#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!
