Their blue eyes come walking, introspective echoes of a journey, soaring,
Of the first generation, the first humans, their cradle the shape of
The human heart, its sound comes in color of the moon, the sun
Returns their golden crown, wrapped in the aura of familiarity, bathed
In want and care, dank bare, safe in compassion’s attic.
Beyond harpoons and screech owls and ringless bells.
Europe, the hornless bull, eunuch rapist of infants, man and God,
Whines stench of king time as Joan’s light flickers, and goes out,
Gone to herald her father’s shore,
Who in her descent from the peak, found the summits in mankind’s suffering breast.
The liars who stole the soul do not notice, their hearts no longer beat, they cannot die, they are in hell now,
Their Power, fungus and rainless soon,
Michelangelo screaming in lonely triumph,
The sound that probes to the
Otherside.
The poem comes
Across centuries of holy lies, and weeping heaven’s eyes,
Africa’s black handkerchief, washed clean by her children’s honor,
As cruelly designed anniversaries spin in my mind,
Airy voice of all those fires of love I burn in memory of.
America is a promised land, a garden torn from naked stone,
A place where the losers in earth’s conflicts can enjoy their triumph.
All losers, brown, red, black, and white; the colors from the Master Palette.
MORNING JOY
Piano buttons, stitched on morning lights.
Jazz wakes with the day,
As I awaken with jazz, love lit the night.
Eyes appear and disappear,
To lead me once more, to a green moon.
Streets paved with opal sadness,
Lead me counterclockwise, to pockets of joy,
And jazz.
BONSAI POEMS
I
I remember those days before I knew of my soul’s existence.
I used to be able to step on bugs and steal flowers.
II
All those well-meaning people who gave me obscure books
When what I really needed was a good meal.
III
Lately, since formulating mystic parables of my own,
People ask me what do I know all about China—
And do I think Surrealism will spread to Iowa—
Or would winning the Pulitzer Prize have saved Chessman,
When I answer that I am writing the Great American Suicide Note,
They sniff my clothes and leave.
IV
Men who love women
Should never go swimming.
V
Every time I see an old man carrying a shabby cardboard suitcase,
I think he is an eternity agent on some secret mission.
VI
I never understand other people’s hopes or desires
Until they coincide with my own; then we clash.
VII
Yes, there was a time when I was unsure of myself,
But that was before I was Me. I barely knew him.
VIII
The culture of the cave man disappeared, due to his inability
To produce a magazine that could be delivered by a kid on a bicycle.
DEMOLITION
They have dismantled
The Third Avenue El;
It’s still the same though,
They haven’t removed
Those torn-down men.
QUERY
New? Leftovers, overlooked by hurrying death.
Rejects with unadjustable souls,
Love-specked clots, of modern blood.
Marks, all over inside,
Traces of explosions,
First God’s, then man’s.
Color? Blue, jazz blue.
Blue like love,
Blue like poems,
Blue like blues.
Old? Whole university loads,
Tons of cellophane giants.
Book-end minds, bent backs,
Carrying heavy styles,
Lead forms, tradition colored.
Shouting barbarian, blasphemy,
But quite polite.
New:
Laughter on exotic beds.
SPLICED REFLECTIONS
Diverse remarks on what is truly dead
(Success and crime, two equal values).
Historical departure (Cain’s refusal to slay Abel)
Persistence of women who still love.
Voice of unseen commentary heard through plugged ears,
Obscure history of grass fires (Niagara of Soul).
Grunt passage (navigating in blocked wombs).
Sudden conference with imaginary Indian chiefs
(Ritual smoking, floors of white buffalo skins).
Innocent criminals buried under avalanches of cactus needles
(Great philosophical question: Was Geronimo turned on?)
Inca arrival, sun-faced jaguars, hammered-silver evidence,
Testimonial rockets launched (commemoration of Baudelaire’s whims).
Cold penetration is unison (arid tests of burning mollusk)
Ritual murder and levitation, semiweekly mating dances.
Light the wind, drag the rain in.
THE CELEBRATED WHITE-CAP SPELLING BEE
THE CELEBRATED WHITE-CAP SPELLING BEE WAS WON BY A SPELLING BEE.
A STAR ASKED A POINTED QUESTION: CAN A CIRCLE WRAP AROUND ITSELF?
A STILLED PYGMY ANSWERS, FROM THE BACK OF MY MIND, ARE WE DEEP DWARFS
AND HAVE OUR SAY IN THE AFFAIRS OF FLOWERS. A MISSPELLLED BEE MAKES A SIGN.
BLUE IS ONE OF THE MANY FACES OF BLUE. HOW QUICK A RED WHALE SINGS THE BLUES.
WHEN AN OUTBOARD SOLAR BOAT SINKS, I WILL WALK THE SUN’S PERIMETER, CURVING UP.
ONCE I PUT MY INITIALS ON A MAGNIFICENT CROCODILE.
WE WALKED A RIVER’S FLOOR. A BIRD I HEARD SING IN A TREE IN THE GULF OF MEXICO . . .
BIRD SONG OF LOVELY SALT, A LOVE SONG.
I CHANGE MY MIND, AND THE NEW ONE IS OLDER . . . A DRUM BEATS BEHIND MY RIBS.
SOMEONE DREW A PORTRAIT ON A WAVE . . . IT WOVE AS WE PASSED, DOING KNOTS, RUST HANDS.
SWELLS STOP WHEN THE SEA IS ALARMED. HELL COOLS ITS FIRES OF ANTICIPATION.
WHEN OCEANS MEET, OCEANS BELOW, REUNIONS OF SHIPS, SAILORS, GULLS, BLACK-HAIRED GIRLS.
THE SEA BATHES IN RAIN WATER, MORNING, MOON & LIGHT, THE CLEAN SEA.
GREAT FARMS ON THE OCEAN FLOOR, GREEN CROPS OF SUNKEN HULLS GROWING SHELLS.
SEAS THAT GROW FROM A HOLE BORN IN A TURTLE’s BACK, A SEA IN A TORTOISE SACK.
FISH GO NAKED ALL THEIR LIVES. WHEN CAUGHT, THEY DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT.
MANY, MANY YEARS AGO, THERE WERE MANY, MANY YEARS TO GO & MANY, MANY MILES TO COME.
THE LAND IS A GREAT, SAD FACE. THE SEA IS A HUGE TEAR, COMPASSION’S TWINS.
IF THERE IS A GOD BENEATH THE SEA, HE IS DRUNK AND TELLING FANTASTIC LIES.
WHEN THE MOON IS DRINKING, THE SEA STAGGERS LIKE A DRUNKEN SAILOR.
POETS WHO DROWN AT SEA, THEMSELVES, BECOME BEAUTIFUL WET SONGS, CRANE.
A LOOKOUT MAKES A LANDFALL, A FALLING LAND MAKES A LOOKOUT.
AT THE ENDS OF THE WATER, THE HOLY MARRIAGE OF THE HORIZONS.
THE SEA, DILUTED CONTINENTS LOVING FALLEN SKIES, TIME BEFORE TIME, TIME PAST, TIME COMING INTO TIME. TIME NOW, TIME TO COME, TIMELESS, FLOWING INTO TIME.
EVERYTHING IS THE SEA. THE SEA IS EVERYTHING, ALWAYS . . . ETERNALLY, I SWEAR.
THE SECRET LIFE OF ROBERT FROST
FROCK-COATED SHERPA GUIDES DISTRIBUTING (MONOGRAMMED GOLDFISH)
TO NEGLECTED MIDWIVES AT SECRET TRYST ON DESERTED ROLLER (COASTERS)
DEMENTED ELEVATOR OPERATORS IN SPACE SUITS SINGING HYMNS
TO GOTHIC BRAIN SURGEONS WEEPING OVER REMAINS OF DESTROYED
LOVE MACH(I)NES, O ULTIMA THULE (NO) MORE OAT(ME)AL.
DEVOTED TUNE PICKERS WHINING OF VANISHED TRIUMPHS
DRESSED IN SURREALIST TUNICS OF GAUZE AND IVORY
RUBBER PHANTOMS TAPPING UNFANTASTIC CRIMINAL FEET
TO WARPED RHYTHMS SHOT FROM OPEN-SKULLED HARPSICHORDS
GALA LAUNDRY CONCERTS FEATURING SONATAS FOR DIRTY OBOES BETWEEN MUSHROOM RONDOS’ SOGGY BALLETS
SERVED WITH PERFUMED MARSHMALLOWS FROM KEY EYES OF LONELY JAZZERS.
TORN ASPHALT MATTRESS OF UNIVERSAL RODENTS (PSYCHIC IMPOTENCE)
COLLEGE FACES OF GRANITE ANTIQUITIES STALKED BY LAZY TIGERS (STRIPES)
SMELLY BROADCASTS OF COMIC TRAGEDIES BURST FROM FLOWER DUST (SKULLS)
COOL DAMP TONGUES SLIPPED FROM LIPS OF SKINNY (LOUDSPEAKERS)
CROUCHED BEHIND CLASSIC FACES OF MYSTIC (TRAFFIC) LIGHTS BLAZING
HARD COLD WAVES OF TINSEL FROM BEADS OF KIDNAPPED LAMAS
BURNING OLD PRAYER WHEELS IN ABANDONED (PHONE BOOTHS)
ACHING TEMPOS DRIPPING FROM MOANING (AFRICAN (FINGERS OF ART
ART) BLAKEY)
ABSTRACT BOMBS DROPPING FROM SWOLLEN BELLIES (OF BLASTED EGGSHELLS)
FLOATING DOWN BLACK WATER CANALS IN MARBLE BOATS, HIGH ON
(SAINTLY (DESTRUCTION
RED DIRT) MARIJUANA)
[POEMS POETICALLY]
Poems poetically
pole the Poet into a
balancing axis
for endlessly revolving surfaces,
tender leaves are forest gifts
to represent the earth
growing out of decay,
the minds’ youngest buds
live on the revolving transformation
of live enduring mountains of thought, and
clear their pores in the melting sea.
And open fields spawn
their harvest in the passing
rain of the plain, as
the spring divines its
collections to the ocean,
and the great waters
continual upheavings speed toward subtle gatherings.
Shepherds with light fingers,
staff guided by the winds,
spinning their
auras into the
sun.
ALL HALLOWS, JACK O’LANTERN WEATHER, NORTH OF TIME
A PLACE CALLED LONELINESS, A SOFT TOWN IN THE OCTOBER COUNTRY AN UNIMAGINARY LANDSCAPE THAT EXISTS IN A REAL UNREAL WORLD, ARTERIAL LAVA STREETS CLICKING A SOUND OF LOUDLY WALKED BRUISES THICK STRING UNBEINGS, POURING THEMSELVES INTO EACH OTHER, FILLING THEMSELVES WITH EACH OTHERS’ EMPTINESS, SHOUTING SILENCES ACROSS THE SCREAMING ROOMS, VISUALLY BROKEN UNRECORDS STITCHING ILLUSIONARY HUMS, AS THE GREAT MARBLE FEATHERED STONE BIRDS CRACK THE SOLID AIR, FLYING FROM THE DRUM OF ROCK, ETERNAL STONE POEM OF THE SUN . . . I KNOW OF A PLACE IN BETWEEN BETWEEN, BEHIND BEHIND, IN FRONT OF FRONT, BELOW BELOW, ABOVE ABOVE, INSIDE INSIDE, OUTSIDE OUTSIDE, CLOSE TO CLOSE, FAR FROM FAR, MUCH FARTHER THAN FAR, MUCH CLOSER THAN CLOSE, ANOTHER SIDE OF AN OTHER SIDE . . . IT LIES OUT ON THE FAR SIDE OF MUSIC . . . THAT DARKLING PLANE OF LIGHT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF TIME, AND IT GOES ON GOING ON BEYOND BEYOND . . . IT BEGINS AT THE BITTER ENDS.
I KNOW STARNESS . . . I KNOW LOSTNESS . . . MOVE OUT MOON-LIGHT.
RONDEAU OF THE ONE SEA
DEEP ROLLING GALILEE, ETERNAL SEVEN OCEAN NAMED SEA ENDLESSLY FLOWING HOLY SEA, SEA NEVER STILLED, ALL FLOWING SEA, SEA DESTROYER OF BAAL AND MAMMON, DRIED AND FOREVER DRIED SEA, SEA, ERASER OF SEA DARKS, REMOVER OF SEA VALVES, EVAPORATOR OF THE EVIL ONES PARENT OCEAN SEA, SEA BREAKER OF RA’S SEA, BROKEN AND DEHYDRATED FOREVER BY DEEP ROLLING GALILEE, SWEET GREEN WET BLUE SALTLESS SEA: BELOVED GALILEE, THE GREEN WALKING, BLUE WALKING JESUS CHRIST, SEA.
BLOOD FELL ON THE MOUNTAINS
BLUENESS, THE COLOR OF LOVE, BLUE SLANTED TO A CRACKLING AND BLUE COLOR, THE COLOR OF COLORS AS SWEET BLUE NOCTURNES OF THE VOID. SOLITUDES FILLED WITH LONELINESS, BLACK RAIN TWISTED HAIL, WOUNDED SNOW.
THE MOUNTAIN CRIED DRY, TEAR OF STONE AMONG THE TALL TREES, THE SLEEPWALKER WALKED THE BRIDGE OF EYES, AMIDST COLORS OF THE DAY.
IN THE LEFT HAND IS THE DREAMER
THE BALLAD AT THE SOURCE
THE SINGER AND THE SONG,
POEM FOR EILEEN ON MY
RETURN HOME,
I AM A LOVER
BOB
ME TO YOU.
SMALL MEMORIAM FOR MYSELF
Beyond the reach of scorn, lust is freed of its vulgar face.
No more blanch of terror at reality’s threat of sadness.
No blend of grief can cause the death of laughter now.
In remembrance of certain lights I have seen go out,
I have visualized pathetic rituals and noisy requiems,
Composed of metaphysical designs of want and care.
NEW POEMS
1973–1978
[ALL THOSE SHIPS THAT NEVER SAILED]
All those ships that never sailed
The ones with their seacocks open
That were scuttled in their stalls . . .
Today I bring them back
Huge and intransitory
And let them sail
Forever.
All those flowers that you never grew—
that you wanted to grow
The ones that were plowed under
ground in the mud—
Today I bring them back
And let you grow them
Forever.
All those wars and truces
Dancing down these years—
All in three flag-swept days
Rejected meaning of God—
My body once covered with beauty
Is now a museum of betrayal.
This part remembered because of that one’s touch
This part remembered for that one’s kiss—
Today I bring it back
And let you live forever.
I breathe a breathless I love you
And move you
Forever.
Remove the snake from Moses’ arm . . .
And someday the Jewish queen will dance
Down the Street with the dogs
And make every Jew
Her lover.
[MY MYSTERIES CREATED FOR ME]
MY MYSTERIES CREATED FOR ME
BY GOD ARE UNKNOWN TO
ME, YET I LIVE EACH ONE
PERFECTLY, GOD IS MY GREEN-
EYED ONE, WHOSE POWER IS
ENDLESS. I ASK GOD,
OH GOD . . . TO THE COWARD, GIVE A HORSE
THAT HE MAY FLEE GOD FOREVER,
GIVE CAIN NO FORGIVENESS
FOR WHAT WAS DONE, I ASK GOD,
MY GREEN-EYED ONE, BEFORE THIS
EARTH STOPS SPINNING, THINK OF ME.
REMEMBER, I AM HERE TOO, MY GREEN-
EYED ONE WHOSE POWER IS ENDLESS, AFTER
O GOD, MY GREEN-EYED ONE
COME UPON THE EARTH
AND STRIKE THE GLOBE
WITH YOUR WRATH, FOR
WHAT HAS DIED IN THE SUN.
O GOD, MY GREEN-EYED ONE,
PUT YOUR SHARP STARS IN
THE SKY. SEND ORION
THE HUNTER STAR TO HUNT
THE KILLERS OF THE DREAM,
TO HUNT THE SLAYERS OF
THE DIVINE INCUNABULA, O
MY GREEN-EYED ONE, BEFORE THIS EARTH STOPS
SPINNING.
OREGON
You are with me Oregon,
Day and night, I feel you, Oregon.
I am Negro. I am Oregon.
Oregon is me, the planet
Oregon, the State Oregon, Oregon.
In the night, you come with bicycle wheels,
Oregon you come
With stars of fire. You come green.
Green eyes, hair, arms,
Head, face, legs, feet, toes
Green, nose green, your
Breast green, your cross
Green, your blood g
reen.
Oregon winds blow around
Oregon. I am green, Oregon.
You are mine, Oregon. I am yours,
Oregon. I live in Oregon.
Oregon lives in me,
Oregon, you come and make
Me into a bird and fly me
To secret places day and night.
The secret places in Oregon,
I am standing on the steps
Of the holy church of Crispus
Attucks St. John the Baptist,
The holy brother of Christ,
I am talking to Lorca. We
Decide the Hart Crane trip, home to Oregon
Heaven flight from Gulf of
Mexico, the bridge is
Crossed, and the florid black found.
UNTITLED
THE SUN IS A NEGRO.
THE MOTHER OF THE SUN IS A NEGRO.
THE DISCIPLES OF THE
SUN ARE NEGRO.
THE SAINTS OF THE
SUN ARE NEGRO.
HEAVEN IS NEGRO.
[THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES]
THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES
SHALL BE A STRANGE NIGHT IN THE
SOUTH, IT SHALL BE THE TIME WHEN NEGROES LEAVE THE SOUTH FOREVER,
GREEN TRAINS SHALL ARRIVE
FROM RED PLANET MARS
CRACKLING BLUENESS SHALL SEND TOOTH-COVERED CARS FOR THEM
TO LEAVE IN, TO GO INTO
THE NORTH FOREVER, AND I SEE MY LITTLE GIRL MOTHER
AGAIN WITH HER CROSS THAT
IS NOT BURNING, HER SKIRTS
OF BLACK, OF ALL COLORS, HER AURA
OF FAMILIARITY. THE SOUTH SHALL WEEP
BITTER TEARS TO NO AVAIL,
THE NEGROES HAVE GONE
INTO CRACKLING BLUENESS.
CRISPUS ATTUCKS SHALL ARRIVE WITH THE BOSTON
COMMONS, TO TAKE ELISSI LANDI
NORTH, CRISPUS ATTUCKS SHALL
BE LAYING ON BOSTON COMMONS,
ELISSI LANDI SHALL FEEL ALIVE
AGAIN. I SHALL CALL HER NAME
AS SHE STEPS ON TO THE BOSTON
COMMONS, AND FLIES NORTH FOREVER,
LINCOLN SHALL BE THERE,
TO SEE THEM LEAVE THE
SOUTH FOREVER, ELISSI LANDI, SHE WILL BE
GREEN.