like the hill
white stones
and green hill Athens
The pettiness of a real man
Walks in the luncheonette
Grinning over the sandwich meat without blood
an American
Dracula hmmmm
■
A bouquet of ashes.
The Bathers
ONION BUCKET
All silence says music will follow
No one acts under any compulsion
Your story so striking and remain unspoken
Floods in the mind. Each one trying now
To instigate the flutter of light in your
Ear. The voice needling the flashy token
Your presence in some room disguised
As the summer of the leaves. Hilltops
Held by the soft words of the running
Wind. What lie do you need more than this
The normal passion. And each thing says
Destroy one another or die. Like a natural
Introducing here on this plant to Europe
The natural. A piece of furniture, smell
Taste some connection to your earth and
“Realize” nothing more than you need
Another view nothing more than you need yourself
Or that is beautiful. Or your luck that speaks.
Lifting its shoulders out the language
Of the streets. Above. The sky worried
Into its own song. Solid rhythm. She stays
Too close for a letter, scared of a telegram
The finger drum express. Impatient blues.
Anxious blues. Her chemical song loud and
Bright in his dimension. This is the world.
The vegetables are walking.
TWELVE GATES
Face it. The stars have their own lives and care
They are forced into it by your other eye and
Opposite side of your thoughts. Who takes sides
The world quite as fashionable as liars imagined
The picture of one fragile girl in an avalanche
Of the kimono required for their soft trade.
Who is so daring at first to draw lines in the sky
Dingy with this neglected daylight. Opened fan.
Life itself is such a simple thing and we need it
Then here come the music again. And we need that too
People asking each other. The invention of reason.
And those who own nothing what of those walking around
Without land, without cash value, properties. Without
Nothing in their name. Whose destinies
Are not marked or marked down. What of
The ones who are meant to rise in the world
By their names. Whose names are not known.
These worlds are lost in a minute only a gem
Of substance remaining. The necessity to change the form.
These streets clothed in an atmosphere of ash and care-
Less emotion. Who are these persons roll their shoulders
Outside the window in starlight and streetlight
Each young man there reminds the girl of someone
These are the last words I send you for a while.
Written across her fan. Her open eye all flame and
You can feel it take shape in your eye. The lines.
Sufficient confusion calls for a song and
The figure with how many sides. Holler.
Once to the ocean. Sing it for the woman
Whose hands open and deliver the dream
Arousing itself from the day’s laborer walking
These streets back from the edge of the river
Deep into town. Traffic. Your voice plays across
The street on the curb right into my open hand
OTHER WORLDS
I see through you in advance!
There are no petty graces
This coffee cup gone cold
Promised recovery. A dutch heart.
What this world is coming to questions and cups.
The song and renewal.
We would rather have you here than absent
Though you fall vomiting into the soup.
We would rather have you here, in English
Than train you in less grand arts of decline
What
