January 12, 1972 (I was 27)
old man where is your wisdom now
now that you have learned all your lessons
outliving Faust Lear and the Don
the great wars were escapades
once past great dreams and great acts are the same
paternal ghosts in the fog
a precious flaw in the wall between lovers
silent thrill of a laughing mute
or cut heard by Van Gogh
how big is the puzzle old man
and how will you face tomorrow
polarity is our only certainty
from this week in January, 1972 (I was 27)
her
she follows all the rules
she believes every one
she stayed in school, rose two degrees
she is beautiful
following the most important rule
she believes every one
she tells all the truth she knows
in any language with a smile
men admire her
from this week in November, 1972 (I was 28)
It all seemed so real at the time
and the reality froze the moments
accessible cold and clear and I burn
a sacrifice of this moment
to lie about a little of it
One ember upon the hearth is a lie
The hearth keeper won’t let it burn down the house
He snuffs it
I may not be able to get at it
It’s tricky telling a lie so as to reveal the truth
I admire people who can use the truth to lie
What could I having thus spoken
say further
from this week of September 29, 1972 (I was 27)
Near the end of LIFE
I’m flipping through the pages of LIFE
listening to a recording of Woody Guthrie
and wondering at the circumstantial evidence
that he fathered Bob Dylan.
Bobby was born at the age of twenty-one
(a conception right out of the Old Testament)
That leaves Woody in one place only
(amazing the way the metaphor leads one away…)
Anyway, I’m flipping the pages pf LIFE
must have been back in September of ’72,
maybe October, there is a P.O.W.
and his liberated wife.
It’s the kind of article I can’t read
I already believe everything I’ve ever heard
about the War. The War.
The concept is incredible, the War,
There are other things in it too,
a European starlet and great ads.
It all sells to the great camping American
and it’s the best satirical review around.
September 20, 1972 (I was 27)
Life is sacred only in expression
The artist loves his paint
only as the paint worships the artist
On the palette self-contained thick hues
On the canvas the art runs off
or is caught and carried by the brush
The paint reacts
It would color the floor
The artist has other ideas
smaller in dimension larger in concept
The theory may be shaky
but the execution deft
People will say
Who did this
from this week in September, 1972 (I was 27)
Time is out of joint
might as well anoint my head
as even try to lift me from this bed
there is no point
Let’s you and I take a joint time out
Hope to shout hope to shout
join my groin in a groan
screw the phone Damn
I feel like a paper doll
that can’t get folded again
I tell you it’s out of joint
or I lost the point
You can’t put a cast on time
I tried that last time
Now I just run up the hill at night
(it’s outasight) bad back or not
I don’t know if there are more snakes out during the dark
but I sure as hell hear more still
I ain’t been bit yet
from this week in August, 1972 (I was 27)
The politician is no artist
expediency does not allow it
he is in a hurry
between Fairbanks and Little Rock
he has airplane disorientation
as he reads speeches written by a man
who used to be a switchboard operator
His thoughts no longer mix with his dreams
as he drifts slowly conscious this morning
examining sunlit greens upon trees.
He is awake already
organizing and plotting with top advisors
He has the computed pulse consensus
the voting public opinion upon the key issues
The speech writer is busy he types
This is a man of the people
or a man of a sizeable percentage
He does TV commercials for us
Spread the margarine become a king
Drop bread in the toaster
Vote for him and hope he’ll remember
once he gets to sleep in November
that virtuosity opens opportunity for art
from this week in June, 1972 (I was 27)
loose ends
unfinished work
what happened to the maps
maybe they got left on the road
what the hell
all roads go somewhere
don’t they
show me your badge
say where and how for now
build the first cupboard in the chaos
where do you want the cheese
Is this a landscape or a portrait
open another pack of cigarettes
I never could strike a match on my ass
the fog is thicker than London
I’m tired of trying to cut it
where’s the wind
where are you
I’ve been out of touch so long
I look in the mirror
I step on the scale
I assume my pulse
I don’t know how Karloff does it night after night
from this week in June, 1972 (I was 27)
What are these strange gifts
that man leaves behind
as conspicuous as silver bullets?
Most are tickets to a Magic Show
which does not exist except it seems
in the memories of those who have been there.
Other times he leaves poems
which read like invitations to a Magic Show.
He has always just ridden out of town.
But for these we’d never remember he’d been here.
April 19, 1972 (I was 27)
I suppose
everyone walks around with many pains
I once took a pill to relieve pain
and it did
One by one I could count
each joint loosening limbering-
such un-preoccupied awareness!
Muscles relaxed also anxieties
My spine straightened
carried energy like a hose
The pill wore off of course
Then the completeness of its relief
was most strongly felt
as each injury returned
torn fingernail muscle pull in neck
also fatigue guilt cynicism
anger despair and insomnia
causing supposition
April 17, 1972 (I was 27)
Senate Hearing (a Generalization)
Senator: Mr. Secretary, is it our intention
(Foreign with the bombing
Relations one of intimidating the enemy
Committee) into a situation where they must
release our prisoners
or fear the wrath of our continued
and prolonged assaults?
Secretary: No Senator, I think rather
(Defense) it is our position that bombing
reinforces our commitment to continuing
tactical support for a friendly nation.
Isn’t that right General?
General: Actually, the purpose of the bombing
(Chief, Mil. is to kill the enemy
Operations) and to destroy his habitat.
April 5, 1972 (I was 27)
That man sits every night
trying to find a reason or excuse
for yet another episode in the continuing saga
Days and dreams can be confused
in this film I play
a short man who goes to work at eight
everyday like a long run of Hairy Ape
but with helplessly aware characters
in another flick I’m never sure
of who I am or how I’m motivated
but I have the highest ideals
and people place me in positions
Every night that man looks
but can’t even figure out
what it was he did that day
and whether or not he did it alone
people on tv
really know how to live
and only the unimportant guys die
also there are a lot of cartoons
I always wanted to play someone creative
like a musician or writer
not biographical
but really intelligent fiction
Some nights that man writes it all down
without analysis
until it becomes absurd
and he can go to bed
March 6, 1972 (I was 27)
Lady Lazarus
now you have winked your word in stone
What was it you wanted
Wasn’t it in the cadaver room
you first learned it did not matter
Oh you methodically raked
the ashes of Hitler’s Jews
but for you it was through before that
through when the first lipless smile
turned to say hello
February 7, 1972 (I was 27)
When only a boy in northern Minn
I first climbed through the barbed wire
edged up to an iron ore pit for a look
Later at the Grand Canyon I thought
Yeah but a man didn’t dig it
Down deep my pit had groaning trucks
red lakes prehistoric cranes spiral roads
and the myth books in school had pictures
Zeus looking down on the Greeks
Later it was Dante’s hole
or like a shot out of 2001
Anyway from the beginning it impressed me
and I grew to climbing around in it
Depths of it were un-worked and abandoned
You could walk miles on the bottom
stupidly swim or skate its lakes
There were also hell holes
deep drill test wells wide as a kid
It made you feel the world was hollow
to lay at the lip of one and drop rocks down
They clonged donged echo prolonged
down until you could hear them no more
diminished sound of a small gong
x? When I was fourteen I saw Time Machine
x? Underground creatures came out of hell holes …both deleted in post
When mine cops came you’d have to run
dodging the unmarked holes a sweet terror
compared now to the acrid pitfalls of surface life
from this week in 1972 (I was 27)
I keep trying to play it tight
trying to hang the notes just right
and you stand there with all your might
reminding me about last night
“Outasite Outasite
“Obaby you’re just my height”
I pet the dog but I don’t bite
I see the string hung on the kite
The meat’s in the trap but I’m not quite
Baby you ain’t no Afrodite
“Ah c’mon honey let’s not fight
“you gotta say I’m dark white”
Do you know my brother Dwight?
Someone called him a parasite
What do you mean when you say unite?
Look at me babe, you seein’ the light?
“Yeah man, de light delight
“I see de-light”
December 19, 1972 (I was 27)
Out on the Avenue in Berkeley
the hip artisans have discovered Christmas
and capitalism with a smile of course
Leather bags hand-tooled and dyed
go for forty bucks plus tax
The merchant’s squat is Middle-Eastern
his hash pipes are Madison Ave. eccentric
The poets’ commune is selling plaques
and art conscious bookstores bulge outdoors
with two copies each of 10,000 local writers
folded neatly and stapled between paper covers
no copies of anyone known allowed
Henry Sexounce with wet dreams set in caps and underlined
Down the block the saffron chanter gave me incense
and I gave him fifteen cents so he gave me a glossy magazine
BACK TO THE GODHEAD and I thanked him
The season still has its charm I told my wife
The street mimes were cleverly absurd
and the Santa at Rasputin’s wore clown shoes.
October 8, 1972 (I was 27)
from bad to worth
The gold standard doesn’t work for me
I haven’t got any gold
Measure my worth by the ounce
I’ll leave your scale pan cold
Take your book and count my faith
my candle wick is short
If you find the flame insubstantial
how will you hold the smoke
If you’ve got a definition
you could mark my deeds
But for that you’d probably find
you’ve only listed my needs
What can I say to get love into the sonnet
All you have is earth and man walking on it
June 12,1972 (I was 27)
I watch migrant workers tending crops
row upon row they are bent over
strawberries cauliflower or cabbages
They arrive in buses condemned by state schools
The fenced fields are crowded by housing developments
Beyond the chain link is an apartment swimming pool
The last furrow borders a shopping center parking lot
These will be the final seasons here
The sun bakes dust The workers wear straw hats
and neck cloths Eight sheds with screen doors
stand in the center of the dry acreage The bus
is parked there The workers move
up the rows without straightening their backs
Local women wheel produce from Safeway
to their station wagons Cars laugh by and leave fumes
If I stand here long I’ll feel suspect and dizzy
I can’t quite believe the mix Business as usual
June 7, 1972 (I was 27)
If you do
If you have it
put it out there and let’s have a look
step away and let me hold it
in my own private hands
Experience is an energy transfer
Intimate transfers are immediate exchanges
an understanding is reached
The foundation of universality is the intimate bond
and it don’t take much mesh to make a net
From a distance it looks like a blanket
The artist is not judged with his art
he’s got to fish tomorrow
no matter the catch today
So set it out and let’s have a look