1997 Brooken Beauty Marching onward
headed for the Bridge
He felt insane telling them,
what he said was “he needed a drink--”
walking the boulevard, Layfayette-- Walt
touched by the great man, a beggar sought--
The rabbit hole in green hills, windy woods
of a home, a beginning for a journey
stepping around trash,
discards-- a coffee cup rolling— driven
stepping aside to let the cars pass
The Bridge ahead, I drove myself too far
beyond a rationale of behavior, a mess
too much money thrown to no avail,
Is insanity breeding the edge,
not what is claimed
except, this pain, writing on
stumbling from the curb
speeds a depth
that propels a memory forward to a desire
of that whole,
grasped and a future
One, One!
in thought
and ideal- what a God was,
a universal--
release from this pain, or rehearsed guilt
habit of mind, collapsing
into SOLIPSISTIC action,
out of gear,
out of control
lack of self control
my beloved freedom, of IDEAL!
someone else’s ballon from b-day party
careening through the streets
in greasy coat
Yes, I’ve been here before,
scary thoughts, not able to retreat,
restore the order
sit in the sun, the earth revolving, hoping to jump
on once again,
armed with poetry
the fragments
I feel I can leave,
I have enough of myself,
gathered to me
of Heroic epic character, the blue man
planting sunflowers, Johnny Appleseed
limping, limping
wounded, keeping on
bolstering dream
Florida god, swimming the emerald sea,
the oats blowing gold
Louisiana adventure,
Texas familiarity and Blue Bonnet
on through,
Indian’s design and there the
Nevada distance
the grand emptying of thought,
California then, Eden,
this earth,
I saw the butterflies all
revolved in painted order
and---
still to pack the boxes
the books again--off to the store to sell
something still to propel a dream
Oh, I cried in sadness
of failure of--
I can’t say it-- maybe I’m just
wrong, got it all backwards?
This love of lagoon space
and The Sea
presenting circles,
surrounding black
paint swoosh,
recognizing, bird height --
flutter, and swoop
evening light, scattering
of yellow and blue
stripe,
the leaves
all through the seasons
West Across America
the variety of
the weather’s thought--
Pulling in after dark, to Florida palms
the headlights searching, falling asleep to
crickets and frogs, raccoons in shadows
eyes lit, wandering through
full moon in pines, balm and humidity, tossed
into deepest night
the next morning, I’m reorganizing the car,
the mind,
getting out the paints
catching a glimpse,
I hear a cheep-cheep, like in Long Island
and with my binoculars go--
It is! Yes, an Osprey on a dead branch tearing
a fish between its claws, a silhouette, the emerald water
above another reeling, cheep-
cheep, cheep
in green gray haze of parting morning clouds
the humid breeze billowing
red bird-- rudy, rudy
the Louisiana road, crossing bayou
I wanted to make another painting
but the fog and pouring rain were very Louisiana,
as I drove through the narrow corridors of southern pine
and mangrove swamp,
into the gulf’s low mixing clouds
and finally out into
the clear Texas space
clouds clearing to reveal
wild flower lined roads, bluebells and birds, birds
Austin birds and hills
scissor--tailed flycatcher and paintbrush flowers
and speeding, into the Sun
the west, zipping along, had to stop and paint
such a scene-- mesa like western hill
spotted sky and lupine in wind
A hurried painting, but I was here!
A bucket of flowers up on the dash
I am absorbed into all this
So dazzled, I’m--
hours and hours
and miles across Texas
the rusting windmill
the sun behind in the west
black and bluish--
I remember, that sound
the cry of the peacocks
the dance in the sunset
of bird silhouette, breaking shapes--
I’ve been looking out for the comet,
something I’ve never seen
and There!
I crawl into the back
of the wagon, swathed in down,
I pull up the designs of
my protecting Indian blanket,
Pulling over my head, moving slightly
in the chill, to glimpse
the comet ,
still out there--
its tail shortening
in perspective,
by it’s turn to deeper space
a happening,
which turns the story
looking for those moments, strung along
Life on the Road, this anxiety within me or
out there, why can I find no
connection, the mirror and lamp
the end of sacred space
sold as commercial, the blocks of
more, more
Road Song,
this is the splendor of beauty
I wish to die into,
to be part of
my thoughts melt,
the paradise of moments cherished
here, quiet long, slow
here, sun spilling out
here, the cold evaporating
as the orb mounts the sky,
I’m on my way
coffee in hand, steam fogging windshield,
in the cold wind
blowing past the needle point
of light growing
up in elevation to pines,
stopping to relieve myself
behind some juniper
the wild wind blowing--- peeing
on my self with glee
lost in distances
wheeling
in the still blue-- white feathered sky
land changing to rocky desert
acacia flare, yellow
adjusted to green-gray sage
spring green verdure
a place of my own out here
to have these paintings
my life surrounding me
poems
and the space turned
inside out
a hall of mirrors reflecting
endlessly
the soul meeting the
blank sky
Chinese mountains
water falls over rocks
and flowers
another’s imagination
projecting
through the days and spaces
of figures doing
Shiva dance, doing that,
the rhythm, the unknown
painter in Punjab hills
painting my soul, eternally
repeating arms
the days bring the world into being,
and gone, day and night
the comet speeding through,
This was the first Southern Trip I would repeat may times in going to New Mexico each spring.
There is a certain coherence for once but still punctuated with despair in the out of synch feeling with the culture one encountered which had become the Western Road of gas stations and hotels, convenience stores.
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