summer Height.

the passage was enough 

everything passing, 

the irony in the poetic sense

pass, pass-- 

Don’t worry it will pass,

the hope, 

towards the Ideal

beyond the insult, the pressure 

of this real

Chaos which we tried, like here 

to order, 

into Temples, 

the five lines, envoking

O Muse! Crispin called, 

Jack continued 

the mental traveler--

let no one frighten or flutter us.

all at once, 

can be scary, a Big Bang! 

Another day tumbling

around as zodiac.

Decorating his moment, 

best as he could

that world revolving

above and around his bed, the dreams,

the memories, and reflections

the existential beginnings.

breaking against the flags,

The ColoRs of  

Sun--flower, here

and twirling shells 

Book of hours revolving 

round

Heaven tumbling round

3.

into the next and--

he twirled the flower 

between fingers 

in the blinding 

unnamed SUN

the echoing, still ,

blare of Tibetan Orange

forest of words

big game hunter amongst

SymbOl CrasH.

Lion --

of Red Reality.

diving, deeper, 

the flower in his teeth 

ExplodinG to the sUrfacE. 

Outlined in black, diving again

A rhythm,

A butterfly stroke,

All the evolving parts 

were coming together.

It was becoming an order 

of Crispin gods, 

spirit memory behind and Ideal 

Reality sought, His spirit 

and soul--

Might suffice.

he tried to tell his Father 

but when as he arrived

 it had all changed. 

He’d brought back 

something for him. 

Though he couldn’t see.

Crispin bathed in

the waves of diurnal motion.

It’s the Mythos and Poetic 

parts, not bad words. 

The SublimE-- 

he felt had failed him

That mystical moment, 

the still rustling in the woods. Again

he would heighten, 

The moment, 

or drive it to depth-- 

He would keep on

till this poem’s stiff neck 

would give way, Yes, 

he was interested 

to a degree in this mystic-- direction, 

it was poetic anyway, 

How does that bird 

arrive to, that same complication, 

pattern and behaviour, decoration

unraveling 

of Bachelardian space, 

and Mythic HerO 

Thousands of FaceS, 

in Eternal ReturN 

and cycling 

through the SacreD

and ProfanE and the AnatomY 

of this structure

would become AnxietY, a poem

of Crispin

Achilles was kicking up dirt

on the Mesa, 

his bed pulled down and pressed 

to the clear pane 

Orion turned round

after all, it was-- all beyond

The explosion, 

we were all DeaD

the changes happened 

slowly-- the cow hip, pelvis bone 

that was breaking 

apart on the still life table 

set to mark the change, it was

decorated by the flags, 

fluttering

and the pot-- 

containing flowers-- 

If they came again,

or last years remains

were still a reality,

and he remembered, 

the shells 

as that was what 

they were, the bones

There was the wind 

the resultant weather  

a large part,

Jack watched it all, 

and it felt like home.

There was mystery,

already there 

in the words, Such sHadowy 

slipPery stufF

but I’ve sworn against the SpoOky

mind-- Oh Natura, 

like tree, the thought of tree

like figure, like thought

barren, in winter--

then full in summer

Spring and AutumN

8.

He was off on another round

Whenever Jack was unsure 

  He went through them all, 

The pictograms balanced 

everything into a Vortex, 

out of which 

he slowly spread his wings...

and to think some of us 

have never seen 

those BirDs.

The genre mimicked life--

as it was a reflection of Achilles MinD

He’d go out to see--

Jack was taking off once more!

Lucky Fellow!

Orange SquarE and NiGhT

StuDiO!

unexpected combinations,

Bang around 

and CyCLe,

12.

Forward, HO! Hoo, HoO! 

It’s Summer again 

as Jack turned the page.

The thunderstorms at Monument Valley 

were already closing in.

The coffee and book shops 

in SoHo were gone

mixed with the loss 

and intensest rendezvous, 

ThE sudden BeaUty.

Jack kicked the old rusted beer cans 

down the road past Mexican Hat.

The Indians did their best 

to wreck the place, 

it was part of the Religion, 

Jack guessed, as he

shivered in the cold shower, 

he hated the tourists too.

Achilles was on that road where 

he thought he found 

the whole cow’s skeleton 

and the black 

and white warbler flew straight

through the scene

it was an amazing 

green grey valley 

of Sage and Lupine wild flowers, 

Crispin never found it again 

as it all had changed.

Jack picked some Lupine

and hung it in the window

he noticed how it went with his 

Blue GinghaM PatterneD shirT

The Hero Crispin! Ha!