#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
