November 4, 1973 (I was 28)
I live my machine life
dreaming of spare parts
printed circuits
and oh for an oil change
And even you
with your optional gagetry
You run me through
with your programmed dialogue
automatic transmission
Someone ought to pull our plugs
from this week in September, 1973 (I was 28)
you goddamn right I’ve got questions
I got a hell of a lot of questions
I collected so many
I don’t need answers any more
I just gotta learn to weave baskets
be concerned with dying cane
meshing those fibers into self-container
a gift made to be placed upon a shelf
a quiet duck upon a still pond
If he flashes white under wing
he will rise and be gone
the reeds lean together
the rhythmic quilt of intersecting ripples
reflects the image of a dissolving cloud
September 10, 1973 (I was 28)
Bob Dylan’s biography
props open the hinged window,
fights the wind,
is a little too thin to be tight
and may fall off the ledge.
He always knew it could happen,
was readily available for the job;
less vital volumes were not.
from this week in August, 1973 (I was 28)
It don’t mean nothing at all
I used to be funny
before I started making money.
The days were sunny
and my nose was runny.
Now I’m clean like a machine
I do what I do what I do
and I’d probly do it again
but I don’t know when.
Sometime back I started to think,
what a dink,
I shoulda skated around the rink.
Soon as you jump in you start to sink.
from this week in August, 1973 (I was 28)
Up on Cold Mountain
no moment is humble.
Every action is magnificent,
there is no hearth to sweep.
I know something of Cold Mountain
I have been there alone.
Summer nor winter did I see Han Shan.
No doubt he resides there.
We did not find each other;
we did not drink tea.
Upon Cold Mountain
no man speaks to his reflection,
no man speaks to his shadow.
from this week in 1973 (I was 28)
The poetry of urgency
lives in an instant
flashes one life
in a single metaphor
at a singular moment;
a quick breath
at high altitude
in a land of no second choice.
from this week in June, 1973 (I was 28)
I have given up all my vices
and the day moves in a slow flat pace.
I have given up my glasses for repair
and I’ve found there is nothing to see.
I sleep sober and wake up healthy.
My dreams are innocuous haunts;
insignificant characters pull pranks.
I eat eggs toast and salad.
Maybe I’ll burn out my brain drinking tea.
May 25, 1973 (I was 28)
Radio Free China
The radio is on to a Chinese station
I am listening to cadences separated from sense
It would not be possible with most European languages
but I can’t even say hello in Chinese
The music sounds like a wall hanging
serene Asian women with sticks in their hair
Between the instruments an announcer sells me
something important something sincere something helpful
More music and a drama is introduced
then interrupted by Robert Goulet singing in Chinese
Finally the announcer is back
and so is that delicate music
and the importance of tea and contemplation
of an ignorance from twenty years of silence
April 16, 1973 (I was 28)
reading some poems and other poems
Some poems proceed outward
from an essence like the controlled
progression of ripples from a dropped stone-
even as they diminish they intimate
existence of further ripples.
The unseen ripple becomes discernible.
Other poems stab in any direction
lines like refracted and reflected rays of sun.
The effect is often blinding;
the eyes do not adjust until
one rocketing shaft pierces the balloon of darkness
to dispatch a map of illuminations.
April 14, 1973 (I was 28)
Testing Teacher
Let’s put up a front of educational freedom
Let’s offer alternatives within the scope of our goals
Let’s give our charged subjects choices
Let them assume we care even if we cannot
(After all we know we should)
If we let them truly choose
they may shock us with their acumen
They may find us unaware
They may leave us holding our IQ tests
and run off to measure the air
April 1, 1973 (I was 28)
~Suffer Fools Gladly Day
Sin seemingly original
is most certainly an old buddy
He’s the primordial dealer
who has everything
though as for that
it is but one thing I need over and again
I have always been his customer
and his price has never changed
He takes away my voice
I cannot sing
If he was here before I lived
I’m sure he heard me coming
December 25, 1973 (I was 29)
…from a photo of the painting
San Giovanni Battista –A. del Sarto
How softly young skin holds new muscle.
Are you so carefully off to tempt temptation,
or are you so successfully returned?
The last glance, and the first of home again, are the same.
The unmarked bodies of the unaffected traveler
And the unvanquished warrior are the same,
But the brow and the lips are not the same.
You carry your commission like a victory cup.
You carry a reed cross loosely lashed.
Certainly there are distant places you have been.
If you are weathered it does not show on you.
The perspiration has only curled your hair.
The difficult work is yet to come.
November 2, 1973 (I was 28)
I was in a snowstorm in Duluth
may sound like the lead line of a joke
to some but to me it was beautiful
It was night
and every white star sped to the ground
or hit and clung to the brownstone church
as we in our wet shoes
skidded down the steep streets
where no car could go
all the way down
past the heavy trees and god’s church
all the way down to Superior Street
and we threw snow at each other
some time ago
October 14, 1973 (I was 28)
It’s the season
Such an arrangement
Each week the same
every night a football game
or sports page to examine
rules scores and end zones
It’s all timed with commercials between
It keeps a man at peak efficiency
moving along with the game plan
Minor injuries are sustained without notice
Chronic aches are a part of the competition
The champion forgets fatigue
forgets injury and he functions
Sit back and relax
You’re in good hands Where the rubber grips the road
Fly the friendly skies
It’s the water from the mountain streams
and it’s football
October 7, 1973 (I was 28)
October Walk
It rained through the night;
it was raining today at last light.
Electric moss lit the trees.
Slick leaves and ferns on the ground
gave light without the sky.
The deer paths needed hooves,
but I climbed to see clouds hurdle the west ridge,
dark riders pulling the wave and tearing away.
First I wanted it all on film,
wanted to record the echoing dogs still howling
and the quiet interrogations of every owl
on this day when the sun did not appear.
But nobody believes a movie.
Rising from a stand of oaks
a column of ground fog found warm currents,
spiraling spirit freed and fleeing home.
It was perception that made it all real;
it was a vapor perceiving a vaporizing.
September 30, 1973 (I was 28)
Incant for September 30
In other years
I have believed,
I have acknowledged
the magic of ritual,
the panacea of incantation,
the forceful paths of planets.
October has been
one of my good months,
the autumnal recess,
reflection and changing colors,
wind and clean air,
rain and moss in the woods.
This year,
faith was last year.
Hope is a wish
for an ironic joke of optimism,
a magical laugh
issuing from dark stars.
Expectation is a dream,
wonder is naïve.
I watch children
passing out the door
and back in again;
futile summer is on some other side.
oh light dark duality
pulse polarity
hot cold
insane humane
release me sun
carry me rain
August 30, 1973 (I was 28)
more Gemstones
4
It is a sad fact,
the government does matter.
We are men who have made our own master,
one we thought was benevolent,
above our petty apprehensions.
But now his fears are our own.
Gordon Strachan is alone in the vacuum between planets.
He says, Do not come with me.
Senator Montoya is satisfied to have asked a question.
We each occupy our own vacuum.
5
Lowell Weicker leads a cheer.
The poor guy has grown hoarse;
someone get him a beer.
He’s a damn good man and he works hard.
He’s not a loner; he’s just dedicated.
He’s going to get to the bottom of all this,
and by God, this won’t happen again.
He is obviously outraged.
He has historical presence.
And ambition must recognize opportunity.
6
In the heat of August
the snake sneaks off to the woods;
his cold body likes the shade.
His split tongue practices speech,
My notorious reputation is undeserved.
Let us not let the past stand before the future;
Let us rather slide together into the winter sun.
-Gemstone was the name of Gordon Liddy’s “dirty tricks” proposals to upset operations of the ’72 Democratic Convention and to counteract protestors at the Republican Convention.
August 28, 1973 (I was 28)
Gemstones: the Watergate hearings
1
Old Sam Ervin
keeps rollin along
All pools and reflections
on the surface
but the undercurrent cuts strong
From a course set young
Old Sam Ervin keeps rolling along
His gavel is a gift from the Indians
who know when a treaty is broken
A Washington tomahawk
just west of the Watergate
2
Mr. Erlichman’s hair sweats.
The House audience does not like him.
On TV his eyes look like arrow holes.
He is not a good liar;
fear and guilt tinge his motions.
I find this admirable,
mildly redeeming to be unaccustomed to such pressure.
But for this my wife finds him despicable,
not full of character like indignant John Mitchell
who can lie
(and know that his lies are known)
without flinching; steadfastly,
nonchalantly playing the game.
3
Howard Baker tires;
after eight weeks his versatility’s gone
and his conservative indolence shows.
His initial analytical interrogation
has gotten fat-
superfluous and verbose.
Perhaps he begins to wonder
why the truth has not told itself,
pulled itself from its secret file
and run its verbal images
across our magnetic ears.
-Gemstone was the name of Gordon Liddy’s “dirty tricks” proposals to upset operations of the ’72 Democratic Convention and to counteract protestors at the Republican Convention.
August 27, 1973 (I was 28)
Cold Mountain life
is compact;
it is eco-
nomical
clean and
sturdy
like a washed
carrot.
*
Upon Cold Mountain
no moment is humble.
Every action is magnificent,
there is no hearth to sweep.
*
I know something of Cold Mountain
I have been there alone.
Summer nor winter did I see Han Shan.
No doubt he resides there.
We did not find each other;
we did not drink tea.
Upon Cold Mountain
no man speaks to his reflection,
no man speaks to his shadow
May 6, 1973 (I was 28)
Phil Jackson plays squeaky shoe basketball
He is no ballet dancer
though he does versions of the same moves
He is either too tall or too thin
He plays frantic basketball
his nerve ends are exposed
He came into the third playoff game
and for ten minutes everyone was the same
All the Knicks all the Lakers
squeaking squeaking offense defense
and Phil knew how to squeak best of all
squeaking steadily turning the game around
