Part 3
I used to live in abandoned refrigerators,
there, seahorses shuddering down the pathway
propelled by drumbeats.
That was at first.
I have seen a metal hat of candles
held up and dancing in the jet of a fountain.
(if I was a metal hat I'd be a man.
I'd be a riddle that I would forget and then remember
one hundred times.)
Here we are again, and again for the first time.
Pretend you're nobody,
or anybody.
Pretend that it is the Garden of the Morning of the World.
Imagine whatever clothes you might picture yourself in,
how many faces have you been?
The wind blowing fields of soft grasses and wildflowers before your steps,
waiting to meet the one who waits for you.
It is the measure of all of your possible Love
laid open in the warm air.
Do you remember this place?
Have you forgotten so soon?
Can you at least remember that you once thought
that the world could be experienced in this way?
How and why did you change?
How were you misled?
When did you give up this beautiful mystery
for your hard hard house of regret.
I have left wreckage in six cities.
I am not proud of it.
Better to live well in one place with your family about you
and your climate as given,
your possessions all in one place,
your memories within travelling distance
perhaps just a long walk away.
Everything I have done has gone to air,
set aside,
wasted.
And from this moment the world is no longer young.
From this moment time has begun to flow from one boundless ocean
to another.
From this moment hearts will harden to dead gnarled root
and singing will end.
Pleasure will separate from joy and become more and more base
until all that is left is the fragrance from an empty bottle,
a kiss of brutal pride,
pressed to lips wet with delicious humiliation.
Whenever I'm having trouble with the world
I take it out on myself.
My most clever feature is a strong back.
The cup is before each of us.
Someone must drink the poison.
Someone's throat must turn to Blue.
And so it goes on and on and on,
so tired of falling to the floor hungry for humiliation,
I resign.
I just want to wear a black military shirt
and Italian trousers and take photographs of myself
as the fierce passionate Idealistic Fascist.
Then I want to kiss the Sultan's black-eyed daughter
and see her smile sweetly in the moonlight
in her fragrant blossoming orchard.
In the distance is a flag drenched in rainwater
faded, and barely able to move in the wind.
This is my zeal.
Last night I opened a letter
and it said only "Remember".
When my voice has become just a tearful swallowed taste
in the throat, what is it saying?
Someone says that the price of such lovely delirium
is a smashed life,
all to kiss the black-eyed girl forever in the Garden of Play.
My voice is trying to say "done" (without hesitation...)
PS. One more letter. This one to you.
It says "Take this one chance, whoever you think you are"
Sincerely yours,
No one able to do you any harm
You fill my brain
with six and eight
It sticks my hat
It sticks my Jack
You call this rude Face
You call this Fact
Too slow. Too Need LOve.
(Sorry. Sorry Back)
I have learned the "ice skating" water principle from music.
I have also learned the "dressing up in costume" principle.
My whispering words go out to you announcing their messages
behind veils and with gifts.
Gardens and beehives and costume parties all the time.
Every little accident takes time
to get just right.
Bleak muted trumpets.
Nasil oboe.
Soft voices.
friendly (speaking of things known by both)
enjoying each other's company
laughing now and then
no background.
life.
the vignettes,
again and again.
I would know you anywhere
soft voices
laughing now and then
I would know you
the pleasantries
the clothes.
the place
I would know you everywhere.
Smoking undersea doors
the conveyer belt
threadworn
gulls laughing through their teeth
fish once again in the seas,
before any of this, when there were hills of flowers everywhere
When we are dead we will float over watery moods oblivious to time.
We tremble to think how much we have to live.
Our condition made beautiful by this hard living
and made good by recieving an irrational Grace.
We leave our difficulties in another place,
the air showering outward with quiet pastel
and we are Gone to the Garden of Enjoyment,
Deeper into the Afternoon than we ever could have been
in all the groaning sincere rehearsals and simulations
of the one Eternal Moment
in all times and all places
Accidents come from nowhere and find us when we're lost.
Whenever there is a downpour
I remember one night running out of a bar we were at till 2
drinking vodkas and lime,
rain coming down so thick we could barely see
running on the black gleaming street
my shirt soaked and my vision rising ever upward via
intoxicated thoroughness,
your blouse transparent,
your black heels and that silly old-fashioned scarf,
laughing,
yelling,
and laughing.
we were magic then.
we were immortal.
Anyone would have wanted to be us,
and, in a way, we *were* everyone,
laughing,
yelling,
and laughing.
running on the black gleaming street.
Love in the afterglide
needles in the bed of pines
a white white rose
a ring of tin
a bottle of wine
visions that only rise up
parties that only just Begin.
Surprise
what you expected is really true.
You have been given a rare chance to go behind the scenes,
to peak behind the curtain,
the brown paper curtain painted in watercolors like
in a kindergarten play.
Do the things you *love* to do
if you are lucky enough to have even a chance.
There is a boat moving along a line
there is a person in the boat
there is a cloud in the sky
water on a rock
cold northern air
on the stretched cloth.
The cream rats sliding north
and rising off the dome of night toward other planets.
The little mermaid never existed did she?
Or else you never found one another
and she faded into the crowd.
Grow old.
Be as happy as you can.
You will never be as happy as you once were.
Your life accumulates in the dark,
sliding out into the night,
you say you need more *time*.
Here in this house
where the walls weep the years
Here where I have ruined my life
broken and carted away
You would have found me here
if you had bothered to come
Here with wild and teary eyes gone to Circles,
for he on botched imploded melon has fed,
and drunk the gasoline of Paradise.
I received his two last letters.
Snow was falling in the Park and snowflakes fell on the page.
It was a heavy snowfall, a quiet night
the way large snowflakes still the car noise far away.
Friend,
Your hope is the basis for my continued belief
that people are essentially good,
especially when living in small numbers.
An infinite number of souls would light the lamp
and lead the the Caravan away.
This was proved by a young mathematician who used to
enjoy walking through piles of dead leaves in late October.
There were vines of wine red leaves and the pungent marigolds
were finally dry and pale.
Many adventures were accompanied by the smell of marigolds
and the taste of cheap wine.
Dear _____,
You may wish to come to the high Mountains next Spring.
No one will be there and the mountains will deceive you
with their beauty.
If you come there I will give you a racetrack.
At night you will never cease to be amazed by the graceful
horizontal blur of the dogs.
Learn affection and loyalty and steadfastness from them.
Tonight low clouds roll over the moon.
My spirit is out running and howling with the dogs -
faster and faster across the flat track,
faster than a true heart coming to a decision,
I am Everywhere in the bowl of Night,
I can't help myself.
So please keep these photos of me.
Tell ****** to kiss them now and again
the way I have kissed her shoulder
and we will never know again.
If I could I would build you a Dome
where you all could come to see me.
I am happy here!
Running with the sleek smiling Dogs!