#5, He’d filled it uP.

#5, He’d filled it uP.

Jack hugged the sheath 

to his chest 

it would get him through, 

he thought, his thoughts, 

which he loved 

from a distance, tumbling in like 

fashion 

3.

tumbling the new work, in 

likewise jig saw 

and juxtaposition 

and cycle revolving, 

fragments 

in the evening OranGing Sky.

He was happy like Ariel,

Jack thought about a painting of 

the Sneakers, 

icon like 

Vincent’s peasant shoes,

and what of a hat on a stick? his 

walking stick?

 that Staff the one, 

a leaping flame,

he was out on his walk 

around the lagoon, 

the blue spots, 

glimpsing--

Crispin would make it up 

beyond that yonder heap,

Achilles was gesticulating with one arm 

dragging that corpse around 

with no self consciousness.

He had recognized Billy-- 

out there in the distance, 

his gaudy scarf

gave him away,

The whole contained 

the opposite,

and that was where he was headed,

this was just the second PaRt

He hoped he’d make it

The gardener was gone --or

well, just another story, 

someone had put in some work

though 

it had been forgotten.

Just thoughts 

in a good direction, seeing-- 

Well, rolling up his sleeves 

he picked up the rake,

He felt at home,

Akilles dream of California 

6.

was on the Wane,

the Nature Lovers 

had no conception of an abstraction

on which to hang their love 

so it was no love 

and in vain.

This allowed Crispin to pick up his pen 

as they hadn’t seen the mountain.

It was his to climb, and NaMe.

He Read his poem, 

to the wind,

curled below, 

he had to get on,

” it was nice to meet you,”

That Western place had inspired 

the Journey, 

one of the troublesome words

but he had identified 

8.

with the Hero 

especially the one 

with the Hero’s Hat, 

He did want to say something here. 

The story 

held the parts together 

and continued 

to make these parts 

meaningful, 

not just decorating the space--

but each a piece 

of a larger puzzle.

we might never know 

what it meant, as NO 

MaN sHalL sEe thE ENd.

sounded pretty final.

what it meant 

was this search, 

would turn up 

not so much, a nugget here, 

or there but

man, Jack here was 

the final thought, 

On his death bed, 

well lucky for him 

the universe still twirled 

above 

and that seemed enough 

to-- that word was, “suffice” 

it would do to just be part 

he was home,

he had a table,

 the relics sat upon it

through the streaming seasons 

of snow and lightening, 

ice and pouring 

thunderstorm, the wind 

that snapped 

the Cottonwood.

Jack had planted it 

11.

ten years ago now.

The Hat. The Sneakers, 

The Walking Stick,

that cow’s pelvis, 

a strange narrative

and some Sunflowers 

He’d dug up along the road,

and Jack draped the prayer flags

over it all.

Crispin couldn’t remember any more 

Why they had chased out 

that heroic fella,

Crispin no, I think Achilles, 

no, or was it, Siddhattha 

Gotama boy or

that other one--

the cycle 

was coming round, 

and down

and the hand,

and the birds flew,

silent and blinking

all tumbling into western sunset 

of wild lagoon, 

and glimpse of blue,

dreamed of, 

seeking surface 

to relate it to climbing

zoDiAc

turning

rising sun, spinning earth, 

solar wind 

13.

He’d see the moon coming up 

and remembered 

the last evening also

Venus was there, beneath

in the south or was that Jupiter

it all returned

from a deeper deep 

grasping for a, surface

Boon!

and Just to See and wondering 

what did that mean?

It WaS aLL OrDerEd a Round.

as it looked here, 

a decorated thing,

musical chairs 

changing places, it was 

Crispin’s new poem