#1, He’d filled it uP.
1.
by now, his life
The spiral bound books.
Among the dead SpiderS and
kerosene dirt, smudged
the moments time left, fading ...
he'd kept on spinning--
not really finished
reaching for some resolution
the final one?
he guessed you could say
there was just no reconciling
THAT would be a life long poem
a metaphor, or fragment
that LeaF, to have any end meaning?
OFF NOW! to the villa Wall
that fresco, that American thing.
felt from under his MountainS
he had turned it over
and that BrighT
Striped SalamandeR
was the beginning
and Indian glinT,
The poet rode his bike down
Houston Street, a black tee shirt and
a poem in his head
seemed all he needed,
maybe he could say it
he opened his mouth-- the crossing
was some crux or
crisis
things jammed
together like leaves and sunset and
ColosaLL suN and fragment
memory and VillA
into that OnE he still would crave
at least here in the painting
although it represented what we longed
for in reality the oNe, we see
that made the cymbal clang, trumpet blare
As far away as Tibet
drove him back
to that ole, fish shaped island
to continue his HeaveN,
into dreams of unknown,
escaping profane
He, Ho!
Major maN at helm,
Hero on his heaD
SpAraGmOs
the rending apart,
7.
He'd found it on the dump
coming down
the tree cut up into logs,
this particular thought
into AmbivalenT, Comic sublimE.
a minor key
to coincide
with certain abstract
shapes
some striped, others plain.
undid the Summer
in flames
imagining the Winter
constellations flying by
star spangled mind
of Achilles Universe
of winter circle
to deeper edge
She was the Universe.
Crispin passing
the drawing leaves
in paintbrush sunset,
Jack went west in ‘93
the JoshuA Trees waving
through Comic Sublime
he tried
to put it all together
Sun revolvinG in that time-lapsed splendor
9.
going down
silhouette and black
fades to scribble
rushing around to see it all
come back up--
He would build from foot,
ordering a head,
repeating to symbol
He had this last judgement idea
revelations flying
unveiling any final truth
as man is the final resolution
of himself, at least
but now everything was
just leant up against the wall,
waiting.
It was about putting
it all together again and
for all
it was the quest itself, arriving
he thought, this way
and that
the flags waving
fate, freedom, and power
those Idealisms waning in the twilight
Jack had by now some philosophical idea
which seemed a reality,
a procession was involved
It was a making, the progress
of a he or-- self
Crispin was resolving an older order
new ideas were not what he needed now
as they kept spinning ‘round
presenting themselves
in negative and positive interplay
Akilles had seen it long ago,
10.
the reconciling of opposites
it made sense of it all
this idea attached to a shape
to a surface, Shield
he gestured with his arms
it was all a narrowing down
we were all running fast not looking
down to see there was no net, no
nothing beneath
we were only human
the sad fact
we hid as well as we could, that
we would all come to an end
though the treasure was buried, long ago
in the winter mind, floating
through, he felt he knew a thing or two
that transcended or lifted him up
enough to keep on
a comic cycle into
sublime and falling
