#4, He’d filled it uP.

#4, He’d filled it uP.

He wanted to write the poem 

on the wall.

Henry and Jack in conference thought 

they were getting somewhere, 

and a story

line would bring it finally together, wed 

with symboled level 

of kaleidoscopic TumBlinG

he had seen 

how the Rothko’s 

stripped of their story 

faltered, they had stolen the Myth, 

the Fire

from within them

and now they seemed decoration 

16.

for some Buddhist retreat, 

Their own physical power 

diminished, 

So Akilles would continue the path,

many thought the wrong road

the story, the walk, around the lagoon.

WeSterN LagOOn.

Yes, JacK, could make it up, This Allegory, 

of, what was behind

or above, or Below

In feeling-- “The sky, he said, 

paint the Sky!”

Divine Madness, she said, 

of the Seventh

inspiration from negative parts, 

she never saw

much or maybe evaded, the stuff 

that joins-- things, the tumbling

Blue, Oranging into Purpling 

slate-- and stars.

He had only glanced at the paintings 

haphazardly 

against the wall 

they would try to stop-- 

were held up against the night,

shored up

against-- life itself, well 

bring it on,

He put them on the computer 

and revolved 

them round.

NIGhT STUdIO turning round--

17.

to blue silhouette,

some genius of the sea-- 

maybe Ideal shade

FigurE that puts it all together,

and mimicks, the EaRth

revolving, through.

Prophesy 

spoken! --that he had opened his mouth,

Mysterious shiver and shake,

No SpookY, 

remembering, 

the lonely anxiety

of moments, 

to SinG and

passing, alone, here

providing the motion, to turn 

carnival atmosphere into

Mexican night,

death and beauty.

Achilles/ Shield and--

clap of hands, there!

It was all in an order of BeautY 

Floating, shifting, meaning, 

if any at All.

NOT WanTing To LeaVE.

There the gOd was!

Crispin was Off--

stepping out!

A journey of Profane 

Chaos, and Error-- 

searching for the sacred moments 

passing the Temples 

creating the Altars, on this long

 and lonesome road.

You FoOl, even YoU--

Jack saw the BeAutY.

The BeauTy created the BeaUty. 

That you were here, 

missed the Day-- 

THE BEAUTY

18.

the Sun coming up ahead,

Tree growing on the Right 

Mountain Height to the Left.

This has just been my life 

a New Bib-BLE 

of sorts. What could be 

maybe again now.

This scribble, Jack wrote, pecking-- 

with single stroke. 

The whole feeling

from this part here, 

and over there “that--”

the change, 

a UniverSE of DeaTh

breathing life, in and out, 

this Gaia eaRtH

the object writ LarGe, this Earth!

Ourselves.

That!--Whole broken glimpse, 

Blue figure running 

round and through, the reeds

Jogging in the evening light, 

stepping sideways 

to avoid that striped 

snake writhing in the grass.

That made a place.

Here an altar of words 

to make that PlacE.

It would be indulgent but 

he saw the formless shape 

gulpiNg after the formlessness.

moving flashing,

the chAnGe

A Thought Revolved.

Then he looked back 

19. 

the Earth from SpacE.

Slow motion, revolvin-G 

CyCLinG.

Orgin of Indian design.

now. Explaining what was.

He thought of that bird 

the black and white wings 

of memory 

propelled him forward 

past his Red and Yellow head.

Crispin had seen 

that friendly bird,

it had cocked his eye

to spy Cripin fella,

He bent over 

to pick up the FloWeR.

He held it up to the SuN.

A figure ran through it 

CeruleaN 

like a dream or imagination

and was GonE.

He felt in the cenTeR 

oF thE WorLD, 

in SaCreD time, 

turning.

Sacred, hmmm. the souL --

contained in an invisible 

Ideal? the spirit 

which filled the soul--

the first sunflowers,

on the side of the road

they were the figures, 

or ideas, 

the representations for 

Achilles journey, begun 

ChAotiC round, Every once 

in a while

 these glimpses 

of what now was the blue, 

more cerulean-- 

nude, flash 

of an imaginative sort, 

meaning 

something, or pointing to, or

some oblique reality

the walk around the lagoon, 

he had already said 

it depended upon.